Tirdad sighed. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but he was too spent to do either. So he surrendered to the complaints of his aging body and aching ribs, and fell asleep.
IX
Tirdad awoke to a many-layered murmuring. Nearest, subdued speech conversed with the rippling of water; further, the multifarious sounds of the city became a steady susurrus; and at the furthest reaches, the metallic whine of the celestial theatre went on, heedless to his world.
He opened his eyes and was greeted by dirt-stained trousers and the scaled hand that kneaded them. Tirdad lay there in a daze, staring blankly at the individual scales and picking out their golden speckles. She seized every opportunity to massage the injury, which made him wonder if it had any effect at all, and why her phylactery hadn’t healed it. It wasn’t until he’d finished going over the scales on her knuckles that she ceased her massaging.
“. . .” The measured quiet.
With a groan that didn’t do the ache in his bones justice, he pushed himself off the ground, drawing his face into a grimace and rubbing his lower back where the stone had given him its worst. “Why am I up here?” he asked, shielding his eyes against the sun and peering out over the city.
“That šo-toothy goat-fucker told me to hide. Told him I’d hide my spear in his arse like some squirrely quartermaster stocking up for a harsh winter. Don’t like his teeth; too showy.”
“Yeah, it takes some getting used to. Did he tell you what happened to Adur-mah?”
A nudge turned his attention to the half-div, who had a bowl in each hand. One was heaped with mint-dashed yogurt, the other full to the rim with spinach soup. He’d been hankering for yogurt for a while now, and had mentioned it several times. Spinach soup was a staple during Tirgan. She’d brought both.
“You know,” he said, accepting the bowls with a drowsy smile, “you can be mighty thoughtful for a daughter of Eshm. Never ceases to amaze me.”
Though her blank expression showed no change, the way her eyes flicked away without returning was enough to alert him to the oafishness of his statement. “Sorry,” he mouthed through a yawn. “I didn’t, well, I spoke without thinking. I’m still half asleep is all. You were kind to remember the yogurt, and to think of the soup.”
Her eyes flicked back for a passing glance, then seemed to train on something in the distance, though he had seen that look, and knew enough that she was farther off than any horizon. She parted her lips, but only just.
Tirdad began with the yogurt, which was still cool, and signified an inspired care on her part. The bowl was wet; this gave credence to his suspicion that she’d been using the spring to keep it cool until he came to. Curious, he gave the soup a taste: delicious, and still warm. The slate he’d been sleeping on could’ve achieved as much.
That cheered him up enough to consider the road ahead while he ate. True, Adur-mah’s death had been a serious setback, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t pick up the trail again. Tirdad decided he’d head to Ecbatana before coming to any hasty conclusions, and if that didn’t turn up any leads, he’d set a course for one of the routes taken by the merchants in his documents. He nodded to himself. Belatedly and bothered by it, he figured he’d discuss it with Shkarag to see if she would weigh in. Perhaps she’d seen something he hadn’t. Chobin, too.
After he’d finished his meal and recited his morning prayer, he went to rinse his hands in the spring, frowning at his reflection.
“Tonight,” Shkarag piped up. “Not until toni—” She canted to her right where he’d been sleeping, then to the left where she flashed him a leer that shifted to something more contemplative. “You devoured the twins both. Left them all concave like those upturned bowls under the threshold, thinking they ward against us like some, like some star-reckoner who thinks squinting and craning makes a person, makes a person immune to—” She canted away, though her eyes stayed put. “You devoured them.”
Tirdad shot the bowls a glance. “What else was I supposed to do with them?”
“That,” she confirmed, wearing a smile so guarded he wouldn’t have noticed it if he weren’t so accustomed to her otherwise deadpan or inscrutable expressions. “Maybe.” Her countenance twisted, then ironed itself out just as abruptly. “Oh, the shit-eating one who courts goats, he said something . . .” She trailed off, staring at him intensely for a bout of quiet before continuing. “Insisted something fierce you come along for the war with Hrom. Said we had rank without the file, šo-yammering about telling you the moment the sun strikes your brow.”
Tirdad checked the sky; the sun hung around noon, probably an hour or so earlier than. “Sun’s pretty high,” he observed.
“Had you in the shade.” Shkarag cocked her head. “And yogurt was elusive.”
“Well, be that as it may, we need to discuss the reason we’re here in the first place before we even begin to entertain his offer.” He sat beside her, drawing his sword so he could marvel at its rippling hues. “Adur-mah was our only real lead. I won’t let his demise bring our quest to an end. It’s only our first setback, after all. But I’m not above admitting I’m now back to grasping, so if you have any advice or thoughts on our next move, you’re welcome to share.”
At that, she grew a different sort of distant. Where she’d returned to her regular kneading, she now strangled; she fumed as plainly as the hiss that leaked through a curled upper lip. Shkarag bore her weight upon her thigh, countenance drawn in a crooked scowl, and twitching.
“Uh, Shkarag?”
Her breathing took on a sawing growl, and she promptly dunked her head into the spring water. Tirdad waited, wearing a disconcerted frown that grew more concerned the longer she stayed under. About the time he began to worry she had no plans of emerging, she shot up, gasping for breath. Once she’d gotten her breathing under control, she returned to her kneading. “Don’t go chasing mirages,” she warned, staring daggers at her thigh. “Don’t—” A wince curtailed her ministrations, so she lay back on the stone. “Mirages are there, out there šo-tantalizing, and you’re thinking you’d like a row or a tumble, so you think maybe this one, this is one of those magical mirages with hidden treasures or lost cities. You always chase the mirage, thinking that’s just as the crow flies—” Her gaze darted to meet his. “—diverting your eyes from the rest—” And darted away. “Never find a thing. Maybe. Or turns out you find it. You find it and you wish, you wish you hadn’t chased it at all. Mirages only take; mirages are misers.”
Tirdad had a sigh brewing the longer she went on, and he was finally given leave to release it now that she’d finished. It seemed she wasn’t going to be of any help. Maybe Chobin would have some advice. He slid his sword into its scabbard, thumb along the flat of the blade, and gathered the bowls to rinse in the spring. After he’d finished the first, she spoke up.
“War means star-reckoners,” she said as if in resignation and already securing her weapon belt beneath her lapis lazuli girdle. She grabbed her spear and leaned into it, looking at him blankly but with an expectant slouch that suggested she knew exactly how he’d respond.
“You’re right,” he said. “But if you’re against it, you don’t have to—” Her fangs were unfurling. “Right,” he hurried to correct himself. “You aren’t going anywhere, because you think I need you.”
Her attention jumped from one thing to another as he approached, though her deadpan expression persisted. Tirdad reached out, hesitating when she flinched, and only proceeded to grasp her shoulder once she’d relaxed. “Of course I need you,” he assured her. “How about we go see what that goat-fucker wants from us?”
“. . .”
• • • • •
“Hayk betrayed us, not that it comes as a surprise,” Chobin dictated in the authoritative voice he adopted whenever acting as marzban. “Turns out Hrom has been throwing cinnamon on the flames of rebellion. Again, not that it comes as a surprise.”
He planted his hands on a leather map, drawing one finger from their location in
Ray along a path to Dvin. “The rebels have already dethroned our representative in Dvin, which means we need to retake the city and establish a firm presence before Hrom sweeps in, which is bound to happen since they’re behind the unrest. I’ve been summoned to lead a cavalry force in the army of the King of Kings, may he live forever.” He looked up from the map. “So?”
“That’s great news,” said Tirdad, breaking a smile. “Well, not the war, but that you’re being placed in a command position alongside the King of Kings. You’ve earned it.”
Chobin shook his head. “Don’t know that I have. Marzban’s one thing, but Hayk and Hrom in the west? That’s a lot of lives in my hands. Lives I need to do right by.”
“You will,” encouraged Tirdad. He moved around the map to sling an arm over his friend’s shoulder, who was smiling even in his anxiety. “You led well against my cousin. You care for those serving under you, and they know as much, each and every one. Remember, I spent years in their midst after you invited me into the fold. They look to you for leadership because you’re a natural. Because you care enough to want to do right by them.”
Chobin stared at the map. Tirdad figured the lack of a reply meant he was getting through to him. Across the room, leaning against one of its mud brick walls, Shkarag broke the silence by biting into an egg.
Marzban and planet-reckoner lifted their heads in unison. She just stared, unmoving, with a thread of yolk escaping from the corner of her mouth. Shkarag slowly tilted her head back, focused on the pair as a sliver of yolk drained from where her fang had penetrated the shell.
“Why’s she do that?” asked Chobin. “The staring. It’s fucking unsettling.”
“Yeah,” agreed Tirdad, turning his attention back to the map. “So where do we come in?”
“Simple, really. It’d put my mind at ease to have you there with me, and you’re an accomplished swordsman besides.”
“Accomplished?”
“I’m sure we could make something up. Point is, I want you around, and I wouldn’t ask you to come without her. So, I’m offering you both rank befitting your—” He turned a broad yet patently uncertain grin on Shkarag. “Your worth.”
“What does your father have to say about this?”
“He suggested it. Not that it’d matter. I’m leading this contingent, not him.”
Tirdad nodded. “I’ll support you as best I can, but you should know I intend to investigate the star-reckoners stationed there.”
“The skink-slicker suggested as much last night . . . I think she did anyhow. Communicates like a tangled net. I won’t get in your way. Just don’t let it end up like last time.”
Tirdad trained a knotted brow on the half-div. She conveniently found something else worth her fitful gaze. What had she been getting at this morning, if she had already determined he’d want to go the night before? He shook his head. No sense asking; he’d just get another meandering non-answer, or one of her stuffed silences.
“There’s more,” Chobin went on. “Been putting this off because I don’t know how to bring it up.” He turned his grimace of a smile away and scratched the back of his neck. “Know your uncle went above and beyond for you. Did right by us, too. Don’t want to presume to, uh . . .” He trailed off.
“What is it?” Tirdad stroked the ram’s head pommel. Seeing Chobin like this made him nervous.
The marzban cleared his throat. “Want to, uh, formally offer you a place in our family.” He still wouldn’t look at Tirdad, boring into the map instead. “Yours means a great deal to you, and for good reason. But what Ashtadukht did . . . even if you can somehow prove beyond a doubt she had been conspired against, it won’t erase her actions. There’s no going back. Don’t like it, but it’s the truth, and you need to hear it.”
Tirdad knew that better than anyone else. He was the one who had been disowned; he was the one who had shared her path; he was the one who carried the burden of ending it. Everything seemed to remind him of it, not the least of which being his own guilt, so he sure as fuck didn’t need to hear it. Tirdad clenched both his jaw and the hilt of his long sword. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Shkarag push herself off the wall. Chobin furrowed his brow.
Heaving a sigh, Tirdad deflated. The marzban was only trying to be a good friend, and he wouldn’t raise his sword against him for something so trivial besides. “I’m well aware,” he said, unable to swallow his agitation. “Don’t talk to me as if I’m not.”
Chobin inclined his head. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”
Tirdad directed his attention to the half-empty glass of wine Chobin had deposited beside the map when he first arrived, and the ewer beside it. “Do you mind?” he asked.
“Help yourself.”
Tirdad did just that. He finished off the wine, refilled it, finished that off, and continued until the ewer was empty. It warmed his chest, and more importantly, smoothed the edges of his thoughts. By time he sat it back down, his hand was steady, the celestial theatre too distorted to make out. He spotted the concern in Chobin’s smile as an uneven slant, as if it sought to copy Shkarag’s crookedness but hadn’t the cant. The man’s smiles had more nuances than his body language and voice combined. That irritated him more, but it didn’t stick thanks to the wine.
“I’m sorry,” he slurred. “Here you are inviting me into your House, and I’m being more of an ass than an angry onager.”
“You said it, not me.” Chobin’s concern shifted to amusement, which showed the white of his teeth. “So, what do you say?”
“I’m torn,” said Tirdad. “This is my family we’re talking about. Banished or not, I’m one of them. But you’ve been good to me, treated me as family. Give me time to think on it?”
Chobin nodded.
“Thanks. When do we leave?”
The marzban eyed the map, though he’d surely done as much dozens of times since the messenger arrived with a call to arms. “We can’t just deploy as we are. Our—my House stuck around to bolster the frontier defenses after your cousin’s invasion.” Chobin paused, probably damning himself for the mention before going on. “That is our charge, after all. I’ve sent to have them withdraw from the marches. The timing is terrible for us. Those menstrual-gargling fuckers in Hrom were right to seize the opportunity. Can’t fault them for a sound strategy.”
“Nishabhur is a good two months out,” Tirdad observed. “Maybe less if they push themselves, but not by much—not in the height of summer and over the plateau, or with a baggage train.”
“We’ll have the current regiment and supplies rendezvous with the main force. For what little it’s worth. But I think it’ll do us some good to have a lighter load, and them to have what paltry fucking support we can provide in the meantime.”
Tirdad tried to concentrate on the map to no avail. He blinked hard and slow. Quality vintage. The cheap swill you get on the road just makes you sick if you overdrink. “Agreed,” he replied at length.
“So we’re sitting on our hands while either Hrom captures Dvin, or another commander claims all the glory in defending or recapturing it.”
“There will be plenty of glory to go around,” said Tirdad. Of that he had no doubt. Hrom was a worthy rival and wouldn’t back down without a fight. A fight or coup, anyway. “In the meantime, I should hone my technique. I’m feeling more than a little out of practice after all that time being bedridden. Nearly had my head chopped off by brigands.”
Chobin straightened, wearing a pensive grin. “Honestly, thought you’d accept. Had a horse and gear ready for you. I tell you what, consider it a gift, but promise you’ll think on my offer between now and setting out?”
Tirdad nodded. “I will.”
“Your rank is . . . I don’t know what your rank is. Find some epaulettes and make something up. Point, is you sit to my right; I trust you above anyone else. Know logistics aren’t your thing, but I’ll be relying on you.”
The marzban directed his grin to Shkarag. “And you, skink-slicker. Don�
�t cause any trouble in my city. Only reason you’re here at all is because of Tirdad, and because of what you did last night. Don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but Ray and its people are my top priority, and can’t speak for how they’ll react to a div stirring up trouble, good deeds or not.”
Shkarag bared her fangs, but offered no rebuttal. She seemed reasonably uncomfortable around Chobin, but whatever had gripped her upon their first meeting seemed to have passed for the time being.
Chobin waved the two of them out. “Now go on. You’ll be sick of these tortoise-sodomizing meetings before you know it. Besides, your gift awaits, and I’m dying to see your reaction.”
Tirdad exited with Shkarag and Chobin in tow, the guards at the entrance parting to let him through, each lowering his head respectfully until the three passed.
“It’s just behind the citadel,” said Chobin, directing them through an arch and between the pomegranate and pistachio trees that populated a modest orchard. “The symbols all belong to my House,” he explained with an unreserved guffaw. “Got ahead of myself there. But you’ll be fighting in our ranks, so you may as well fit in.”
Just beyond the reach of the meadow, favouring the shade thrown by the citadel, there waited a horse with a coat like fresh snow and ears like tufts of wheat. A carpet dyed plum and embellished with remarkable detail hung over its back, and on that a quality saddle with a high cantle in the back and a knob up front.
“Shouldn’t be travelling on foot,” said Chobin. “Know you switched horses often because of the nature of your—of a star-reckoner’s life. But you’re a noble, damn what everyone says, and you need a horse to mourn your passing.” The marzban let out a laugh. “Won’t be long either! You look half in the ossuary already.”
Tirdad hardly registered the jab.
From an early age, he had been raised alongside horses—by them, from some angles. Learning to ride was only the beginning, a gateway to time-honoured traditions. Horse archery, jousting, polo, hunting and fighting on horseback: all of it had been ingrained in his spirit, weaved so intimately that riding came more naturally than walking.
An Ill-Fated Sky Page 18
