by David Hair
He sighed heavily, as if her tone had reminded him that things between them were far from resolved. ‘A horse. Or a camel. Two asses, or six goats.’
‘Well then, we must get busy.’
*
They found the hunter’s village. They had hoped to be able to slip in and out unnoticed, but with a man missing the villagers were watchful, and as they led in the beasts they’d caught, torches flared.
Cym glanced at Zaqri but kept walking, shielding them both against arrows. The beasts – four desert asses snorting their discontent – jogged between them, confused by their odd-smelling captors: humans that smelled of lion. Cym slapped the lead one when he tried to jink sideways and strode after it. She was clad in her ragged tunic, her hair tied back and her face now dark as a native, but she was still an alien in this land.
The body of the dead hunter was slung over the back of one of the asses. As they stepped into the cluster of torches, a wailing cry arose and a woman in a bekira-shroud, the hood pulled back exposing a round, dark face of middling years, staggered forward, dropped to her knees and immediately began to pull out clumps of her hair by the roots. More woman poured out of the houses and clustered about her, trying to restrain her as she wailed. Then the men closed in.
Cym kindled fire in her left hand to warn them. It illuminated her face, which though dark, was foreign-featured, and lit Zaqri’s golden hair and skin, and his pale eyes.
The men froze, choking back cries of fear. ‘Afreet,’ they hissed.
They think we are demons. Fair enough.
The villagers waited fearfully for them to act. Eventually one of them, clad in the white robes of a Scriptualist, stepped in front and began to babble prayers while casting salt in front of them.
Cym could feel the anger and fear in them, and the hatred, absolute and utter loathing. To them we’re the most vile beings imaginable. But it was fear that won out. None of them dared to move.
Making sure not to cross the line of salt, she dropped the tether of one pair of the desert asses before the wailing woman. The other pair they used for bargaining. The Scriptualist, who’d probably been assigned to this place in the middle of nowhere as a punishment, was clearly petrified, but Zaqri haggled fairly. Their bounty was a sack of lentils and a bag of curry powder, two water bottles, three thick blankets and two sets of tunics and leggings, and two steel knives. He passed one to Cym gravely.
They left walking backwards, still warded against arrows, but none came. No doubt the villagers had noticed that they’d needed no torches to walk the night. Afreet indeed.
Once clear of the village they retrieved the ass they’d kept to be their own beast of burden and Zaqri loaded their goods. When they reached their den they unpacked the beast and Cym set an imperative in its mind to stay close before setting wards to alert her if any predators came. By the time she got back, Zaqri had set mage-lights into the ceiling and was cooking curried daal and hare-meat.
They ate in silence, watching the way the still water of the pool caught and reflected the light.
‘See,’ he said, at last. ‘A life can be recompensed.’
‘This Rimoni woman thinks it inadequate.’ She set her jaw, unwilling to admit to the double standard. He didn’t press the point.
‘We need to move on, find Alaron and Ramita,’ she said firmly.
Zaqri considered. ‘Huriya thought this Ramita would go into Lakh. It’s a vast land, and very populous. They won’t be easy to find: a needle in a haystack – though from what you’ve told me, he would be a very distinctive needle.’
‘He’ll be hiding. The trail is cold, but we’ve got to try. I’ve got nothing else left’ – she looked at him – ‘except the right and obligation to seek revenge.’
He dropped down in front of her so they were face to face, kneeling in the sand. ‘Cymbellea, in Rimoni and Silacia I have seen whole communities destroyed by escalating cycles of vendetta. There are better ways. The Zains will forgive their own killer. The Ja’arathi say that a man who exacts revenge upon another will never enter Paradise. The Omali say that a man consumed with vengeance cannot gain release from the cycle of life.’
‘I am none of those.’ She drew her knife and pressed it right above his heart. It was razor-sharp. ‘You think I wouldn’t do it?’
‘Not at all.’
‘An eye for an eye, the drui preach,’ she went on, gouging a shallow cut over his heart.
‘Then take my eye, and forgive me afterwards.’
‘You took a life.’ Her eyes hardened. ‘I’d do it, if I didn’t need your help.’
‘I know.’ He suddenly looked tired. ‘Cymbellea, the fact is, I have nothing left either. My pack is now closed to me, the only family I’ve known for half a century. No other Dokken group will accept an outcast. My kindred in Rimoni are long dead. Human society rejects me. For me, there is now only you.’
She stared into his eyes, then at the blood trickling through his chest hair. He’d never seemed more terrifying.
I could do it, Mother Luna, I swear! But it would be so pointless …
She sheathed the knife. Damn you. ‘I’m going to Lakh. I don’t care how far it is, but I’ll find Alaron and Ramita, or Huriya, or the Inquisitors. I’m not giving up! Will you come?’
He nodded acquiescence. ‘As you wish.’ He looked into her eyes and dropped his voice to a gentle murmur. ‘Cymbellea, I know what is really hurting you. I’ve been inside your head, remember: you stole the Scytale from your friends and it has brought disaster upon everyone you care for. That is your true pain, and no amount of hurting others will salve it.’
She went numb, the knife dropping from lifeless fingers into her lap, gashing her thigh. She barely felt it. The sharper blade was through her soul.
22
Parleys and Exchanges
Ardijah
My dear Lord Meiros, the Emir of Khotri thanks you for the gift of the bridge at Ardijah. But we regret that due to the disquiet of the local populace when confronted by the gnostic powers of your brethren, we are unable to openly welcome you to our city.
LETTER FROM EMIR FAISAL AL BURNAK TO ANTONIN MEIROS, 898
The work proceeds, though the caliph‘s demands are ridiculous, and I suspect the public rallies are designed as much to avoid payment as any expression of genuine sentiment. Even the goatherders of the outlying deserts are desirous of this bridge.
LETTER FROM ADRIC MEIROS TO HIS FATHER, LORD ANTONIN, 898
Ardijah, Khotriawal Emirate, on the continent of Antiopia
Akhira (Junesse) and Rajab (Julsep) 929
12th and 13th months of the Moontide
Seth Korion wiped his sweating brow, replaced his helmet and nudged his horse with his heels. The beast snorted phlegmatically and trotted to the front of their small group. The gatehouse felt a long way behind him. He peered along the causeway, at half a dozen approaching people, some riding, some walking.
Stay calm. Nothing is going to go wrong.
He tried to reassure himself by recounting the approaching party, but it was still six, the agreed number, including prisoners. He glanced sideways at his own prisoners, the tall man with the top-knot and the voluptuous redhead. Both looked somewhat the worse for wear. Each was tied to a horse, the ropes securing their wrists, then attached to the pommel, and unseen runes confined their powers.
The rest of his group included Jelaska for gnostic support, and two soldiers Ramon Sensini had suggested: a tall part-Schlessen named Vidran, who appeared to be the most relaxed man in the army, and a handsome and somewhat arrogant-looking pretty-boy named Kel Harmon, who apparently had a reputation for sword-play.
Won’t do him any good if this turns into a gnostic duel.
The first parley had taken place at dawn: he’d sent Sen
sini to do the talking, and Jelaska to keep an eye on Sensini. They’d returned to report that Renn Bondeau and a Noroman mage, Lysart, were prisoners of the Keshi. A third mage, Kyrcen, was dead. The herald proposed a straight exchange of high-ranking prisoners.
A good thing I didn’t behead Arkanus and Hecatta after all.
The exchange was to be at midday. Each side was allowed two magi and two humans to escort two prisoners. The actual exchange would take place halfway along the causeway, out of range of the archers of either side. ‘Let it be an honourable exchange,’ the Keshi herald had declared.
Which is why I didn’t involve Sensini any further …
‘Are you ready?’ Jelaska asked him tersely.
‘As I’ll ever be.’
‘You’re aware it probably won’t be the real Salim?’
He nodded. The Keshi sultan was believed to use impersonators, a vital role when you had enemies capable of penetrating every defence. Rumour had it there’d been at least three imposters murdered during the previous two Crusades by Rondian Imperial mage-assassins. There was even one story going round that had the real Salim dead and his continued rule a fiction perpetuated by the imposters.
‘Can we tell?’ he asked.
‘Not without a mental scan, and the real Salim is supposed to have been trained in shielding his mind.’ Jelaska looked thoughtful. ‘I presume they also train his impersonators.’
The river was dropping daily and the floodplain was now just a swathe of rivulets on either side of the main channel, though the exposed riverbed itself was a quagmire of quicksand. The heat and humidity were so intense Seth felt certain he would melt before they reached the middle, but he told himself crossly to buck up and look like a commander. He mopped his brow, straightened his back and fixed his eyes on the approaching party. He recognised Zsdryk, the Dokken necromancer, and shivered slightly. He’d been lucky during the attack. Although it was midday, and the height of the sun and brightness of the day inhibited necromancy, Zsdryk would be far from helpless.
The other Dokken, a woman in her seventies with sun-blackened skin and thick, tangled grey-black hair hanging in ropes to her waist, was almost as cadaverous as Zsdryk. She wore a widow’s white bekira-shroud, and looked seventy.
Probably means she’s about two hundred …
A Keshi soldier led Bondeau and Lysart, both bound and roped to his saddle. The two Yurosian magi looked bruised and downcast, but otherwise unwounded. They were apparently the only survivors of their force, and Seth wanted badly to know how – and why. Then his eyes went to the resplendent figure of the Sultan of Kesh and stayed there.
Salim of Kesh looked every inch of the legend: noble, dignified, educated, fearless. And he had the most perfectly formed face Seth had ever seen, with a neatly trimmed dark beard and the calmest of green eyes. His silk robes were embroidered with gold and silver thread and set with gemstones; his chainmail vest gleamed like diamonds. Steel plates were shaped to his shoulders and chest, but instead of a helmet he wore a white turban so bright it hurt the eyes, with peacock tail feathers affixed with a gold brooch.
It made Seth feel unworthy to even look at him. Well, if he’s the imposter … that’d make two of us.
The Keshi ruler – or his decoy – raised his right hand and halted. He studied the Rondians, then fixed upon the Imperial sigil on Seth’s chest. When he spoke it was in perfect Rondian, with only the faintest trace of an accent. ‘General Korion? I am Salim.’
Salim: no string of grandiose titles, though I bet he has lots of them. No pompous display like one of Father’s friends would insist upon. He doesn’t need to …
‘Seth Korion,’ he replied, his throat dry.
‘I trust we will deal with each other honourably in this exchange?’ Salim said evenly. ‘The polite terms of address for me are Exalted One, Great Sultan, or Holy Lord, General.’
‘I will leave that for your own people, Sultan.’
Salim smiled faintly. ‘Please identify the two magi in your group, General.’
Seth gestured to himself and then Jelaska. ‘And yours?’
‘I believe you have met Zsdryk? And this is Kadimarah. I was surprised to hear that a Korion commanded here, General. But my prisoners tell me you are the son of the famous Kaltus Korion?’
‘I’m surprised they told you anything at all, Sultan.’ Prisoners were supposed to hold their tongues. ‘I take it no torture was required to extract this admission?’
‘Just wine, General,’ Salim – or his imposter – said with the faintest trace of irony. At least Bondeau and Lysart had the grace to squirm at that. Sensini had made it clear that he thought no prisoner exchange was worth getting Bondeau back.
‘And their gnosis is bound?’
‘They are under a Rune of the Chain, of course,’ Salim said, obviously conversant with the term.
‘Of course.’ Seth looked at Bondeau and Lysart, who were staring up at him in sullen resentment. ‘I presume the same applies?’
‘Indeed. Kadimarah Chained them herself.’
The woman’s dark visage creased into a yellow-toothed smile.
Both Kadimarah and Zsdryk had that strange aura that instantly identified the Dokken, and in her case it was particularly strong, almost nauseating to look upon with gnostic sight.
Salim glanced at Yorj Arkanus and Hecatta with an ambiguous expression, then faced Seth. ‘So, General Korion. Your army is trapped in hostile ground between us and the Khotri. You are blockaded, with no hope of rescue or escape. This might be an opportunity for us to discuss the terms of your surrender.’
‘On the contrary, Sultan, our friends of the Khotri have provided for us very well, and our relations with the Calipha of Ardijah are very amiable.’ A little too amiable, possibly.
Salim looked somewhat put out. ‘Really? We have been in contact with the Emir of Khotri over this matter.’
‘Then perhaps we have your Sultanhood to thank for the Khotri men who stormed the southern island?’ Seth replied, pleased with his own drollness. It was especially rewarding to see Salim’s silken façade a little ruffled.
‘Well,’ the sultan said, his face falling a little flat, ‘in that case, let us be about our business.’
‘Of course.’ Seth glanced at Jelaska, who slid down from her saddle. Zsdryk did likewise. They walked around each other carefully, the Dokken necromancer going to Arkanus and his consort while Jelaska went to Bondeau and Lysart to verify their identities. The task was made slower by the Chain-runes, which blocked all their gnostic activity.
Please let this happen without trouble …
Jelaska looked Lysart over, then cuffed Bondeau’s cheek gently. ‘It’s him, damn it,’ she confirmed dryly. She looked back at Zsdryk, who was staring deeply into Yorj Arkanus’ eyes. ‘Are you done?’
Zsdryk glanced at Salim and gave a reluctant nod. He spoke in a surprisingly high-pitched voice, which Seth found amusing, like hearing a dog meow. ‘The Chain-rune masks their minds, but the appearance is right.’ He looked at Jelaska suspiciously. ‘I do not see how she can claim to be sure.’
Jelaska gave him a superior smile. ‘A well-cast Chain masks the mind completely, but I could drive a bullock cart though this one.’
Kadimarah scowled.
‘You can’t beat Arcanum training,’ Jelaska said airily. ‘Shall we go? It’s up to you to release the Chains in your own time. Mine are watertight, of course, so they’ll take you a while.’
Zsdryk’s sour face tightened, but he was clearly more than a little intimidated by Jelaska. He looked instead at Seth, seeking to bolster himself. ‘Your general can attest to my skill,’ he said in his thin voice. He took the ropes from Vidran and pulled Arkanus and Hecatta along behind him. He passed Jelaska coming the other way, but would not meet her eyes as she guided Bondeau and Lysart back to Seth’s group.
Possibly-Salim made a flowing gesture with his hand. ‘General Korion. I believe this exchange is complete.’
Jelaska stepped bet
ween them, flicking her grey tresses from her face. ‘Actually, there’s just one more thing.’
Something in her voice made Seth, who’d been basking in the relief that things were going off without a hitch, pause apprehensively. What—?
Jelaska gripped her periapt, which flashed as gnostic energy discharged in some unseen way. The six Keshi turned towards her and Zsdryk snarled, backing against Arkanus to protect him, raising his shields in a flash as Kadimarah called blue fire to her fingers.
But Seth was watching Salim, whose expression went from disdain to disgust. So this is your honour, his eyes said.
*
The Chain-rune engulfing Ramon’s gnosis vanished as Jelaska’s spell took hold; the disorienting surge made him stagger against Zsdryk’s back as Arkanus’ appearance sloughed from him. A Chain-rune normally cancelled any existing gnostic effects, but Jelaska knew an advanced method that locked them in until the Chain was removed or the energy preserving them dissipated, normally less than an hour. They’d put on the finishing touches moments before leaving the gatehouse.
Beside him, Hecatta’s face remoulded itself and Severine’s appeared, wide-eyed and scared. It had taken a lot of work to take Sevvie’s small talent for shapemastery and make her look like Hecatta. She fell to her knees as the change overcame her, but Ramon had a closer affinity for shapemastery and he took it in his stride.
His hand went straight to his stiletto.
As Zsdryk warded the first of Jelaska’s mage-bolts, Ramon stabbed the Sydian Dokken in the left side of his back with the expertise imparted to him by Pater Retiari’s familioso assassins. Zsdryk stiffened as Ramon struck again and then again, hammering the blows into him, leaving Jelaska to go for Kadimarah.
With a deadly howl, Zsdryk wrenched himself free and turned, his eyes and mouth glowing necromantic purple. His face had gone utterly grey and blood was welling from his mouth, but the violet gnosis that flashed from his hands was still virulent. Tendrils latched on to Ramon’s skin, semi-visible suckers that fastened onto his aura, and Sevvie’s too. Instantly energy flowed from him to the necromancer, whose stance strengthened. He tried to fight it, blasting away with mage-bolts, but Zsdryk straightened and the blood started flowing back into his mouth.
