“Habit,” he said, but his expression was stern, his dark eyes suddenly wary. Angling his horse toward the southeast, away from the mist, he rode away.
Keeva followed him and swung in the saddle to stare back at the ruins. “How strange,” she said. “The mist is gone.”
He, too, glanced back, then unloaded his weapon, slipping the bolts back into the quiver at his belt. He saw her looking at him.
“I do not like this place,” she said. “It feels … dangerous,” she concluded lamely.
“You have good instincts,” he told her.
Matze Chai parted the painted silk curtains of his palanquin and gazed with undisguised malevolence at the mountains. Sunlight was filtering through the clouds and shining brightly on the snowcapped peaks. The elderly man sighed and pulled shut the curtains. As he did so, his dark almond-shaped eyes focused on the back of his slender hand, seeing again the brown liver spots of age staining the dry skin.
The Chiatze merchant reached for a small, ornate wooden box and removed a tub of sweet-smelling lotion, which he applied carefully to his hands before leaning back against the cushions and closing his eyes.
Matze Chai did not hate mountains. Hatred would mean giving in to passion, and passion, in Matze’s view, indicated an uncivilized mind. He loathed what the mountains represented, what the philosopher termed the “Mirrors of Mortality.” The peaks were eternal, never changing, and when a man gazed upon them, his own ephemeral nature was exposed to the light, the frailty of his flesh suddenly apparent. And frail it was, he thought, regarding his coming seventieth birthday with a mixture of disquiet and apprehension.
He leaned forward and slid back a panel in the wall, revealing a rectangular mirror. Matze Chai gazed upon his reflection. The thinning hair, drawn tightly across his skull and braided at the nape of his neck, was as black as it had been in his youth, but a tiny line of silver at the hairline meant that he would need to have the dye reapplied soon. His slender face showed few lines, but his neck was sagging, and even the high collar of his scarlet and gold robes could no longer disguise it.
The palanquin lurched to the right as one of the eight bearers, weary after six hours of labor, slipped on a loose stone. Matze Chai reached up and rang the small golden bell bolted to the embossed panel by the window. The palanquin stopped smoothly and was lowered to the ground.
The door was opened by his Rajnee, Kysumu. The small warrior extended his hand. Matze Chai took it and stepped through the doorway, his long robes of heavily embroidered yellow silk trailing to the rocky path. He glanced back. The six soldiers of his guard sat their mounts silently. Beyond them the second team of bearers climbed down from the first of the three wagons. Dressed in livery of red and black, the eight men marched forward to replace the tired first team, who trudged silently back to the wagon.
Another liveried servant ran forward, bearing a silver goblet. He bowed before Matze Chai and offered him watered wine. The merchant took the goblet, sipping the contents. “How much longer?” he asked the man.
“Captain Liu says we will camp at the foot of the mountains, sir. The scout has found a suitable site. He says it is an hour from here.”
Matze Chai drank a little more, then returned the goblet, still half-full, to the servant. Climbing back into the palanquin, he settled himself down on his cushions. “Join me, Kysumu,” he said.
The warrior nodded, pulled his sword and scabbard from the sash of his long gray robes, and climbed inside, seating himself opposite the merchant. The eight bearers took hold of the cushioned poles, raising them to waist height. At a whispered command from the lead bearer, they then hefted the poles to their shoulders. Inside the palanquin Matze Chai gave a satisfied sigh. He had trained the two teams well, paying attention to every detail. Travel by palanquin was usually not dissimilar to sailing a small boat on choppy water. The cabin lurched from side to side, and within minutes those with delicate constitutions would begin to feel queasy. Not so for those who traveled with Matze Chai. His teams were made up of eight men of equal height, trained for hours every day back in Namib. They were well-paid, well-fed, powerful young laborers, men of little imagination but great strength.
Matze Chai leaned back in his cushions, transferring his gaze to the slim, dark-haired young man seated opposite him. Kysumu sat silently, his three-foot-long curved sword on his lap, his coal-black slanted eyes returning Matze Chai’s gaze. The merchant had grown to like the little swordsman, for he spoke rarely and radiated calm. There was never a hint of tension about him.
“How is it you are not wealthy?” Matze Chai asked him.
“Define wealth,” answered Kysumu, his long face, as ever, expressionless.
“The ability to purchase whatever one desires whenever one desires it.”
“Then I am wealthy. All I desire is a little food and water each day. Those I can pay for.”
Matze Chai smiled. “Then let me rephrase the question: How is it that your renowned skills have not supplied you with plentiful amounts of gold and coin?”
“Gold does not interest me.”
Matze Chai already knew that. It explained why Kysumu was the most highly prized Rajnee in all the lands of the Chiatze. All men knew the swordsman could not be bought and thus would never betray the nobleman who hired him. Yet it was baffling, for among the Chiatze nobility loyalty always came at a price, and it was perfectly acceptable for warriors and bodyguards like Kysumu to change allegiance when better offers were made. Intrigue and treachery were endemic to the Chiatze way of life, indeed, among politicians of all races. That made it even more curious that Kysumu was revered among the treacherous nobility for his honesty. They did not laugh behind his back or mock his “stupidity” even though it highlighted, in glorious color, their own lack of morals. What a strange race we are, thought Matze Chai.
Kysumu had closed his eyes and was breathing deeply. Matze Chai looked at him closely. Not more than five and a half feet tall and slightly round-shouldered, the man looked more like a scholar or a priest. His long face and slightly downturned mouth gave him a look of melancholy. It was an ordinary face, not handsome, not ugly. The only distinctive feature was a small purple birthmark on his left eyebrow. Kysumu’s eyes opened, and he yawned.
“Have you ever visited the lands of Kydor?” asked the merchant.
“No.”
“They are an uncivilized people, and their language is hard on both the ear and the mind. It is guttural and coarse. Not musical in any way. Do you speak any foreign tongues?”
“A few,” said Kysumu.
“The people here are offshoots from two empires, the Drenai and the Angostin. Both languages have the same base.” Matze Chai was just beginning to outline the history of the land when the palanquin came to a sudden stop. Kysumu opened the paneled door and leapt lightly to the ground. Matze Chai rang the small bell, and the palanquin was lowered to the rocks—not smoothly, which irritated him. He climbed out to berate the bearers, then saw the group of armed men barring the way. He scanned them. There were eleven warriors, all armed with swords and clubs, though two carried longbows.
Matze Chai flicked a glance back to his six guards, who had all edged their horses forward. They were looking nervous, and that added to Matze’s irritation. They were supposed to be fighters. They were paid to be fighters.
Lifting his yellow robes to keep the dust from the hem, Matze Chai moved toward the armed men. “Good day to you,” he said. “Why have you stopped my palanquin?”
A bearded man stepped forward. He was tall and broad-shouldered, a longsword in his hand and two long, curved knives sheathed in his thick belt. “This is a toll road, Slant-eye. No one passes here without payment.”
“And what is the payment?” asked Matze Chai.
“For a rich foreigner like you? Twenty in gold.” Movement came from the left and right as a dozen more men emerged from behind rocks and boulders.
“The toll seems excessive,” said Matze Chai. He turned to Kysumu and
spoke in Chiatze. “What do you think?” he asked. “They are robbers, and they outnumber us.”
“Do you wish to pay them?”
“Do you believe they will merely take twenty in gold?”
“No. Once we accede to their demands, they will demand more.”
“Then I do not wish to pay them.”
“Return to your palanquin,” Kysumu said softly, “and I will clear the path.”
Matze Chai returned his gaze to the bearded leader. “I suggest,” he said, “that you step aside. This man is Kysumu, the most feared Rajnee among the Chiatze. And you are at this moment only heartbeats from death.”
The tall leader laughed. “He may be all you say, Slant-eye, but to me he’s just another vomit-colored dwarf ripe for the taking.”
“I fear you are making a mistake,” said Matze Chai, “but then, all actions have consequences and a man must have the courage to face them.” He gave an abrupt bow, which in Chiatze would have been insulting, and turned away, walking slowly back to his palanquin. He glanced back and saw Kysumu walk forward to stand before the leader. Two robbers advanced from the group to stand alongside the bearded man. For a moment only Matze Chai doubted the wisdom of this course of action. Kysumu seemed suddenly tiny and innocuous against the brute power of the roundeye robber and his men.
The leader’s sword came up. Kysumu’s blade flashed into the air.
Moments later, with four men dead and the rest of the robbers scattering and running away into the rocks, Kysumu wiped clean his sword and returned to the palanquin. He was not out of breath, nor was his face flushed. He looked, as always, serene and at peace. Matze Chai’s heart was beating wildly, but he fought to keep his face expressionless. Kysumu had moved with almost inhuman speed, cutting, slashing, spinning like a dancer into the middle of the robbers. At the same moment, his six guards had charged their horses into the second group, and they, too, had run for cover. All in all a most satisfactory outcome and one that justified the expense of hiring guards.
“Do you believe they will come back?” asked Matze Chai.
“Perhaps,” Kysumu said with a shrug. Then he stood quietly waiting for orders.
Matze Chai summoned a servant and asked Kysumu if he wished to partake of some watered wine. The swordsman shook his head. Matze Chai accepted a goblet, intending to take a sip. Instead he half drained it.
“You did well, Rajnee,” he said.
“We should be moving from here,” replied Kysumu.
“Indeed so.”
The cabin of the palanquin felt like a sanctuary as Matze Chai settled himself down on his cushions. Lightly striking the bell to signal the bearers to move on, he closed his eyes. He felt suddenly safe, secure, and almost immortal. Opening his eyes, he glanced out through the window and saw the setting sun blaze its dying light over the mountain peaks.
Reaching up, he drew the curtains closed, his good humor evaporating.
They made camp an hour later, and Matze Chai sat in his palanquin while his servants unloaded his nighttime furniture from the wagons, assembling his gold lacquered bed and spreading on it his satin sheets and thick goose-down quilt. After this they raised the poles and frame of his blue and gold silk tent, spreading out the black canvas sheet on the ground and then unrolling his favorite silk rug to cover it. Lastly his two favorite chairs, both inlaid with gold and deeply cushioned with padded velvet, were placed in the tent entrance. When finally Matze Chai climbed from the palanquin, the camp was almost prepared. His sixteen bearers were sitting together around two campfires set in a jumble of boulders. Two of the six guards had taken up sentry positions to patrol the perimeter, and his cook was busy preparing a light supper of spiced rice and dried fish.
Matze Chai moved across the campground to his tent and sank gratefully into his chair. He was tired of living like a frontier nomad, at the mercy of the elements, and longed for the journey to be over. Six weeks of this harsh existence had drained his energy.
Kysumu was sitting cross-legged on the ground close by, a section of parchment, pinned to a board of cork, resting on his knees. Using a shaped piece of charcoal, Kysumu was sketching a tree. Matze Chai watched the little swordsman. Every evening he would fetch his leather folder from the supply wagon, take a fresh section of parchment, and sketch for an hour. Usually trees or plants, Matze Chai had noted.
Matze Chai had many such drawings in his own home, by some of the greatest Chiatze masters. Kysumu was talented but by no means exceptional. His compositions lacked, in Matze Chai’s opinion, the harmony of emptiness. Kysumu’s work had too much passion. Art should be serene, devoid of human emotion. Stark and simple, it should encourage meditation. Even so, Matze Chai decided, he should—at the journey’s end—offer to purchase one of the sketches. It would be impolite not to do so.
A servant brought him a cup of scented tisane and, with the temperature dropping, laid a fur-lined robe around Matze Chai’s thin shoulders. Then two of the bearers, using forked wooden poles, carried an iron brazier glowing with coals into Matze Chai’s tent, setting it down on a pewter base plate to keep cinders from singeing the expensive rug.
The incident with the robbers had proved spiritually uplifting. As the mountains spoke silently of the fleeting nature of man, the sudden peril had brought to the fore just how much Matze Chai enjoyed life. It made him aware of the sweetness of the air he breathed and the feel of silk on his skin. Even the tisane he now sipped was almost unbearably fine on the tongue.
Despite the discomforts of travel Matze Chai was forced to admit that he now felt better than he had in years. Wrapping himself in the fur-lined cloak, he settled back and found himself thinking of Waylander. It had been six years since last they had met, back in Namib.
Matze Chai had at that time recently returned from Drenan, where he had, on Waylander’s instruction, purchased a skull from the Great Library. Waylander had then sold his home and journeyed north and east, seeking a new land and a new life.
Such a restless soul, thought Matze Chai. But then, Waylander was a man on a mission that could never be completed, a quest born in despair and longing. At first Matze Chai had believed Waylander to be seeking redemption for past sins. That was only partly true. No, what the Gray Man sought was an impossibility.
An owl hooted close by, breaking Matze Chai’s concentration.
Kysumu finished his sketch and replaced it in the leather folder. Matze Chai beckoned him to sit in the second chair.
“It occurs to me,” said Matze Chai, “that had the remaining robbers not panicked and run, you would have been overwhelmed.”
“Indeed,” said Kysumu.
“Or if my guards had not attacked the second group at just that instant, they could have run at the palanquin and killed me.”
“They could have,” agreed the swordsman.
“But you did not think it likely?”
“I did not think of it at all,” said Kysumu.
Matze Chai suppressed a smile but allowed the feeling of warm satisfaction to flow through him. Kysumu was a delight. The ideal companion. He did not gush or chatter or ask endless questions. He was, in truth, harmony itself. They sat thus for a little while. Then food was brought, and they ate quietly.
At the conclusion of the meal Matze Chai rose from his chair. “I shall sleep now,” he said. Kysumu rose, pushed his sword and scabbard into the sash around his robes, and strolled from the camp.
The captain of Matze Chai’s guards, a young man named Liu, approached his master and bowed deeply. “Might I inquire, lord, where the Rajnee is going?”
“I would imagine he is seeking out the robbers in the event they might be following,” Matze Chai told him.
“Should some of the men not go with him, lord?”
“I do not believe he has need of them.”
“Yes, lord,” said Liu, bowing and backing away.
“You did well today, Liu,” said Matze Chai. “I shall mention it to your father upon our return.”
&n
bsp; “Thank you, lord.”
“You were frightened, though, were you not, before the fighting began?”
“Yes, lord. Did it show?”
“I am afraid that it did. Try to exhibit a little more control of your expressions should any similar incidents occur.”
The Gray Man’s palace had initially both surprised and disappointed Keeva. Darkness had fallen as they had arrived. They had ridden slowly up a dirt road through thick woods, emerging onto open ground and an area of well-trimmed lawn bisected by a wide stone avenue. There were no fountains or statues. Two spear-wielding guards were patrolling the front of a long, flat single-story building around two hundred feet long. There were few windows to be seen, and even they were dark. The only light Keeva could see came from four large brass lanterns hanging in the wide marble-pillared entrance. It looks like a mausoleum, thought Keeva, as the Gray Man rode his horse forward.
The black doors opened, and two young men ran out to meet them. Both wore gray livery. Weary now, Keeva dismounted. The servants led the horses away, and the Gray Man beckoned her to follow him inside. An elderly man was waiting for them, a tall, stooping figure, white-haired and longfaced. He, too, was wearing gray, an ankle-length tunic of fine wool. At the shoulder the image of a tree had been beautifully embroidered in black satin. He bowed to the Gray Man.
“You look tired, sir,” he said, his voice deep and low. “I shall have a hot bath prepared.”
“Thank you, Omri. This young woman will be joining the staff. Have a room prepared for her.”
“Of course, sir.”
Without a word of farewell the Gray Man strode away across the marble-tiled hallway. He had said little since they had moved away from the ruins, and Keeva wondered if she had said or done something to annoy him. She felt confused and uncertain and gazed around at the velvet hangings, the ornate rugs, and the walls adorned by fine paintings.
Hero in the Shadows Page 4
