Wizardborn, page 15
Though he was at the border of the desert, the rains came often in winter to the pass, and trees grew in thickets in every fold of the mountains.
Raj Ahten had always loved the deserts of Indhopal.
As he passed the village of Hariq, he stopped at a well long enough to let some women, all dressed in white muslin with green shawls on their heads, draw water from the well for him and his mount. He’d ridden in upon a borrowed horse, without his armor, with his hooded cloak pulled over his face. To a casual observer, he seemed only an anonymous lord. With the murderous Ah’kellah ahead, he preferred it that way.
It was not until the women saw his face beneath the hood that they recognized him, and began to fawn over him.
The village was nearly empty, for at this time of year many of the mountain folk migrated south for the winter, following the Old Spice Way down into Indhopal.
Yet for those who stayed, it was a time of celebration. The harvests were in, and life seemed good.
He soon reached Salandar, with its white adobe walls baked as hard as stones over the centuries. He reached for his warhammer and rode with one hand on it, peering from beneath his hooded robe for sign of an ambush.
The markets were filled with vendors: men with woven baskets stuffed with pistachios, almonds, dried fava beans, pine nuts, chickpeas, lentils, rice, and groundnuts. Others hawked spices: cumin and za’tar, sumac and coriander, allspice and saffron. Old women carried pots filled with boiled eggs or turnip pickles on their heads, or baskets loaded with olives, eggplants, or limes. In the meat markets animals hung by strings from their feet: pigeons, ground squirrels, and succulent young lambs.
The streets were filled with people. Nomad women in bright woven shawls in from the desert bartered for goods. Camel traders hawked their wares. Children raced about. Young men and women huddled in the shadows of vendors’ stalls to shyly hold hands. Qat dealers bundled their herbs and sold them in a dazed stupor. Old men played chess by the roadside, fanning themselves with palm leaves. Wealthy men with jewels pinned in their turbans took breakfast on their verandas overlooking the avenues, served by beautiful wives.
Red chickens strutted through the streets, while white rock doves swirled like snow over the gardens at every manor.
Nothing seemed amiss in Salandar.
He saw no sign of the Ah’kellah, and managed to negotiate the streets without drawing attention.
Raj Ahten stopped to trade his horse at the fortress and announce himself. He questioned the warlord in charge, a wiry man from Indhopal named Bhopanastrat, about the Invincibles. Bhopanastrat was a competent man who had served Raj Ahten well—from a distance.
“Some Invincibles did pass through an hour ago, and took fresh horses. Wuqaz Faharaqin led them.”
“Did he name their errand?”
Bhopanastrat shook his head. “He said that they were going to Maygassa.” Bhopanastrat bent near and whispered as if afraid to speak of a secret aloud. “It is said that there is trouble in Kartish. I thought…” He winked his left eye, to show that he knew how to keep a secret.
Raj Ahten seemed to be gaining on Wuqaz, but the man was still an hour ahead of him. He could not yet guess Wuqaz’s mission. He might well have lied to Bhopanastrat. Wuqaz was a portentous name. It meant “Breaker of Necks.” Among the Ah’kellah it was a title as much as a name. He would be a formidable adversary.
Raj Ahten doubted that he could stop the Ah’kellah. If he tried to catch the men, they would fan out like grouse fleeing the falconer. He might get one or two, but the rest would elude him.
He suspected that their report could have dire consequences. Raj Ahten had conquered all the nations of Indhopal, but some of them had been under his dominion for less than a year. They were like spirited colts that had not yet been broken. They bucked and bit at him while he gouged with his spurs.
They would be eager to throw off his rule, and Wuqaz Faharaqin was the type of man to lead them.
Yet Raj Ahten also had to wonder at the “trouble in Kartish.” If a lord at this distant outpost had heard of misfortune, how bad might the situation there be?
He impatiently took breakfast as he waited for Bhopanastrat and a dozen force soldiers to prepare for the journey. He dined on a rich pigeon stew made with onions, and flavored with plums, saffron, and ginger.
Raj Ahten sat for a moment, began rubbing his left wrist. He felt a numbing pain in the arm. He wondered at it, could not think how it might have been injured.
He was, he suspected, alive now only because of the vast number of endowments he’d taken.
He thought of the flameweavers in their balloon, riding the east wind faster than his horse. They’d invited him to join them, to become one of them.
In company with Bhopanastrat and a dozen men, Raj Ahten forged north across the desert borders, racing through encampments and villages named only after the clans that settled them—Isgul, Qanaat, Zelfar.
The desert came alive at this time of year. Small flowers took the opportunity to bloom after every spat of rain, and it had rained three days before. Bouquets of salmon-colored flowers blossomed on the greasewood, while the ground was strewn with a carpet of white.
Birds were everywhere. Bright yellow bee-eaters streaked across the land like fiery arrows, skimming among the flowers. Lapwings raced away from him on stilted legs, feigning broken wings to draw him from their nests, and filled the morning with their mournful peewit, peewit. Sand grouse by the thousands perched on the banks of streams, looking like round speckled brown rocks until they erupted into the sky.
Everywhere that Raj Ahten rode, the illusion that he’d seen from afar—that the deserts of Muttaya were barren and lifeless—was dispelled.
He stopped once again at a fortress in Maksist to trade his horses for camels. He asked the warlord in charge about Wuqaz.
The warlord said warily, “I did see the men you seek. The Ah’kellah left the village only half an hour ago. Some took camels south, others took horses to the north and west.”
“How many men went south?” Raj Ahten asked.
“Twelve men, O Light of the Universe.”
Raj Ahten bit his lip. He was only half an hour behind them now. If he hurried, he would catch them.
“Give me your best force camels.”
“My lord,” the man said hesitantly, a worried expression on his brow. “Salaam.”
“Peace,” Raj Ahten assured him.
“The camels I have are not worthy of you. The riders you seek—they took my best animals and kept spares for palfreys.”
Raj Ahten began to seethe. “Is there a merchant in this city who will have the camels I seek?”
“I will gather the best animals in the city,” the man said. “Meanwhile, sit at my table, eat your fill. Rest.”
The warlord took a horse and raced from the fortress. True to his word, he came back shortly with thirteen force camels.
“Forgive me,” he said as he leapt from his horse. “These are the best I could find.” He got on his hands and knees, then bowed deeply, so that his white turban swept the ground.
It was the pose of one who offered his life to atone for an indiscretion.
He is a wise man, Raj Ahten realized. If I were angry, I might order him tortured to death. This way, he tempts me to take him quickly.
“You serve me well,” Raj Ahten said. He took the beasts gratefully.
He ordered the captain to get eighty men on horses and take them west and north, to hunt for the Invincibles in that band.
He wished that he knew which direction Wuqaz Faharaqin had gone. Raj Ahten went to the road at the edge of town, and for long moments he tried to catch Wuqaz’s scent. He rode now atop a camel with a dozen other men, and Raj Ahten could not tell from the faint traces in the air which party he rode with.
Raj Ahten could not let him live. Nor could he afford to take the time to hunt the man down.
South, he decided at last. Wuqaz would go south into Taif, or Aven, where the Ah’kellah were most revered.
Raj Ahten led a dozen of his best men south into the desert, heading through old Indhopal toward Kartish.
The first leg of the journey was easy. The ground lay flat and hard.
Baobab trees grew on the verge of the desert, rising up in twisted majesty. During certain seasons, wildebeests and gazelles migrated through the region in vast herds, but this late in the fall only a few dry bones garnished the prairie. Ostriches and jackals loped away as his men approached.
After they forded the muddy Deloon River, all of the watercourses went dry. It had not rained this far south.
The wells at Kazir and Makarang were both dry. It was not until he saw camels tied by a bright red pavilion pitched beneath a baobab tree half a mile from the caravan way that they found water.
The baobab had a trunk thirty feet wide, and an enterprising trader had hollowed it out. The hollow held clay cisterns of precious water.
Upon seeing the thirteen men riding out of the desert, the trader grew uneasy. Only the worst kind of marauders would dare steal a man’s water, but the worst kind of marauders sometimes traveled this road.
He rested his hand upon his khivar as Raj Ahten approached, and stared at him from eyes as brown as ripe almonds. He was an elderly man, with a beard trimmed impeccably. The old man bowed.
Raj Ahten hailed him, tried to put him at ease. “Salaam. The trail is dry, and I feel weighed down by too much money.”
“Let me lighten your load, O Great One,” the trader said with a satisfied grin, “while you drink your fill.”
With that, Raj Ahten dismounted and found a place to sit under the shade of the baobab. Raj Ahten took out a silver flask he’d brought from Salandar. It was filled with lemongrass tea flavored with honey made from morning primrose.
As a preamble to conversation, the two men shared introductions, and Raj Ahten offered a drink to the old man, for as the old proverb went, “In the desert, drink must come before trust, trust before friendship.”
For a moment they talked cordially of poetry, weather, and the health of the old man’s sister. The man recognized Raj Ahten and showed by his cordial demeanor that he, too, was of good breeding.
“Twelve men came riding from the north, did they not?” Raj Ahten finally asked.
“Yes, men of the Ah’kellah, in a great hurry,” the man said. “They were rude.”
“Ah,” Raj Ahten said, fearing that he’d asked his question too soon, had given offense. “Men on the run are seldom polite. Did they speak of their destination?”
“They are going south to raise the Atwaba,” the old man said. “They are angry with our beloved lord.”
“Indeed?” Raj Ahten asked, feeling mirthful. The trader was being extraordinarily polite by pretending that he did not recognize Raj Ahten. “What did they say?”
“May my tongue be cut from me if I ever repeat such tales!” the old man intoned.
“It is a secret safe with me.”
“They say that Raj Ahten, bless his name, broke a truce and sought to kill the Earth King, his cousin by marriage.”
Raj Ahten grinned. “I am sure that it is all a misunderstanding. When I meet these men, I will clear it up.”
“May the wind speed you,” the old trader intoned.
“Tell me, was Wuqaz Faharaqin among them?”
“I could not say,” the trader answered. “The name I know, but these men did not offer me their names.”
Raj Ahten nodded thoughtfully. He could imagine how the Ah’kellah would tell his tale. They would describe the Earth King as a strong leader, vying for Raj Ahten’s rule. If things went ill for Raj Ahten in this battle at Kartish, it would only justify that view.
Among the simpleminded, the charges of injustice would cause trouble. But here so close to Deyazz, men would ridicule such charges. A second cousin by marriage was still considered a stranger in this country.
But elsewhere … “See here,” the kaifs would say. “Our lord fights for the reavers in Mystarria, while reavers tear apart Kartish. Raj Ahten fights his own cousin! What is he, a man or a reaver?”
This would be a serious accusation in the minds of the young and simple. At the very least, certain kaifs would use it as a pretext to demand apologies—bribes of gold and forcibles and spices.
But for those who hungered to throw off his reign, no apology could ever suffice.
Bhopanastrat and the other Invincibles finished watering the camels. Raj Ahten realized that he did not actually have any money. Normally, Feykaald handled such things.
Raj Ahten went to mount his camel, and said to Bhopanastrat, “Pay the man.”
“As you wish,” the warlord said.
What happened next came so fast that Raj Ahten did not have time to stop it. The old man got up from his seat and dusted off the back of his burnoose, ready to take his coin. Bhopanastrat drew his khivar and quickly slashed the old man’s throat.
He staggered back three steps, turned toward the baobab, and sank to his knees. He slumped forward against the tree trunk, facefirst, blood gushing from his neck.
“What?” Raj Ahten demanded. “Why did you do that?”
“He was rude, Great One,” Bhopanastrat answered. “He demanded money. He should have felt honored to give water to his king.”
“Is that the kind of man you think I am, killing harmless old men in the desert?” Raj Ahten asked. Bhopanastrat dared not speak. “We are not in Rofehavan,” Raj Ahten shouted. “These are my people!”
“Salaam,” Bhopanastrat begged, bowing his head low. “Forgive me. I did not know you could care so much for one worthless old man.”
16
TWYNHAVEN
The women of Fleeds are coarse and barbaric. That’s why the men of Fleeds love them so fiercely.
—From the journal of Duke Paldane
The rain and darkness held Erin and Celinor at Balington. Several times in the night, messengers had come and gone for Gaborn. They left their force horses down in the stalls, fed them rich miln, but no one climbed into the loft where the lovers lay wrapped in one another’s arms.
Celinor promised his undying love a dozen times during the night, until at last Erin realized that it must be some odd custom among his folk. She had worried that if he kept it up, she’d not hear the next time a messenger opened the door.
“Why talk about love when you could be making love?” she finally whispered. That kept him quiet, except for the panting and kisses.
But the few moments of stolen bliss could not last, and when an owl swooped into the rafters of the stable, Erin had known that it was time to go.
Early morning found Erin and Celinor far north of the village, riding the king’s highway through patches of fog that shrouded the dales between the green hills. Crows flew up, cawing in the distance. Their jagged path through the sky intersected sprawling oak trees where they might roost.
Erin and Celinor did not talk much on the ride north. The strange wizard child and her warnings of danger lay heavily on Erin’s mind.
For miles around, the homes and inns were still abandoned. Raj Ahten’s army had passed by here yesterday, and the people had fled his presence. There was no food along the highway, and only once did they stop at a small cottage to pick some pears from a tree.
As Erin gathered the fruit, Celinor wandered to the side of the house and picked a peach-colored rose. He brought it back, held it up for her to admire, and sniffed its delicate scent. Then he offered it to her.
“And what are you thinking I’ll do with that?” Erin asked. She’d eaten rose apples in the winter of course. But picking the rose violated her people’s custom. Fleeds was a poor land, especially in the southeast. Every blade of grass was a valuable commodity among the horseclans.
“It’s to admire,” he said lamely.
“Oh,” she said. Belatedly, she recalled that in some countries men gave roses as cheap gifts. She sniffed it, admired it for all of thirty seconds, and then—not wanting it to go to waste—tried to feed it to her fine black mare. The mare would have none of it.
Celinor came to her rescue. “You can wear it,” he said. “In my country, women pin roses inside their robes. It’s like perfume, but doesn’t have the cost.” He took the rose, and pinned it to the back of the silver brooch that Erin wore on her cloak. She could barely taste the sweet fragrance.
“Cuts down on the smell of horse sweat, I imagine,” Erin said. She wondered at his gesture. Did her odor offend him? Or was he just trying to be nice?
“They say that if you bruise the petals,” Celinor offered, “they smell even sweeter.”
He pulled her close and hugged her fiercely. She decided he was trying to be nice. Different lands, different customs.
In fact, he was more than nice. She thought briefly about kicking in the cottage door and looking for a bed. He’d shown himself to be more than an adequate lover last night.
At that moment, a pair of young horsesisters came riding south from Fleeds. They crested a nearby hill and sent the crows flapping up from a field.
As they drew nearer, Erin studied them. Both girls looked to be from poor families, and could not be accounted as knights at all. Their boiled-leather armor was painted with symbols in green and yellow that identified their clans. Each sported a sash of horsehair, dyed red and braided for luck. Their helms were of leather with iron plates sewn into them, with horsetails flowing out the back. Instead of heavy lances, they bore only spears.
They looked flushed with energy, as people who have recently taken endowments often do. Erin suspected that the girls had put the forcibles that Gaborn had given her people to good use.
One girl had bloodstains from a side wound. She reekea of whiskey, which she’d used to clean the wound.
“You coming or going?” the wounded girl said as they drew near.
“Coming,” Erin said.
“The road’s a hard one ahead. Lowicker s brat, Constance, is after blocking every byway. She’s salted the roads with caltrops. And if you ride off into the trees, her archers will be using your hide for target practice. We barely made it.”
