Читать книгу: «The Blue Eye», страница 3
Still no movement, no awareness.
But the pace up the dune was perilously slow, the horses kicking up sand with the fussy placement of their hooves. He swore to himself, sweat breaking out on his forehead. His side was exposed to the Rising Nineteen, and he’d been forced to sheathe his sword. The horses were moving too slowly, but a signal from the First Oralist warned him against careless haste.
When the Companions reached the crest, the tension in his muscles lessened. The First Oralist took the lead rein from his hands. He fell back, counting the mares. They wouldn’t need them all. A dozen would be enough; the rest could be repastured. He waited until twelve of the horses had been led down the far side of the hill before he moved to sever the lead.
But when he slid between two of the horses, he made the mistake of choosing a fierce young stallion. The freed horse reared up. When its forelegs crashed down again, they narrowly missed his head. He rolled out from under the stallion’s hooves, but his unexpected movement incited panic.
The stallion wheeled, nipping the haunches of the mare he was tied to. The mares on the upslope screamed, the piercing noise cutting through the sharp-edged notes of the Claim. The mirage of emptiness faded. The soldiers closest to the hillock sprang to their feet, swords ripped from their scabbards.
Khashayar whirled to face them, even as his archers began to cut down his pursuers.
“Run!” he shouted to the Companions. “Leave the field to us!”
He made his stand at the top of the hill, sword in one hand, dagger in the other, archers at either side. Without the protection of the Claim, his men couldn’t hold against so many. They were cut down on the sands where they stood. Khashayar’s quick glance down at the Companions found them encircled, the horses they had stolen recaptured by the Nineteen.
“Hold!”
A powerful voice shouted the command. The Rising Nineteen went still on both sides of the hill. Taking advantage of the distraction, Khashayar plunged down the slope. When none of the soldiers attacked, he pushed the Companions behind him, his sword poised in one hand.
A member of the Nineteen stepped forward, his dark eyes gleaming under the hood of a dusty blue burnoose. He threw back his hood to show his face. An older man with rich brown skin, the hair at his temples streaked with gray that matched his beard, his posture one of a man used to having his orders obeyed. When he loosened his cloak to show them his armor, Khashayar caught his breath.
Then he counted the number of soldiers who stood behind the man.
3
THE ZHAYEDAN GATE STOOD FIRM THROUGH THE NIGHT. THE TEERANDAZ archers of Ashfall held it, knowing that the Cataphracts, the army’s shock troops, were needed at the Emissary Gate. Cassandane, the Captain of the Teerandaz, had used her archers sparingly. She was waiting to target the sappers, who gathered at the southern wall to chip away at the foundations that fortified the Zhayedan Gate. When a line of sappers advanced, Cassandane moved archers to either side of her position.
A line to meet a line, a tactic Arsalan had taught her. She glanced down at the courtyard. The Commander of the Zhayedan was with his soldiers, cutting through the chaos with instructions to fortify defenses at all three of the city’s gates. He knew his soldiers to a man. He knew the range of weapons stored in the capital’s armory. Best of all, he knew when and where to disperse them. As he moved among the Cataphracts, his presence imparted calm. Without a commander like Arsalan, the city would have been lost.
A jarring noise. The gate shuddered so heavily that the ground under Cassandane’s feet trembled. A Zhayedan catapult had destroyed the first battering ram; now the Talisman had brought another. The men who urged it forward were giants, heavy with muscle and just as brutally armored. The Talisman had been warned against the skill of Cassandane’s archers. There were no obvious openings for her archers to target.
We will find them, she thought. First the sappers, then the brutes behind the ram.
She raised a hand, and the archers fired two swift strikes, their movements so rapid they blurred. The first was aimed at the soldiers who gave the sappers cover. They needed to be unseated, to open up the real targets. The second aimed at the sappers; this was the killing strike.
A return volley was aimed at the archers above the gate. But the Teerandaz were shielded by a defensive line of their own: Zhayedan soldiers whose lives were committed to them. With the first break in fire, the soldiers knelt and the Teerandaz fired again, this time with silver-tipped arrows aimed at the men who approached the gate at a run, their battering ram held aloft.
The arrows were aimed at their unprotected heads. If the soldiers survived the blows, they would try to shield their heads with their hands. The poison at the tips of the arrows would spread no matter how they tried to protect themselves, and the ram would tumble to the ground.
And so it proved.
The next rain of Teerandaz arrows carried fire. The giant wooden ram sparked and blazed to life as it burned. The assault on the gate had failed. Cassandane held up a hand. The archers waited, poised, as their captain chose another target.
Several hours later, Cassandane made a quick detour to the Black Khan’s war room to meet with the army’s commanders. Arsalan gave her a welcoming nod and signaled to the others to report. When it was her turn, she was quick and concise. Her actions should have earned her praise. But the tension in the room erupted into low-voiced murmuring, even as Arsalan commended her strategy.
“Well done, Captain Cassandane. How many archers did you lose?”
“None, Commander.”
The murmurs of displeasure intensified. She caught the assessing glance that Maysam, Captain of the Cataphracts, shot at her. He’d wanted her to support his maneuvers to defend the Emissary Gate. She’d refused, considering the attempt on the Zhayedan Gate the greater threat. No doubt that decision had cost her Maysam’s favor.
“It won’t last,” she went on, ignoring the mutinous whispers. “The Talisman have numbers on their side. We’ll need more than archers to hold.”
Maysam shifted into her line of sight. He was six and a half feet tall, his body heavy with muscle, though for a man of such bulk, he moved with deceptive swiftness, his mind agile, his calculations complex. He was a commander of fierce ability, given to weighing the odds. Beyond these talents, he was skilled with weaponry—the sword, the axe, the fire-lance, the mace—which made him the right man to lead shock troops into battle. But more than a decade older than Cassandane, he viewed her rank as an insult to his soldiers, some nearly as skilled as her own.
Nearly. That was the critical difference.
“You have two dozen Zhayedan defending your women. No others can be spared.”
Women, not archers. An unsubtle insult that elicited a soft chuckle from the Zhayedan’s commanders. She ignored it, keeping her gaze fixed on Arsalan. She could handle the politics of command without his help, but she wondered at the toll the battle might be taking on him. He’d moved between the walls and the courtyard throughout the night, neither still nor rushed, his face still streaked with smoke from his encounter with the One-Eyed Preacher. In the time that she’d been at the gate, he’d overseen the evacuation of the palace and fortified the inner defenses.
And then at a critical moment, Arsalan had been absent, summoned to the Black Khan’s chambers. When he’d returned, he’d been distracted. But when the One-Eyed Preacher had spread his terror at the wall, Arsalan’s attention had refocused: The Black Khan’s half-brother, Darius, had delivered the Bloodprint to the Preacher. And, in the struggle to reclaim it, the Princess of Ashfall had been killed.
The murder of the Princess had hardened Arsalan’s determination to vanquish the enemy.
Still, Cassandane wondered now if all they were doing was holding off inevitable defeat. To the east and south, the siege had set in. And from the west, another army approached.
The Companions had given them hope against these odds, but they had since abandoned the city. Of the allies that remained, Cassandane wasn’t sure she trusted them: a stranger known as the Assassin, and two of the Mages of Khorasan. But what she truly feared was the use of a power she couldn’t comprehend, like the thunder that had cracked the city walls.
Were they fighting today only to die tomorrow?
Arsalan met her gaze, perhaps guessing at her thoughts. His dark hair was matted with sweat, yet his physical presence was imposing. He was not as strongly built as Maysam, but Cassandane was in no doubt of which man she wanted at her back.
Now he stood at the center of the war room, radiating a strength of will that calmed her in a room full of men she had learned to think of as adversaries.
“You’ve done well, Captain.” His attention shifted to Maysam, whose giant hands were braced on the table as he studied the battle plan drawn up by the Black Khan’s cartographer. “How long can we hold the Emissary Gate?”
“With defensive maneuvers, at least another day. The Silver Mage’s ruse is what gave us that day. But if we don’t take action, we’ll lose the eastern gate. What of your plan to ride out?”
Cassandane waited to see if Arsalan would correct Maysam about the reason for the Silver Mage’s actions. He’d called the loya jirga in good faith—the Black Khan had betrayed him. The Khan had ordered Cassandane to fire on the loya jirga, despite the First Oralist’s pleas to allow time to achieve a truce. But Cassandane had known, just as Arsalan had known, that there would be no better chance to take out the Talisman leadership. And as the Silver Mage had made his safe return, Cassandane had nothing to regret. She would make the same choice again, dishonorable as it had been.
She saw the pained acknowledgment of that truth in Arsalan’s velvet-black eyes. Her gaze lingered for a moment before she forced herself to look away.
The noise of battle was heavy in the air. Boulders landing in the inner courtyard, shouts of men under attack, masonry crumbling to dust. Smoke curled over the battlements. And she knew the men were wondering at the absence of their Khan, a matter none dared comment on to Arsalan. Not even Maysam was so bold.
“What action would you take?” Arsalan now asked the leader of the Cataphracts. “An offensive sortie?” It was something Arsalan had planned on himself, once he’d completed his check of the defenses. But from the subtle shift of his stance, Cassandane thought the Commander had reconsidered.
Any such sortie would require the Zhayedan to open the Emissary Gate or to disclose the existence of the Zhayedan’s secret sally ports—a series of gates they used to ambush their enemies when their numbers were evenly matched. To pursue either course now would be to yield to the Talisman the very advantage they’d been seeking. But it could be that now was the moment to expose those advantages, before time ran out to exploit them.
“Yes.” Maysam pointed to a valley east of the Talisman’s position. “We position archers on the high ground to either side of this valley, then draw them into an ambush.”
Cassandane stepped closer to Arsalan, not stopping to weigh her words. “Such a course would be disastrous. The Talisman would overrun the gate to pick us off one by one, or they would discover the vulnerability of our inner defenses. If we were able to seal the Emissary Gate before they penetrated through, our numbers would be too small to break through to the valley. Our archers would be killed before they could gain cover. Even if we succeeded, we would only draw in the smallest portion of their army. We’d run out of ammunition before we made any gains. We have to hold our defenses.”
“You sound frightened, Cassandane.”
As he did so often to diminish her command, Maysam omitted her rank.
“Not frightened. Pragmatic.” She straightened her shoulders, glanced at Arsalan again. “Without our archers at the gates, Ashfall is doomed against the Talisman.”
An angry rush of protest in response to Cassandane’s assertion that the city could be held only by a contingent of female archers. The Black Khan’s Nizam had nurtured a quiet revolt against the presence of women in the army, though the Khan himself maintained that the Teerandaz formed a vital arm of their defense. She wondered now, in his absence, if that quiet revolt was gaining strength and would make itself known. Cassandane knew she’d been unwise to challenge these commanders, to make them seem incapable, no matter her private thoughts. But with the evidence right before them, would they risk the future of Ashfall to prove themselves superior to the women who fought at their side?
“You think well of yourself,” Maysam said. “But the Zhayedan have been fighting Ashfall’s wars since long before you were born. We are not in the habit of hiding behind women. Not even those who wear Teerandaz armor.”
His sneering assessment of Cassandane’s uniform was familiar too: the Nizam had viewed it with the same contempt.
“Enough.” Arsalan moved to the windows beyond the war room, tracking the Talisman’s progress. “Their army is in a state of confusion after the attack on their commanders. If there was a time to strike out, it would be now. The Black Khan—the Dark Mage—is in conference with the other Mages. If they can give us cover, we could send Cataphracts out into the open.” He pressed Maysam’s shoulder with one hand. “And only Cataphracts. You have your own corps of archers. You’ve no need of the Teerandaz.”
“I still think the risk is too great,” Cassandane insisted.
She was getting ready to elaborate when Arsalan offered mildly, “Do you, Captain? I was speaking to Maysam.”
There was no mistaking the reproof. Cassandane flushed to the roots of her hair, her smooth dark skin aglow. This was the first time Arsalan had rebuked her in the presence of the other commanders. Maysam was quick to take advantage.
“We stand a better chance with archers from the Teerandaz,” he argued.
But Arsalan overrode Maysam’s objection.
“Nonnegotiable. Captain Cassandane is correct. The Teerandaz must hold the gates. But that doesn’t mean we can’t do a little damage. Instead of the ambush you suggest, consider this.” He pointed to a spot farther south, closer to the Zhayedan Gate. The Talisman had set up camp close to their walls for an ugly and sinister purpose. “You could achieve this, Maysam. With the Teerandaz’s help.”
It took Cassandane the briefest glance at the map to grasp Arsalan’s suggestion. The tightness in her chest loosened. She had deserved his rebuke. She should have known better than to think the Commander of the Zhayedan wouldn’t have planned for every possible contingency before he summoned his council.
“You would mount a rescue of refugees? To what end?” Maysam rolled up the map and tossed it to one side, dismissing the idea. Unfazed by this show of disrespect, Arsalan smoothed it out again, pointing to the area where the Talisman had taken prisoners to use as shields.
Only then did he let his anger show, a cloud darkening his brow. He leaned forward, his face within inches of Maysam’s.
“To this end. We do not abandon the people the Black Khan claims as his own.”
When the council had disbanded in resentful silence, Arsalan called Cassandane back. She turned to face him, her hands clenched on her helmet, steeling herself for a thorough dressing-down. Her shoulders squared, she stared at the Commander’s insignia: a small onyx rook mounted on silver at his neck.
“Forgive me, Commander,” she said quietly. “I know I spoke out of turn.”
His strong hand tilted up her chin, the hint of a smile in his eyes.
“It was a tactic, Cassandane. To pacify Maysam’s pride.”
He dropped his hand, giving her a moment to puzzle his actions through. Startled, she made the connection.
“You aren’t certain of the extent of the Nizam’s influence. But do you suspect traitors within the ranks of the Cataphracts?”
“Especially within the Cataphracts. If we are betrayed, it will be at their hands.”
“Do you also suspect the Teerandaz?” She was an experienced soldier, but Arsalan’s air of authority coupled with his physical presence made her second-guess herself. She couldn’t help the note of diffidence in her voice or her desire for reassurance.
She drew a silent breath when he brushed his hand against her cheek, a gesture of comradeship, just as he had pressed Maysam’s shoulder in affection.
“Of course not,” he said. “I’ve known you far too long.” His words were grimly pragmatic as he added, “The Nizam held you in disfavor.”
She gave a grim smile of her own. “He thought the Teerandaz should be disbanded. Until he spoke so harshly of our competence, the Zhayedan were wont to treat us with respect.” Then, not wanting to sound as if she pitied herself, when she’d been fortunate enough to have been given Arsalan’s attention, she went on briskly, “Were you serious about the rescue?”
“It stands a greater chance of success than the sortie Maysam had in mind. It will also end any doubt as to where his loyalties lie.”
Cassandane worked through this. “Because he’ll choose his own men, and if he wishes, they’ll be free to defect. We won’t be able to stop him from joining forces with the Talisman.”
Though his eyes were gentle on her face, Arsalan’s response was pure steel.
“I have faith in your aim, Captain, so do not let me down.”
4
ARIAN SHOOK BACK HER CLOAK TO SHOW THEIR CAPTORS HER CIRCLETS. At once, Sinnia mirrored the gesture. Both women wondered if it would matter, and if there was any hope for Khashayar, their sole remaining escort.
The man in the burnoose paused, his eyes skirting the golden bands. He called another man to stand beside him, his voice rough with command. There were eighteen others gathered on the sand, nineteen including the one who’d spoken. They were dressed in sand-colored cloaks worn over long white thobes, their heads wrapped in red-and-white headcloths. Dark-eyed to a man, their skin was a golden-brown deepened by desert sun, weathered from exposure to its relentless heat. They stood at their ease, their eyes as clear as a desert falcon’s. Nothing in their appearance suggested they were men to fear … save for the whipcord readiness with which they had struck down Khashayar’s men.
“Traders,” Sinnia murmured in Arian’s ear.
The man in the burnoose heard her, his eyes wandering over Sinnia’s face, over the clustered curls that had begun to grow out from her head in tiny spirals. To Sinnia’s surprise, his eyes warmed, as he gave her a slow nod.
“Najashi,” he said with respect, to a murmur from the men behind him. “Companion from the land of the Negus. I do not know the other.”
Arian gave her name. After a pause, she added, “First Oralist of Hira.”
Another murmur, different in tenor than the first. It held a tinge of fear in it.
Arian observed the thick leather belts that cinched the cloaks these men wore. Each belt was inscribed with the words Over this are Nineteen.
She pondered the significance of the nineteen men who surrounded them; perhaps they were the commanders of the army at their back. If the man in the burnoose was the leader of the Nineteen, then the man at his side must be his lieutenant. His stance was poised, his hand holding an iron glaive, a staff with a blade that curved up at shoulder height, just above a spike that pointed outward. The lower half of the glaive was overlaid with damasquinado, a pattern of gold incised on black steel, in contrast to the naked shaft.
The man who held it glanced at Arian’s circlets, then looked up to meet her eyes.
She suppressed a shiver. Though the temperature had fallen, it wasn’t the night that chilled her. It was the man’s gaze—amber eyes with stiletto-sharp flecks of blue and green. He held himself like a weapon, lethally honed and muscled, with an air of quiet command. His leather belt carried a complement of knives, each with a jeweled haft, as if he specialized in killing, and each of the blades he’d chosen was dedicated to a task. Beneath his cloak, he wore a fitted uniform in a color that echoed the sienna of the desert. He watched Arian with a focus that warned her he wasn’t an ordinary soldier.
He was a killer who looked at her like prey.
The man in the burnoose held one hand high to dismiss the soldiers on the dune.
“Gather the horses; return to camp.”
The men who remained fanned out around what was left of Arian’s group to the sound of horses’ hooves behind them. To distract them from her attempted theft, Arian said, “I would welcome the courtesy of your titles.”
The older man spoke first. “Shaykh Al Marra.” He indicated the man with the glaive. “This is Sayyid Najran, my second.”
Arian considered their style of dress. Their headcloths were native to the tribes of the Empty Quarter who made their home in the boundless sands of the Rub Al Khali.
“You are far from your homes, then. What brings you here?”
“What brings you here, sayyidina? You have traveled far from Hira at some risk to yourself.” It was a reasonable question, but it was also a dismissal of Khashayar’s escort, the Shaykh’s shrewd black eyes measuring the impact of his words.
Arian looked over her shoulder to the vanguard of the Nineteen. “And you have brought an army from the Rub Al Khali to the capital of the Black Khan.”
The sayyid planted his glaive in the sand, startling her.
“Is the Black Khan your ally, sayyidina? A pity then, to send his men home to him without their heads.”
His voice rasped like sand over stone, and she tried not to wince at the words. With the party of Zhayedan she’d had as her escort, she could hardly refute his claim. But she could try to temper it.
“The Black Khan is not my enemy, at least.” She made an effort to soften her voice, using a dialect familiar to their ears, rather than the Common Tongue. “Neither are the people of the Rub Al Khali.”
A nod of appreciation from the Shaykh. “Yet it is not a friend who comes like a thief in the night after the Marra’s horses.”
She understood that he referred to the people of his tribe, and not solely to himself. She was on dangerous ground: she couldn’t justify the theft without giving some hint of her journey. So she used a well-known proverb to pay tribute: “The horses of Al Marra are as numerous as the sheep of Awazim.”
Najran’s riposte was knife-edged, a dagger shearing silk. “That doesn’t give you the right to take them.” He took a step forward, then in a gesture of unthinkable familiarity, he covered her circlet with his palm, his fingers tracing its script. “The First Oralist of Hira should know the penalty for theft.”
Khashayar struggled against the men who held him.
“Kill him,” Najran said.
“No!” Arian cried. “Wait! Tell me the penalty you speak of.”
Najran’s cool fingers trailed down Arian’s arm to her wrist. The contact left her shaken; the Claim she harbored in her deepest self recognized that the danger he represented was something new, the aura of death around him so pervasive that she felt it sink into her bones. And yet his touch was an affront—to both the First Oralist and the woman, awakening her anger.
“Your hand, sayyidina.” His hand closed over her wrist, as he fingered the emerald dagger. He moved close enough for her to count the flecks in his eyes. The green flecks had spread … they were glowing … just as his emerald dagger began to throb with light. She could feel the heat of the dagger, stark coldness from the man himself.
Wafa let out a whimper, but Arian held her ground.
“What law commands the loss of my hand, sayyid?”
His headcloth brushed her ear. “Shall I show you the verse of the Claim?”
She shifted the tiniest fraction closer to Sinnia, touching Sinnia’s circlet with her own.
“Could you?”
She was well aware that he couldn’t. No one could, save for the One-Eyed Preacher, who now possessed the Bloodprint. When the flecks of green in his eyes faded, the light from his dagger dulled, and she knew her guess had been correct.
But it likely didn’t matter—she recognized the echoes of the One-Eyed Preacher’s law, a code proclaimed by the Talisman. It seemed it was now the code of the Rising Nineteen as well.
She faced the Shaykh, buoyed by her bond with Sinnia.
“A boon that is granted to Hira will be remembered. My need for transport was urgent, and I feared my escort would not meet with your approval.” Then, to Najran: “The law of the people of Marra does not sanction aggression. Yet here is your army, ready to begin hostilities. What should be the penalty for that, I wonder?”
The words seethed with scorn at the hypocrisy of the sayyid’s application of the law. She caught sight of Wafa’s frightened face. She could sense his confusion, made all the more apparent when he whispered to her in the dialect of Candour, “Make them sleep. Let’s take the horses and go.”
She couldn’t take that risk. She knew more about the Nineteen’s facility with the Claim than Wafa did. It might turn out to be disastrous to test her skills against the Nineteen’s commanders at once.
The Shaykh jerked Wafa close, ignoring his panicked yelp. Holding him by the chin, he examined Wafa’s face.
“Najashi I know. Talisman I know. First Oralist I know. This I do not know.”
“Hazara,” Arian answered. “A noble tribe of Candour.”
The Shaykh’s eyes flicked to Khashayar. His rugged features hardened.
“The Zhayedan’s man stands no chance. But grant us the boy and I will gift two of my horses to the Negus. If that is where your journey takes you.”
An unexpected opportunity presented itself, an advantage she had to seize. Arian stilled Wafa’s struggles by raising her hand. “Yes. The Companion Sinnia returns to pay her respects to the Negus.” She spread her hands. “But I cannot give you the boy. He is my ward. He is under Hira’s protection.”
She didn’t mention Khashayar. She would have to try to save him by stealth.
The Shaykh held on to Wafa. “What would you give, then? For safe passage across the Rub Al Khali?”
Pain struck her heart at this echo of her journey through the Cloud Door. Daniyar had offered the book of the Guardian of Candour to the Lord of the Wandering Cloud Door in exchange for safe passage through the Ice Kill.
In the end, however, she had spurned Daniyar on the slightest of excuses, leaving him to the Conference of the Mages, while she charted her course on her own. She had made him believe no sacrifice he made would ever be enough, when in truth her certainties about her course seemed far less certain now.
Sinnia sensed her emotion through the bond of their circlets. She squeezed Arian’s shoulder. Then she altered her voice so that she spoke in the accents of a woman from the Sea of Reeds. “We can make a suitable bargain, Shaykh. But we will need our escort’s assistance to cross the Rub Al Khali.”
“No.” A flat denial from Najran. “There will be no bargain. Your man is an enemy combatant; he will be treated as such.” He shifted the glaive so that the spike was aimed straight at Khashayar’s heart. “No doubt there is much he can tell us about the Zhayedan’s defenses.”
Khashayar spit at Najran’s feet. A single thrust drove the sharp-edged spike through the surface of his armor. A grimace that passed for a smile settled on Najran’s lips.
“No one has failed to speak under the persuasion of the glaive.”
And Arian knew in that moment that no matter what else happened during their confrontation, she would not permit the torture of a man who acted in her service. She marked Najran for death.
“Will you not at least hear the bargain, captains of the Nineteen? If you will permit me, Shaykh.” Sinnia’s voice was sunny and confident, such that the Shaykh released his hold on Wafa, who clung to Arian’s side.
“What will you give me, Najashi? What might a woman, unencumbered with goods, offer in exchange for a man, a boy, and two of the finest horses bred in the Rub Al Khali?”
Sinnia’s bright eyes touched each man in the circle, lingering on the belts at their waists.
“‘Over this are Nineteen,’” she quoted. “What if I give you Nineteen?”
