‘Good idea. Ammadin gave me some money, so let me buy.’
They left the shop and stepped out onto the street, crowded with passers-by, most of them hurrying about their own business. Some yards away a pale young fellow leaned against a building. A loiterer maybe, but he seemed to be watching the two Tribesmen with more than ordinary curiosity. When Dallador followed Zayn’s glance and looked his way, the young man strolled off with a studied indifference – a less clumsy spy, this time.
‘I hope he doesn’t mean trouble,’ Dallador said. ‘Sometimes the Cantonneurs can be downright unfriendly.’
‘Nothing like picking a fight to give you some excitement, huh?’ Zayn said. ‘Small towns are like that back home, too.’
When they found a tavern, down a side street near the edge of town, they hesitated a moment, wondering if they should just go back to camp, but the place was nearly empty and seemed safe enough. The room was more of a shed, a tottering draughty affair of bundled spear-trunks with one wall open to a muddy yard out back, but the tavernman spoke passable Hirl-Onglay. At a high table the old man poured kerrv into pottery mugs and handed them over when Zayn paid. Zayn took one sip and nearly spat it out – it was bitter, dark, and oddly thick. Dallador was drinking his, however, with a small smile of appreciation. Zayn took another sip and decided that eventually he’d grow to like it.
Although the tavern offered a few chairs and a couple of tables, the two comnee men stayed standing – and near the door. Wiping his hands on a rag, the tavernman strolled over to join them.
‘Kazraki, aren’t you?’ he said to Zayn.
‘Yes. Something wrong with that?’
‘Not in my opinion, but you know what opinions are like. You can always find someone who doesn’t share yours, if you get what I mean. Now, I mean that in a friendly way.’
‘I’ll take it the same way, then. Thanks. Huh, I didn’t think you people would see enough Kazraks to have opinions about us one way or the other.’
‘Um, well.’ The tavernman paused, sucking his teeth. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’
‘Has someone been asking around after me?’
‘Not about you, exactly. About Kazraks, if I’d seen any.’
‘Ah. And he didn’t seem to like my kind much?’
‘Don’t know about that.’ He paused for a long time. ‘A pale sort of fellow with brown hair, and I don’t know…there was just something about him that put your wind up. Wouldn’t want him asking for me.’
Zayn and Dallador exchanged a glance, handed their mugs back, and left the tavern. As they were walking back across the bridge, it occurred to Zayn that he’d managed to forget to ask about Soutan.
Late that night Zayn went back to the tent to sleep and found Ammadin there ahead of him, studying her crystals. She’d lit a pair of oil lamps and laid the crystals in a semi-circle around them. Zayn sat down on his blankets and began pulling off his boots. In a moment Ammadin looked up.
‘When you were in town today,’ she said, ‘did you notice anything wrong?’
‘What makes you ask that?’
‘I’m not sure.’ She smiled faintly. ‘Just an odd feeling.’
‘Well, I noticed someone following me and Dallo around. And then a tavernman told me that some brown-haired Cantonneur was asking around about Kazraks.’
‘I don’t like the sound of that at all. I’m glad we’re leaving soon.’
Zayn managed a casual nod and lay down on his blankets. A thin, black line of smoke from the lamps was circling up to the smokehole. Even though he tried to concentrate on it, he was painfully aware of her, so close by but so far away. Finally he turned over onto his side and watched while she wrapped the crystals and put them away. Trust his luck to bring him to the one comnee woman who valued her chastity as much as any Kazraki girl! Never once in his life had he made love to a woman he liked and respected, Zayn realized, only bought sex from the sort of whore who hung around the cavalry. Single officers like Warkannan, with aristocratic connections and independent incomes, could arrange pleasant liaisons with girls from the palace troupes of musicians and dancers, but not men from families like his.
Zayn wasn’t even surprised when Ammadin realized the drift of his thoughts. She laid the last crystal down and scowled at him. ‘Zayn, I said no.’
‘I never did.’
Much to his surprise, she laughed. ‘Fair enough,’ she went on. ‘I’ll offer you a bargain – you tell me the things you’re hiding, and maybe I’ll reconsider.’
Zayn came close to betraying every secret he had. It was as if the words were live things, desperate to escape his mouth. Ammadin leaned forward, her smile gone.
‘Something’s really wrong,’ she said. ‘What is it?’
The moment ended. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m just generally miserable and lovesick.’
‘Oh ye gods! Then you’ll just have to suffer.’
‘I figured you’d say something like that.’ Zayn sat up. ‘You know, I think I’ll go sleep outside.’
‘It’ll probably be easier for you.’
‘Damn it, Ammi! You can’t be as cold as –’
‘Yes, I can. Haven’t you got that through your thick skull yet?’
Zayn stood up and grabbed his blankets. ‘Go to hell!’ he snapped, then ducked through the tent flap and stalked off. He’d gone about ten yards when he realized that he’d left his boots behind, but he decided against going back. He laid his blankets out under the wagon, then crawled onto them. For some while he lay awake, feeling foolish, wishing he’d thought up something better to say as he left. Eventually sleep rescued him.
In the morning Ammadin treated him as if nothing had been said between them. For that alone, he decided, she was worth desiring, hopelessly or not.
In the morning they had few customers, and none of those bought a horse. Zayn began thinking about going back into Nannes. He could use finding a book for Ammadin as his excuse and start his hunt for information about Soutan, but first he decided that he needed to feed their riding horses some grain. After that, he watered all their stock, then fixed a loose cinch on Ammadin’s saddle. The morning eased itself into afternoon before he realized that he was avoiding all thoughts of Yarl Soutan. Finally, however, the hunt came to him. A customer arrived, a man in his thirties, Zayn guessed, who wore a black smock as long as a Kazraki woman’s dress and a round little cap of black felt. He announced himself as Reb Donnol.
‘I lead the congregation here in town,’ Donnol said. ‘The Church of the One God, that is. Now, my congregation’s given me the money for a riding horse, but, er, I do hope you’ve got a gentle one.’
‘How about a mare?’ Zayn said. ‘A young buckskin mare.’
‘I’ll look at her, certainly.’
Zayn went out to the herd, caught the buckskin by the halter, and led her back to the rabbi. Ammadin had joined him to do the haggling. Zayn broke into a run and let the mare trot back and forth, then slowed her down and brought her over. When Donnol held out his hand, she whuffled into his palm.
‘She likes me,’ he said, beaming. ‘How much do you want?’
Ammadin briefly considered. ‘Twenty of your silver vrans, and I’m not haggling. It’s a low price for a horse like that.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Donnol said. ‘Some of the men in my congregation primed me, you see, and told me what to pay. I’ll take her.’
‘Zayn?’ Ammadin said. ‘Get that extra bridle for His Holiness. We’ll give it to him as part of the deal.’
As Zayn followed the order, he was aware of Reb Donnol studying him. He bridled the mare, then handed the reins to the rabbi, who handed over the money. By then, Ammadin had walked away; Zayn pocketed two big silver coins, each worth ten vrans.
‘A Kazrak, are you?’ Donnol said.
‘I was once. I think of myself as a comnee man now. You must not see many of us out here.’
‘Almost never. But there was one other fellow through here once, years ago now.’
/> ‘Someone else mentioned him to me. His name wasn’t Jezro, was it?’
‘You know, it certainly was! He was some sort of political exile. I gather your leader had tried to have him killed. He asked for asylum and stayed with us at the seminary for a few months. That was before I was called to Nannes.’
‘I see, yes. Does Jezro still live around here?’
‘No, he headed off to the north-east, probably to Burgunee, since that’s the only civilized place out that way. Our abbot gave him a letter of introduction to a seminary there, if I remember rightly. I have no idea what happened to him after that.’
‘I take it he was a religious man.’
‘Well, he hadn’t been before, no. Before almost dying, I mean. He told me that it had had a profound effect on the way he saw the world.’
‘I suppose it would. Interesting. Well, thank you, sir. I hope our little mare serves you well.’
For a long few minutes Zayn stood watching the rabbi lead his new horse away. He felt cold, and it seemed ridiculously hard to think. So. It was true. Jezro Khan was alive, after all these years of thinking him dead. Jezro’s alive, and it’s my job to kill him.
‘Zayn?’ Ammadin had walked up to him. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Of course.’
‘You look ill.’
‘Do I?’
‘Grey and sweaty, yes.’
‘Oh. Maybe I’m hung over. I feel like hell, actually.’
‘Why don’t you go lie down for a while in the tent?’
‘Thanks. I will.’
Zayn ducked into the tent like a hunted animal reaching its den. He sat down on his blankets, pulled off his boots, then lay down on his stomach and buried his face in his arms. He felt so physically sick that he was almost able to talk himself into believing he’d eaten spoiled food and nothing more. Almost. He knew better. I cannot kill the man who risked his career to save my life. I can’t. But if I don’t – I swore a vow to the Great Khan. I swore a vow to the Chosen.
He turned over onto his back and stared up at the tent’s grey ceiling. From outside he could hear voices and footsteps, members of the comnee calling back and forth – his friends’ voices. Maybe he could just stay with the comnee. If he avoided the border horse fairs, it would take the Chosen a long time to hunt him down. He’d have a few years, a few good years, before Fate caught up with him.
‘Zayn?’ Dallador lifted the tent flap and ducked inside. ‘Maddi told me you were ill.’
‘I’m all right now. Just tired, I guess.’
Dallador sat down next to him and stretched out his long legs. He smelled of horses and sweat, but the smell was somehow clean, even inviting. Zayn felt his closeness like a slap on the face, waking him from a kind of sleep. When he remembered the dreams he’d been having, he could lie to himself no longer. Dallador held out his hand. Zayn somehow knew that this was the moment for him to sit up and move away, and that if he did, Dallador would never allow such a moment to develop again. He could not move, was afraid to move, was afraid to stay, wanted to speak, said nothing. Dallador leaned forward and ran his hand through Zayn’s hair, then bent over and kissed him on the mouth. Zayn flinched, then felt his body ease of its own accord. The kiss seemed like the most normal thing in the world.
With a supple twist of his body Dallador lay down next to him. Zayn rolled into his arms with barely a thought.
‘Ammi, you really mean this?’ Maradin said. ‘You’re going to leave us?’
‘Not forever,’ Ammadin said, smiling. ‘But I have to ride this quest. I’m sorry, Maddi, but it’s crucial. I’m not even sure why, but I know I absolutely have to ride east with Water Woman. I’ve been having spirit dreams.’
‘Well, that settles that, then. But –’
‘There isn’t anything more to say.’
Maradin sighed, a defeated little noise. In the late afternoon sun they were walking among the horses, taking count of their stock. Ammadin had sold every horse she’d brought to market except for one black two-year-old, and he was a horse that she had no objections to taking back to the grass with her. Maradin had done equally well.
‘I saw you giving the little buckskin to that rabbi,’ Maradin said. ‘Well, not giving but you could have got about twice the money for her.’
‘I know, but I’ve met Reb Donnol before, and he’s a good man. His church does a lot of good, too, even if they do think there’s only one god.’
Their stroll had taken them to the far side of the tethered herd, upriver of the camp and the town. For a moment they stood at the edge of the meadow, where a cluster of fountain trees offered some shade. They leaned on the fence and looked east across fenced fields of wheatian, pale gold and bowing in a summer breeze.
‘Does Water Woman know?’ Maradin said.
‘Oh yes,’ Ammadin said. ‘We’ve decided that we’ll meet north-east of here. She can’t travel openly in the Cantons, of course, but the Chiri Michi have their own roads – or so she told me. Secret roads, she called them.’
‘I suppose they must. It was their land first, after all.’ Maradin paused, thinking. ‘You know what amazes me the most, though?’
‘No, what?’
‘Finding out that Chursavva was a woman. Well, a ChaMeech woman, but still! After all those legends and things that said she was a king. I wonder why they made a mistake like that?’
‘ChaMeech females are bigger than their males, and they do most of the talking.’
‘I can see how the Kazraks thought that meant she was male, yes, but I’m surprised at the Cantonneurs.’
‘Maybe they had different attitudes, all the way back then.’
‘Could be. You sure you’ll be all right? I mean, you’d know, wouldn’t you, if you couldn’t trust Water Woman?’
‘Well, no, not if you mean can I smell if she’s lying. They have different bodies, so all their scents mean different things.’ Ammadin considered for a moment. ‘She’s not telling me everything. I don’t need spirit powers to figure that out. There’s some other faction or group back in her homeland that she mentioned once, but when I ask her, she turns evasive. But if you mean, do I feel she won’t harm me, yes, I do, because I’m too valuable. She really needs H’mai on her side for some reason. I’m just not sure what.’
‘Well, it sounds risky to me, but I know you. If your mind’s made up –’
‘Nothing you say will change it, yes.’
Maradin laughed, then turned to look at the distant tents. Smoke from cooking fires was rising among them. ‘We should get back. Does Apanador know you’re leaving?’
‘No. Kasso and I will talk to the chiefs this evening.’
‘You know, Kassidor’s awfully good-looking –’
‘Oh stop it! I can’t think of a worse marriage than one between two spirit riders. They’d fight all the time over whose visions were better. That’s why there’s only one spirit rider in a comnee, after all.’
‘Well, yes, that’s true. I’ll bet Zayn’s going to be just sick when he finds out you’re leaving.’
‘Why? He’s having an affair with your husband.’
‘So? He’s in love with you, not Dallo.’
‘Oh? I don’t think so.’
Maradin laughed again. ‘Of course he is! You understand spirits, Ammi, but I understand men.’
‘You’re right, aren’t you?’ Ammadin grinned at her. ‘But I’ve got the better bargain.’
He would have to ride away before he stayed forever. After Dallador left, late that afternoon, Zayn lay on his blankets and repeated that bitter truth. He would have to ride away, and it would have to be that night, or he would stay with the comnee till one of the Chosen came to kill him. He sat up, listening to the normal sounds of the camp outside, the talk, the laughter. Through the smokehole a long shaft of sun fell upon the hearth stone in the centre of the tent, his tent as he’d started thinking of it, the tent where he’d been given a place. He got up, stretching, then dressed. He spent a few minutes putti
ng the things he owned into his saddlebags. He would have to smuggle them out as soon as it grew dark.
In the meantime he would have to act as he were thinking of nothing but returning to the grass. Zayn left the tent, glanced around for Ammadin, and saw her nowhere. Some of the other men were lighting cooking fires, some of the women were out among the herd. No one seemed to take particular notice of him. They would wonder tomorrow, he supposed, why he’d gone. In the bright sun of a hot afternoon he strolled down to the river, flowing smooth and brown between its purple banks. Although he considered going into town to hunt up information about Soutan, he knew that if he found Jezro Khan, he would find Soutan with him. Nothing else would have brought Idres across the plains.
The orange-mottled water reeds, stirring in the light wind, made him remember his spirit crane. Out in the water a flock of animals swam back and forth; they were squat and grey, flecked with purple and magenta, and about the size and shape of true-hens. Like the hens they had tucked-up wings, but of pink scaly skin, not feathers. Their long necks ended in bulbous heads and mouthfuls of teeth. Zayn sat down on the grass and watched them dive for black river crabs, which they brought up kicking and crunched down alive.
Tomorrow he would be alone again. He would be hunting not just information, but a man’s life. Jezro Khan had to die – his duty and his common sense both told him so. The thought rose in his mouth like the taste of vomit. If only there were more time! He could simply ride back with the comnee, then head for Haz Kazrak and tell his superiors what he’d learned. They could send someone else to make the actual kill. But there was no time. Idres was ahead of him on the road.
Zayn heard footsteps behind him and turned to see an old man, leaning on a long true-wood staff as he shuffled along. Dressed in a dirty patchwork smock and threadbare brown trousers, he carried a small cloth sack in one hand. In a voice cracked with age he sang to himself, wavering from one song to another. When he saw Zayn, he stopped singing and smiled, revealing that half his teeth were missing.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘Have you come to watch the ducks?’