Snare

  Someone came striding across the lawn, someone with the sort of straight back that the cavalry gave a man, but at his distance Zayn could pick out no details. The fellow stopped walking, raised his hands to his mouth, and began to shout. At first Zayn could distinguish nothing but his summoning tone of voice, but he started walking again, heading closer to the hill where Zayn lay hidden. The night breeze brought him a drift of words.

  ‘Kaz, where are you? Kaz! Dinner!’

  Idres’ voice. Shit! Zayn thought. They’re still here. A slender man came running from an outbuilding and called back – the nephew. Together they jogged across the lawn and hurried into the house, which, he now knew, hid in a maze of rooms Jezro Khan, Soutan, and a pack of armed guards. He was looking at the hardest job he’d ever undertaken for the Chosen.

  Zayn had reached the point where magic imps meant nothing, since ordinary human eyes could see him well enough. He crawled backwards over the crest into the shelter of the hillside, made his way down, then jogged back to the farm. He thought of Ammadin, heaping scorn on his ideas about damnation and demons. Did she realize, he wondered, just how thoroughly she’d destroyed all his old excuses, his old justifications? Probably she did, but he doubted if she realized just how badly he needed them. Easy for her to say he should live without them! Her inborn talents had brought her rank, wealth, and respect, while he’d had nothing – nothing, that is, until Idres and Jezro had given him respect and rank both.

  ‘But I never earned that, it was all lies, they never knew what I really am.’

  He was shocked that he’d spoken aloud, but the words were nothing new; he’d thought them thousands of times. He wondered if he’d have joined the Chosen if he hadn’t believed that the khan was dead, and if he hadn’t been transferred away from Idres’ regiment to the Second Bariza. What would he have done when the first hints were dropped in his hearing, when the first intimations came that he might be worthy of some special place in the Great Khan’s service? He doubted if he would have listened if he’d been facing Idres every night in the officers’ mess. He knew he never would have listened had Jezro Khan been alive to be disappointed in him.

  ‘So what the hell are you doing here?’ Zayn said aloud. ‘He is alive.’

  With that he realized that he had to act quickly or he never would. For a moment he considered taking his comnee bow, but he was too poor an archer to strike from a distance. From his saddlebags he took out a set of lock picks and a wire garotte and secreted them in his clothing. The Chosen! he thought. We’re nothing but thieves. For a moment he stood hesitating, then hurried off, running on level ground, jogging on rough.

  Zayn circled around the boundary of the estate to climb a different hill, the one directly behind the stand of golden trees. For some hours he lay hidden on the crest, watching the lights go out, one at time, in the various windows, waiting for the Herd to set and give him darkness. Early on he heard shens barking, but a man came out of the stables and whistled them inside. At last, under the arch of black sky, the house slept.

  While Zayn couldn’t see in the dark, he could remember precisely how the grounds looked and navigate by the images in his mind. He moved down the hillside slowly, crouching often, listening, waiting in utter silence. He reached the gate in the fence at last. He brought out the lock picks, but the gate swung open at his touch. He could only assume that he was walking into an ambush. He hesitated, then decided that if they killed him before he could reach Jezro, so much the better. Still, he had reflexes, he had training. He ran through the gate, dropped and rolled, used the momentum of the roll to leap to his feet, and darted into the yellow trees. He stood among the wind-driven leaves and caught his breath.

  Ahead he could see the dark rise of the house, about a hundred yards away. In a lower window at the right-hand side, a light went on; on the far left, one set of curtains glowed. The rest of the windows stayed dark. Were they expecting him to come to the lighted room? Or did they think he’d see the light as a trap and thus come round the other side, where they were waiting for him? Moving carefully, one step at a time, he sidled through the long stand of trees till he reached its right-hand limit. From there he could see around to the side of the house and a little garden, set off by a low wall – too low. The outbuildings beyond the walled garden provided the only shelter between him and the house.

  Zayn dropped full length into the high grass and began to crawl. Midges flew, biting, but he ignored them. A few feet, and he’d pause, wait, listen, then crawl a few feet more, then do the same again, moving in an arc that brought him at last to level ground behind the cluster of outbuildings. The longest of them had to be the stables from the smell. The shens inside would make a racket if he got too close. He set off crawling again and ended up directly behind a shed. He risked standing and sidled along the back wall until he could peer around it.

  The house stood only some twenty feet away. In the glow from the window he could see the garden and the low wall. As he stood considering his next move, he heard a door open, the scrape of metal on stone, and footsteps. He drew his long knife and waited. The fellow coughed – a deep sound, probably a man’s voice – and struck a match. Light bloomed behind the wall, an oil lamp from its soft gold colour.

  ‘Hey, Benumar?’ The voice sounded familiar, especially in the way it hovered on the edge of a laugh. ‘Is tonight the night? Are you here? Hurry up, will you? I’m sick and tired of all these damned bugs.’

  The voice – Jezro Khan, waiting for him – the best bait any ambush could have. Zayn looked around him, but he saw no one moving on the lawn, no one rising from cover off to the side, no one at all. He damned caution and stepped out of cover. Still no guards – he strode across the lawn to the garden wall.

  Dressed only in a pair of loose trousers and a plain white shirt, Jezro was standing by a chair. Wingbuhs swarmed around the oil lamp burning on a nearby table. By its light Zayn could see the double welt of scars running across his face – a little gift from the Chosen. The wall stood just low enough for Zayn to swing one leg over, then the other, without having to sheathe his knife. He took a few steps, then stopped. Jezro was standing his ground. When he smiled, the scar twisted around the side of his mouth.

  ‘You can see I’m not armed,’ Jezro said. ‘Are you really going to kill me, Benumar? When I can’t even put up a fight?’

  Hearing his real name, hearing the voice of the man he’d once honoured above all others, seeing Jezro Khan alive after thinking him dead for ten long years – Zayn realized that he was perilously close to weeping. His thumbs hooked in his belt, Jezro waited, still smiling.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ Jezro went on. ‘Which is a strange thing to say to a man who wants to kill you, but it’s true. You and Warkannan, you were the only real friends I ever had, you know. No one else could ever forget my damned rank and how profitable knowing me might be one day. That’s before we all learned what a murderous little turd my brother was, of course.’

  Zayn felt himself trembling. It started in the hand holding the long knife, then travelled up his arm and caught the rest of him, made him quiver like trees after an earthquake. Jezro said nothing more, merely watched him solemn-eyed. With the foulest oath he could summon Zayn sheathed the knife. Jezro sighed in sharp relief.

  ‘No,’ Zayn said. ‘I can’t kill you.’

  ‘I’m glad to see the Chosen don’t own your soul.’

  At that Zayn felt tears rise, threatening to shame him. He turned half-away, heard the gravel crackle as Jezro limped over, felt the khan’s hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You’ve come just in time,’ Jezro said. ‘It’s fate, Benumar, it’s got to be. Idres, you, me – I always felt that the three of us had a destiny together.’ He paused for a soft laugh. ‘Not that I know what it is yet, but I know there’s got to be one.’

  Zayn started to speak, but the tears choked him. He took one step away and covered his face with his hands, but he could feel his shoulders shaking. Jezro walked round i
n front of him.

  ‘Idres told me about the talents,’ Jezro went on. ‘You must have been in hell, hiding all of that for all those years.’

  Zayn dropped his hands and looked at him through a blur of tears. He could barely breathe from the effort of holding back tears, could not think, could not speak.

  ‘What did they do to you, Benumar?’ Jezro’s voice hissed with rage. ‘What did the bastards do to you to make you join them?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Zayn found words at last. ‘They just told me I wasn’t alone any more.’

  The tears spilled and ran, shaming him, but he had no power to stop them. He heard his voice crack as if it belonged to a stranger, then sobbed, could not stop sobbing, fell to his knees and wept. He heard Jezro moving, heard the gravel crackle as the khan knelt with him, then felt arms around him, pulling him tight.

  ‘Ah God, I’m sorry.’ Zayn barely managed to force out the words. ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Jezro sounded near to tears himself. ‘It’s all right.’

  More footsteps, and light brightening around them – Zayn tipped his head back and saw Warkannan walking up, carrying a lantern in one hand. The shame of it, that Idres would see him weep – but he could only gulp for air and sob. As he knelt on the gravel, in his mind he was kneeling on cold black and white tiles and hearing a voice urge his death. I never wept then, he thought. What’s wrong with me now? Warkannan set the lantern on the table, then knelt with them, sitting back on his heels as if he were readying himself for evening prayer in a mosque. Zayn gasped, choked, felt his chest aching, but the tears eased and at last let him be.

  In the pool of light from Warkannan’s lantern they knelt, looking back and forth at one another. Zayn had the distinct feeling that he was still in the Mistlands, seeing Idres and Jezro only in a vision, but when he looked around, he saw the rose bushes of Dookis Marya’s garden, quivering in the night wind. I never would have seen those in the Mistlands. This must be real. Jezro reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and handed it over. Zayn wiped his face and blew his nose – it had been running like a child’s, he realized, but he felt too much shame over the tears themselves to care about details.

  ‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ Warkannan said. ‘Men have to do these things, you know, every now and then.’

  ‘A perfect Idres remark,’ Jezro said. ‘They never end.’

  Zayn managed to smile. He wadded up the handkerchief and shoved it unthinkingly into his trouser pocket. ‘One thing, though. I’m not Zahir Benumar. Benumar’s dead. He’s the man who would have killed you. My name is Zayn Hassan.’

  ‘All right,’ Jezro said. ‘Idres?’

  ‘Fine with me,’ Warkannan said. ‘I might forget occasionally, so just remind me, will you?’

  Zayn nodded. Although he could breathe again, his throat ached like fire. Jezro stood up, bending over to rub his twisted right leg. ‘Can’t kneel for very long,’ he remarked, ‘thanks to my brother’s loving treatment.’ He straightened up, glanced at the house, and stiffened. ‘Shaitan! What’s wrong, Kaz?’

  Zayn looked around. Warkannan’s nephew was standing in the open doorway, and Zayn had never seen anyone so furious, not even his father in one of his blind rages. Arkazo was shaking with it, stammering as he stepped out into the garden. Warkannan leapt to his feet and started towards him.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Arkazo spat out each word. ‘What’s wrong? He killed the best friend I ever had, and you’re acting like he’s your long-lost soul mate.’

  Zayn suddenly remembered the young Kazrak in the Mistlands. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but he was trying to kill me. I didn’t have any choice.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit.’ Arkazo took one step forward. ‘You bastard, you –’ His hand flicked to his belt and came away with a hunting knife.

  Warkannan moved, one smooth long stride that brought him face to face with Arkazo, moved fast and grabbed his wrist. Arkazo screamed in sheer wordless rage, but Warkannan had the knife. Arkazo screamed again, shaking, then turned and rushed back into the house. Warkannan flipped the knife to land point down in the gravel where Jezro could reach it.

  ‘You’d better take charge of that,’ Warkannan said. ‘And I’d better take charge of my nephew.’

  As he ran into the house, Warkannan saw Arkazo dashing into the hall that led to his guest room. He pounded down the hall after him just as Arkazo disappeared into it, but he reached the door before Arkazo could lock it. He grabbed the handle and twisted. It fought him – apparently Arkazo was holding it on the other side.

  ‘Kaz, let me in,’ Warkannan said. ‘Please? You’ve got to let me in so we can talk. Please.’

  Silence, but when Warkannan tried the handle again, it turned freely. He stepped in and shut the door behind him. Arkazo was standing by the window, his arms tightly crossed over his chest, his eyes wide, his mouth a twist of fury. For a long moment Warkannan merely stood and looked at him. Eventually Arkazo turned away. He grasped the windowsill in both hands and stared out.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Warkannan said. ‘But you have to admit that when Zahir killed Tareev, we were all trying to kill him.’

  ‘I don’t care.’ Arkazo’s voice still shook. ‘He’s one of the Chosen. Why don’t you just kill him?’

  ‘Because we knew him before he joined the Chosen. Because we both think we should have done something then. We always knew that something was eating Benumar from the inside. We should have tried to find out what.’

  ‘So? You didn’t make him join the Chosen.’

  ‘No, that’s true.’

  Arkazo started to speak, then choked it back. Warkannan could see over his shoulder to the lawn outside, where a bevy of nightdancers were leaping into the air, chasing the wingbuhs drawn to the lighted windows.

  ‘I thought you might feel differently,’ Warkannan said, ‘after that business with the fake priests. You told me then that –’

  ‘That I didn’t want my revenge that way. I still wanted the revenge.’ Arkazo spun around. ‘And now you tell me I’m supposed to like the man?’

  ‘Of course not! To be honest, I don’t know what to do. It’s not like you can just leave and ride home. But I can’t let you kill him. He knows things we need to know.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like who belongs to the Chosen, and where their headquarters are.’ Warkannan paused for effect. ‘You can see how valuable that is.’

  Arkazo nodded, staring down at the floor. ‘Did the khan know about Tareev?’

  ‘Not by name. I’ll tell him.’

  ‘Will it matter?’

  Warkannan hesitated, but he knew he had to be honest. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not really.’

  Arkazo’s head snapped up, and his eyes went wide with rage. He laid a hand on the empty sheath at his belt, then winced and let his arm hang at his side.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Warkannan repeated, ‘but the simple fact is that Tareev would have killed Zayn if he’d got the chance. That’s what makes all the difference, Kaz. Can’t you see that? Suppose we were in a court of law. It was self-defence.’

  ‘We’re not in court.’ But his voice had lost some of its certainty.

  ‘Well, actually, we are a court in a way – you and me, judging the situation.’

  ‘And you’re asking me to forgive him.’

  ‘No, I’m asking you to tolerate him. That’s all. You can be as angry as you want. Snub him, never speak to him, refuse him common courtesy – I don’t care. He won’t either. Don’t you think he knows how you feel?’

  ‘I don’t give a shit if he does or not.’

  ‘Understandable. But there’s one thing that the cavalry teaches a man, and that’s how to work with anyone he needs to work with – someone he hates, someone he despises, someone who despises him. You need to learn that, too.’

  ‘Oh? Well, I’m not in –’ Arkazo stopped in mid-sentence.

  Warkannan allowed himself a grim smile. ‘You see it, don’t you
? If Jezro goes back with us, you’ll be one of his officers.’

  Arkazo nodded, his mouth slack in a kind of wonder.

  ‘Look,’ Warkannan went on. ‘This is one of the beauties of army discipline. The khan will order you to work with Benumar, I mean, with Hassan. You’ve got to follow his orders. It’s no disgrace to you, it doesn’t cheapen Tareev’s death, it doesn’t mean you’ve broken your pledge of vengeance. You simply cannot disobey the khan’s order.’

  ‘The beauties of it?’ Arkazo laughed, or at least, he made a sound that Warkannan assumed was a laugh. ‘What’s that the khan always says? A perfect Idres remark?’

  Warkannan forced out a smile. Arkazo crossed the room and sat down on the edge of his bed. ‘I have to think about all of this,’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes, you do. I’ll leave you alone.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Warkannan turned and opened the door.

  ‘Uncle?’ Arkazo’s voice sounded thin, a little high.

  ‘Yes?’ Warkannan turned back.

  ‘I’m glad you took my knife away. Right there in front of the khan – I just couldn’t think.’

  ‘I know. It’s all right.’ Warkannan decided against telling him the truth, this time, that he’d been protecting him from Zayn, not the other way around. ‘You know something? No one will ever mention this again if you don’t bring it up.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ve got to think.’

  ‘Of course you do. Go ahead.’

  Warkannan shut the door behind him and hurried down the hall. At the other end, Soutan was standing in the middle of the blue sitting room.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Soutan said. ‘What is all this?’

  ‘I forgot how Kaz would see things,’ Warkannan said. ‘I made a mistake, a bad one. We should have told him when we got the idea, but for all I knew, Zahir – I mean Zayn – would never show up or would try to kill Jezro or do some other damned desperate thing.’

  ‘Suppose he had? Tried to kill Jezro, I mean? What would you have done?’

  ‘Stepped in, of course.’