He rode hard at first in order to put as much room as possible between himself and the encampment with its great swarm of Adwami warriors. As evening came he continued at a more leisurely pace. The route he chose was one of the most direct; it had no doubt already been scouted by the foremost outriders, but that was no concern. The excuse alone was enough to quit the column with its dust and endless bickering and childish rivalries and ages-old grudges. These last months the lurid emerald arc of the Scimitar brightening across the sky had made such night travel far less of a danger for horse and rider. However, to Jatal’s mind the benefit of the greater light was offset by the confusing twin shadows as the moon’s silver light warred with the Scimitar’s jade. He eventually gave up and found a narrow gully in which to throw down his blankets and hobble his mount. He rolled up in the blankets and went to sleep.
In the morning he awoke to an enormous passing of gas from someone. He pulled down his blanket, blinking in the light, to see the hulking shape of the Warleader’s second, Scarza, sitting opposite. The man had a cactus leaf in one hand and had frozen in the act of eating it.
‘Sorry,’ the fellow said, and took a bite of the thorny green bud. ‘Strange diet lately.’
‘They say eating charcoal helps,’ Jatal offered.
The man raised one tangled bushy brow. ‘Really? Chewing on a burnt stick? You’re having me on.’
‘Not at all. Our old healers swear by it.’
‘Old healers? Why, the force of my eruptions alone would slay them.’
Jatal cocked his head, considering. ‘Well … I’ll just have to take your word for that.’
‘You are wise to do so.’
Surprising himself, Jatal found that he was warming to this hulking lieutenant. ‘The Warleader sent you after me?’
‘Yes. He is understandably concerned regarding the safety of a prince of the Hafinaj.’
Sitting up, Jatal rested his arms on his knees. ‘Let me tell you about the so-called princes of the Hafinaj …’ He stirred the embers
of
the fire. ‘First, there are over twenty of us. Sons of wives and of concubines. I am nearly the youngest. Among all the Adwami, princes number as many, and are as common as, grains of sand.’
Scarza grunted his understanding, appearing even more broad and stump-like sitting hunched as he was. ‘Good. Then you won’t be expecting me to make you tea or any damned thing like that.’
Jatal grinned and blew on the fire. ‘No. I prefer to prepare my own tea – just as I like it. And you?’ He studied the fellow: his dark cast, the wide face, prominent canines – almost like tusks – heavy brows and thick pelt-like brown hair. ‘You are of the Trell, or legendary Thelomen kind?’
‘Legendary here only, Prince. As I understand, your ancestors killed them all.’
Jatal set his small bronze pot on the fire. ‘The Demon-King was responsible for that. And the gods dealt with him for it.’
‘Cursed to wander eternally.’
‘Yes. And his kingdom swallowed in a rain of fire.’
Scarza eased himself down further into the sands. ‘I don’t know … wandering eternally doesn’t sound like much of a punishment to me.’ And he laid an arm over his eyes.
Jatal fixed his tea and chewed on a stale flatbread. After his tea he cleaned the tiny thimble-cup and went to see to his toilet. Returning to their camp it occurred to him that the only horse present was his, Ash, named for his colour. Having readied the mount for the day’s ride he stood over the apparently sleeping half-breed. ‘Scarza … you have no horse?’
‘No.’
‘Then … how do you propose to keep up?’
‘I can keep up with any horse over the day. Especially in country as rough as this.’
‘So … I should simply go on ahead?’
Arm still over his eyes the half-giant answered: ‘Aye. I’ll find you. And must I point out just how easy it is to spot you, mister not so discreet at scouting. What with you riding a horse and all.’
Jatal smiled. ‘If I wished to go on more circumspectly, I could simply send him back.’
Scarza moved his arm to blink up, puzzled. ‘Send him back? How?’
‘I would merely tell Ash to return to his friends and relatives among the Hafinaj.’
Scarza eyed the horse, impressed. ‘Truly? What talented animals. Myself, I’ve never seen their use. Eat far too much, as, now that I think of it, has been said of me.’
Jatal mounted, chuckling. He nodded his farewell. ‘Until later, then.’
‘Yes. Until later, Jatal, prince of the Hafinaj.’
The canyon lands took all of the next day to cross. Swift scouts of various families came and went, saluting him. Not one subject of the Thaumaturgs, guard or picket, was evident among the draws and cliffs. As Jatal expected. For these subjects were farmers all, none rich enough to own a horse, even if their Thaumaturg masters allowed it. Late in the day he crested a shallow rise to look down on the vista of the broad plateau of channelled rivers and farmlands of the southern Thaumaturg lands. A land, if poor in portable riches, at least rich in population and fertility. To the north clouds gathered and the slanting darkness spoke of rain approaching.
Studying the countryside, Jatal nearly fell from Ash’s back when a woman’s voice called out, laughing: ‘Hail, Jatal, prince of the Hafinaj!’
He flinched and turned to see Princess Andanii come walking her horse. ‘What in the name of the ancients are
you
doing here?’
‘Same as you,’ she laughed. ‘Scouting a best approach for our army.’
‘This is no pleasure outing, my princess.’
She lost her smile and her eyes narrowed to slits in sudden anger. ‘I had hoped for better coming from you, Prince Jatal.’
He raised his hands in surrender. ‘My apologies. I am aware that you have gone on raids and bloodied your sword. It is just … this will be different.’
‘It will be the same. Only differing in scale.’
He tilted his head in acceptance. ‘Let us hope. Yet I have my reservations.’
As she drew close he dismounted so as not to tower over her. For while they might carry titles of equality among the Adwami, Jatal knew of their differing status: he was one prince of many, and the least, while she was the one and only princess of the Vehajarwi.
Close to her now, and they all alone – a scandalous breach of decorum – Jatal could not help but notice the heady smell of her sweat mixed with jasmine perfume, her proud chin, and the dark eyes which held the teasing knowledge that she too understood the complexities of their … predicament.
‘I have heard much of you, Prince Jatal,’ she said, the teasing even more pronounced.
‘And I of you, Princess.’
She laughed. ‘How I bedevil my father and am the weeping shame of my family, no doubt.’
‘Not at all. I hear how every family envies the Vehajarwi for the strength, bravery and beauty of its daughters.’
Now she laughed in earnest, waggling a finger. ‘I was warned against you. They say you are so learned and cunning you could talk a lizard out of its tail.’
‘Yet I doubt anyone could outwit you, Princess.’
‘Poet and diplomat they say, as well. Is it true you had outlander tutors?’
He bowed. ‘Yes. Travellers and castaways from other lands. As a lesser son, it was the wish of my father that I gather knowledge to serve as adviser to my elder brothers.’
‘As if they would listen to any younger brother – hmm?’
Jatal cocked a brow. No one had ever put it quite so bluntly to him before. ‘Well … yes. There is that.’
‘I do apologize, Jatal. But I’ve met some of them. And so, as I said … I am very glad you were sent.’
Jatal had to clear his throat. ‘Princess … you honour me to no end. And perhaps you had best ride back before we are seen.’
Andanii swept her arms out wide and turned full circle. ‘But why, after I have gone to such trouble to meet you alone?’ And she laughed again, a hand at her mouth. ‘If only you could see your face right now!’
For his part Jatal was struggling to think. Trouble? To meet
him?
Whatever for? What could she want? Were they not enemies? The Vehajarwi were the only extended clan that could rival his. For generations they had taken opposing sides in all the standing vendettas and feuds. ‘I am sorry, Princess,’ he finally managed, ‘but you have the advantage of me.’
Eyes downcast, Andanii brushed a hand through the leaves of a nearby sapling. ‘You or I could never truly meet or talk there within the column, could we? We are both bound by tradition and history and the confines of our roles. I watched while the cringing Lesser families approached you swearing their loyalty. I know because they came to me as well. As if they could make a gift of what is owed to us in any case!’
Jatal disagreed with the sentiment but nodded his understanding anyway. ‘It is an old story.’
‘Exactly! I almost cry my frustration to think of it!’ She stopped then, as if reconsidering saying more, and instead mounted her handsome pale mare. ‘All I ask, Jatal, is that when this tradition-breaking
raid
is done and the rewards apportioned, you consider what more could be yours – should you and I agree to put aside even more of the traditions that have hobbled our two families.’ And before he could close his gaping mouth she snapped her reins to urge her mount into motion. His parting vision was of one last look backwards, her hair streaming about her face like a scarf, and the teasing smile once more at her lips.
Jatal stood immobile for a very long time indeed. A scattering of sand announced a spiny lizard scampering over one of his boots. He’d heard the foreign word ‘poleaxed’ and now he believed he finally understood. What Andanii proposed –
proposed!
– amounted to nothing less than the union of their two families. A union through their betrothal.
Now a strange dizziness assaulted him, and not just from the consideration of her obvious charms. Should they succeed in such a plan all the Adwami lands would be theirs. Only the total combined forces of all the rest of the families could possibly oppose them. And knowing the Adwami as he did, the possibility of such a grand alliance was virtually nil. As his foreign tutors had taught him of realpolitik: in such cases what usually happens is that a third of the remaining families will come out against, justly fearing the looming hegemony; another third will temporize, waiting to see which side appears to be gaining the upper hand; while the remaining third will overtly oppose yet at the same time send secret envoys pledging their loyalty in return for positions of preference in the coming hegemony. Apparently, such a sad tally was how things shook themselves out everywhere, not just among the patchwork of traditional hatreds, alliances and ongoing feuds that was Adwami politics.
He mounted absentmindedly, almost blind to his immediate surroundings, and urged Ash back south. As the shadows gathered among the walls of the canyons around him a further insight from Andanii’s words struck him like a wash of cold rain.
His brothers
. She said she’d met a few and was glad
he’d
been sent.
Meaning … what? That he was unlike them
.
Meaning that … she might have made the same proposal to one or more of them
.
And they had turned her down
.
He reeled in his saddle then, fighting the revolted convulsion of his stomach.
Gods of our ancestors! Was that the way of it?
Who was in the right? Were his elder brothers correct to have spurned her as an enemy? Was he the weak-willed puppet to deliver the Hafinaj into the hands of the Vehajarwi?
Or was it the reverse? They the mulish slaves to tradition, blind to daring new opportunities?
Ash, his favourite, sensed his inattention and slowed to a halt. Jatal pressed a sleeve against his chilled sweaty brow.
Ye gods … that is the problem, isn’t it? How can one ever be certain which is the case?
* * *
In the dim light of the morning Murk warmed his aching bones at one of the driftwood fires the mercenary troops had thrown together. From his years of travel with an army it occurred to him that these warm lands always had the coldest nights. That just wasn’t fair at all. A passing mercenary pressed a stoneware mug of steaming tea into his hand and this small act confirmed his suspicions regarding this band: imperial veterans all, cashiered or deserted. The experienced troopers always took care of the mage cadre. That, he realized, was his and Sour’s position once again. Back to their second career. Such regard came with obligations, though. Always an even trade. Maybe this lot were Fourth or Eighth Army. If they’d been Fifth he’d know them. Or they’d know him.
Sour appeared, groaning and snuffling. Another mug of tea appeared for him. Their employer walked up soon after. To Murk’s satisfaction she looked rather less elegantly made up today. Her long dark hair was braided and pulled back tight. And she now wore a much more functional leather gambeson. Her tall leather boots had lost their polish. The labours of yesterday also showed in the dark circles under her eyes, her lined brow and her squinting pinched expression.
With typical imperiousness she curtly waved them to her.
‘Bad feelings ’bout this,’ Sour murmured under his breath.
‘You know,’ Murk answered, suddenly sick of his friend’s constant single note, ‘one of these days – why don’t you try surprising me?’