‘And now …?’ the foreigner prompted. Yet Jatal heard no interest in his voice; if anything, the man sounded bored, or disappointed.
‘Now I find myself swept up in a gamble more insane and
foolhardy
than any I could have ever imagined. Even the ancient lays and stories of the old heroes cannot compare to this audacious throw. Sometimes I fear the very gods have caught their breath.’
The old soldier’s gaze had drifted down to his glass, which he lifted and finished in one last gulp. Then he gave a heavy sigh. It seemed to Jatal that the man must have heard such last-minute qualms a thousand times before. ‘You have doubts and worries,’ he said, sounding utterly wearied by Jatal’s doubts and worries. ‘That is only normal for any man or woman cursed with intelligence, such as yourself. As to this gamble, or throw of the dice, as you put it … every battle is a risk. That is why sane men prefer to avoid them.’ He held out his open hands, the empty glass loose in one. ‘However, I have spent an entire lifetime – that is, my entire life – pursuing such risks and ventures and I can assure you that this is a sound one. If we can keep these Thaumaturgs on the run there is a good chance that within a month they will no longer be in charge of their own country.’ He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and dangled his large hands. ‘And so, my prince of the Hafinaj. You came here to speak to me … what is it you wish to say?’
Fascinated by the fish-like dead eyes Jatal could not find his voice. Was this what passed as the man’s candour, or his mockery? Was he not taking any of this seriously? Jatal could not shake the feeling that he was being played with. The suspicion stoked his anger and he found the resolve to blurt out, ‘What are the shaduwam to you?’
The Warleader tilted his head. His dusk-grey eyes slit in thought. He sighed, then pushed on his knees to stand up and crossed to the side table. He poured another glass of the thick treacle-like wine. Turning, he tossed the drink down and sucked his teeth in a hiss. ‘What are the shaduwam to me?’ he repeated, musing. He leaned back against the table, crossing his arms. ‘They are as nothing to me. I would not care one whit should they all be swept from the face of the earth tomorrow. Is that enough of an answer for you, my prince?’
Jatal studied the man as he turned to light one of several tall yellow candles that cluttered the table. He gathered the impression that this man wouldn’t care a whit should just about any or every thing be swept from the face of the earth, very probably including Jatal himself. A detached part of him wondered whether this was calculated to intimidate or impress. In any other man he would assume so; yet this one struck him as different from any other he had ever met. One who did not give a damn what he or anyone else thought. And so he decided that in fact, no, this foreign Warleader was not trying to impress or intimidate or overawe him in any way
at
all. That would presume that he cared, when he very clearly did not. So he opted to pursue the issue, if only to shake the bushes, as they say, to see how the man would respond. ‘You have formed no agreement with them, then? No sort of alliance?’
‘I did not say that,’ the man answered flatly. He waved a hand to direct the fumes of the candle to his face and inhaled.
Ye gods, this man is difficult!
Jatal set his glass aside. ‘Care to provide the particulars?’
The man shrugged his shoulders, still wide and powerful despite his age. ‘Certainly. They approached me and explained that while you noble Adwami might have foolishly and shortsightedly rejected the offer of their support, they would advance in any case. And would strike to achieve their goals.’
‘So, an alliance.’
‘Not at all. Convenience. When the lion strikes, the jackals and vultures also get their share.’
‘I’m sure the shaduwam do not see themselves as jackals or vultures.’
‘I am certain as well. Yet that is irrelevant.’
Jatal sensed more here than was being admitted, but he could not press further at this time. And in any case, this explanation
could
adequately serve should the relationship ever become known. He studied his hands clasped on his lap. ‘I see. Thank you, Warleader, for the intelligence. However, may I suggest that in the future you convey to the council
all
information regarding the campaign?’
The Warleader regarded him from heavy-lidded eyes. Like something inhuman – a creature of legend or myth. ‘And just who would you suggest I report to?’ he asked, rather drily.
Beneath the coldly evaluating stare, Jatal cleared his throat. ‘Why, myself, of course. As the council’s representative.’
A smile that was more like a death’s grin came and went from the man and he looked almost saddened. ‘You see, my prince, I
was
right about you.’
More uncomfortable than ever, Jatal rose, collected his glass, and crossed to replace it on the side table. ‘Good evening, Warleader. Perhaps we could retire together again, to discuss other, more pleasant matters. Philosophy, possibly? Or history?’
The man suddenly appeared wary. As if Jatal had just somehow challenged him. He retreated from the table, waving vaguely. ‘Of course. It would be my pleasure.’
Jatal accepted the dismissal – this was, after all, the Warleader’s tent – and turned to go. Pushing aside the heavy cloth it occurred to
him
that he had glimpsed not two used glasses upon the side table, but three.
That night he waited long after the mid-hour but Andanii did not appear.
* * *
The native chief, or warlord, Oroth-en, had sent one of his warriors ahead to give notice – and no doubt warn – of their advance. He then guided their column through the forest. Between the thick tree trunks, Murk caught occasional glimpses of the local warriors. They moved with as much ease and familiarity as any of the wild inhabitants of the woods, which, he reflected, in fact they were.
They came to a natural meadow of stiff knife-edged grasses taller than Murk’s head and here Oroth-en had them halt. He indicated that the majority of the company should wait there while Yusen and a few chosen attendants should accompany him. The captain signed to Burastan to remain, then gestured Murk and Sour forward.
‘I don’t like it,’ the Seven Cities woman muttered aside to Murk.
‘Our friend can’t very well lead a pocket army into his village. As far as he knows we might just up and take over the place.’
She wrinkled her nose in annoyance. ‘Why would we want his wretched village?’
‘Well, for one thing they have food in their wretched village. Which is a lot more than we have. And second, they’re probably always fighting their neighbours for territory and resources and such. It’s a way of life.’
The tall woman wasn’t convinced and she snorted her derision. ‘Resources? What resources?’ She waved to the tangled trees. ‘This is a wasteland. It’s like one of our Seven Netherworlds, only here on earth.’
‘Burastan, Lieutenant,
they’re
here and that means this ain’t no wasteland. Get it?’
Then Yusen urged Murk on again, but he flicked his gaze to the travois and its wrapped burden. The captain frowned, uneasy, then let out a breath. He signed to Burastan:
guard it
. The lieutenant nodded her understanding.
Murk peered around for Sour but couldn’t find the man anywhere. Finally he spotted him bent down all the way to his stomach studying a fat blossom growing out of a notch in the roots of one of the trees. To Murk, the sky-blue flower appeared almost obscene the way its swollen petals seemed to burst from the tree. He pulled his
partner
up by the collar of his rotting leather hauberk. ‘What in the name of D’rek are you doing? Let’s go.’
‘Ain’t never seen one like that afore,’ Sour explained as he dragged him along.
‘This ain’t no natural philosophy hike, Hood take you!’ Murk growled. ‘Stay focused.’
They caught up with Yusen and Oroth-en, and the village elder led them on.
Through the afternoon he began to see more and more signs of human occupation. The seemingly meandering way they walked met a narrow path and this in turn merged with a definite trail travelled enough to expose naked beaten dirt. As they went, Sour kept pointing out more and more of the fat, vaguely hand-shaped, dusty blue blossoms. Some clung to the trunks of trees or hung from branches overhead. He kept grinning and winking at Murk, as if he’d put them there himself.
Murk just rolled his eyes.
Fine, so they grow around here. Big deal
.
‘Climbing Blue!’ Sour suddenly announced as he walked along, all hunched and side to side in his bow-legged gait.
Murk scowled his annoyance. ‘What’re you going on about?’
The mage waved a hand, flapping his tattered leather and mail gauntlet. ‘Them flowers. I’m gonna name them Climbing Blues.’
‘Climbing—’ Murk caught himself almost taking a swipe at his partner. ‘You can’t just up and name some plant! What makes you think you can do that?’
‘ ’Cause I discovered it. That’s why.’
‘Discovered it? You didn’t—’ The astounding claim stole Murk’s breath. ‘Idiots tripping over things is no way to hand out names. And anyway, what about these local folks? Don’t you think they know it? Or have a name for ’em?’
Sour scrunched up his already wrinkled face, thinking. ‘Well … we don’t know any of that, do we?’
‘Oh, so because of
your
ignorance
their
hundreds of years old names for everything get tossed aside. Well, that’s just great.’
‘Well, maybe I’ll ask then!’
‘Well, fine! Go ahead.’
‘I will.’
‘G’wan.’
Sour opened his mouth but he and Murk noted Yusen glaring back at them and both hunched guiltily. They passed another of the blue flowers and Murk quelled an urge to kick the damned thing.
Later Sour bumped him then flicked his eyes aside. Murk followed his gaze to catch a fleeting glimpse of one of the locals watching from the dense cover. After this he spotted a number of them. They carried bows and braces of javelins, or short spears, on their backs. Murk had yet to see any signs of metal on any of them – weapons or armour.
Then, with startling suddenness, they emerged into a village. It was arranged in a great oval hacked out of the surrounding jungle. Its centre was an open clearing dotted by fire-pits. The circle of huts all faced the clearing. Most of the huts stood upon short poles and most were no more than walls woven through with branches of broad leaves. The roofs were thick layers of thatched grass.
The villagers stilled, watching them, silent. Some tended low fires, or beat gathered branches. Some were sitting hunched over making implements, weaving plant fibre twine, or carving sticks – making arrows or darts, perhaps. Many lay in hammocks within the airy huts. An old woman pounded a mortar with a pestle, both made of wood. All wore little more than simple loincloths together with numerous ornaments, amulets or charms, tied to legs and arms. Bright stones glimmered from the ears and noses of some. Naked children watched from the open doorways of the huts. Some sort of welcoming committee waited in the clearing.
Murk cocked an eye to his partner, who nodded, but then shut his eyes, his hands twitching at his sides, and abruptly fell to the ground. Murk froze, surprised, then rushed to help him up. The little man fought for a moment, flailing his arms. After this he calmed to peer about, surprised. Blood ran in a crimson torrent from his nose and he wiped it away with the back of his grimed gauntlet. ‘Gods! That ain’t never happened afore!’ he told Murk, stunned wonder in his voice.
Yusen peered down at them, his gaze narrow with worry. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah.’ Sour straightened up. ‘Okay.’ He sent Murk a significant look, signed, ‘
Her
.’ ‘Was just surprised by somethin’, is all.’
Murk said nothing, but he was quite alarmed.
Her!
So it must be true, this antipathy between Ardata and the Queen of Dreams. ‘Did you get it?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.
While Oroth-en watched, Sour straightened his torn hauberk. ‘Yeah. I got it … Barely.’
‘Okay then.’ Murk gestured, inviting Yusen to keep going. The captain flicked his gaze between the two mages then nodded his cooperation. He continued on.
The warriors, both male and female, crowded round Oroth-en. None looked happy. One young fellow spoke, and thanks to Sour’s efforts Murk could now understand their language: ‘Why have you brought these Isturé demons?’ this one challenged. ‘They will murder us!’
‘I do not believe these are of the Isturé,’ Oroth-en answered, calmly enough.
‘They are like,’ another observed. ‘They carry iron.’
‘True. They are foreigners. Most foreigners carry such things. That is their way.’
‘If they are not of the Isturé, then we should kill them and take their iron,’ one of the female warriors declared.
‘Their numbers are too many,’ Oroth-en explained.
‘Numbers? How many are there?’ another demanded.
‘Many hands.’
This quietened the warriors for a time. Then the female warrior who had spoken before, hefty and scarred, eyed Yusen and scowled bitterly. ‘I see. So … what are their demands?’
Sour’s brows shot up and he looked to Murk, who raised his gaze to the open sky.
Why does it always have to be me?
He stepped forward, his hands open. ‘Do you understand me?’