Finally they emerged from the shadows of the narrow canyon to a plateau where scrub grew in place of trees and rocks poked up everywhere. “It should not be far now,” said Ragoczy Germainus as he looked around them with shaded eyes. “I think I see one of those old shrines, there”—he pointed—“at the end of that escarpment.”
“You mean those large white stones?” Rotiger asked as he did his best to follow Ragoczy Germainus’ line of vision.
“Immediately to the right of them. There is a standing arch, about half my height, by the look of it, making a niche.” He sat back in the saddle, grateful—as he often was in the last nine years—for the stirrups that he had had fitted to his saddle a decade ago. On a climb like this, stirrups made all the difference.
“Is that a tomb?” Rotiger asked, and turned in his saddle as Blaga roared in fury.
“The two are waking up,” Ragoczy Germainus noted, his face set in an amiable smile that did not touch his eyes. “Blaga, be still,” he ordered in a louder tone, and in the dialect of the region. “You are not improving your situation by making so much noise.” He spoke to Rotiger in Persian, “Let us wait until he is ready to be sensible. I do not wish to have to fight him on this trail.”
Blaga muttered incoherent threats as he struggled against the bonds that confined him in the bearskin.
“Rotiger will be forced to subdue you if you keep on that way. If you hope to alert Chimena of your coming, that has probably already been done.” He waited until Blaga calmed down. “That is much better. Continue in this manner and all will be well. I am afraid there is nothing I can do about the heat in those skins. It is summer, and even up high in the mountains, it has been warm.”
There was a long silence this time, then Ennati said, “We will not fight you.”
“We will not have to,” Blaga finished for him.
“No doubt,” said Ragoczy Germainus, and moved off again, trying to discern who was following them—if, indeed, anyone was.
“You are edgy, my master,” Rotiger remarked in Persian as they approached the ancient tombs with their arches for protecting offerings.
“With good cause, I fear,” Ragoczy Germainus said as he drew in his horse. Although he took his saie from its ties on his saddle and slung it around his shoulders more for the protection it afforded than against the first evening chill, he remained in the saddle; Rotiger followed his example.
“This is a very exposed place,” Rotiger said.
“And there is just the one path out of it,” Ragoczy Germainus added.
Rotiger nodded, glancing over his shoulder toward the fading sun. “It will be night in a little while.”
“Then it is time they emerged,” Ragoczy Germainus said as he pointed to the high niches.
“How many?” Rotiger asked.
“I have no idea,” Ragoczy Germainus replied, and put his hand to his belt where a long chain hung, with a fist-sized iron ball at either end.
Rotiger saw this, and said, “You expect to fight.”
“No; I am prepared to.” He waited as the light behind them went from gold to red to lavender. “Are you ready?” he called out to Blaga. “You and Ennati will soon be back with Chimena.”
“She will be angry,” said Ennati fatalistically.
“That she might,” Ragoczy Germainus said, making no attempt to deny the possibility.
“And then what?” Blaga demanded abruptly. “Will you keep us safe from her anger?”
“My master,” whispered Rotiger before Ragoczy Germainus could answer Blaga.
“I see it,” said Ragoczy Germainus.
“The nearest tomb . . .” Rotiger trailed off.
“Is opening; yes, I see.” He rose in his stirrups and loosened the fine chain holding the metal balls to his belt. He swung down out of the saddle and went to unstrap Blaga and Ennati from their places, handling them with no sign of effort as he lifted them from the packs to the ground, saying as he did, “I am not going to release you yet. There is much to be decided before I do. You may struggle if you wish, but I would hope you have better sense than that.”
Blaga mumbled an obscenity and wriggled against his bonds, then did his best to sit up, but without success. Ennati lay supine and inert, which made Ragoczy Germainus more wary of him than Blaga.
The first door was open now, and the occupant emerged. The figure was dressed in Moorish clothes, wearing a tunic of leather stitched with metal scales; he had a scimitar thrust through his broad green sash and there were metal points on his tooled-leather boots. Ragoczy Germainus recognized Yamut ibn Rabi; he recalled the steady hatred the Moor had shown for Chimenae, and wondered how he had become the guard of Chimena.
A second door opened, and another Moor came out, also dressed for combat. The two swung around to face Ragoczy Germainus.
“I remember who you are,” said Yamut ibn Rabi in the language of the region flavored with a strong Moorish accent. “How is it you have returned?”
“I remember you as well,” said Ragoczy Germainus, offering him a salaam. “My travels brought me here. I am on my way to Asturica; the roads forced me to come this way. I am in a hurry to reach my destination.” He secured the lead-rope of his mule to his saddle.
“Of course,” said Yamut ibn Rabi sarcastically. “I should have realized that you would not come here for any other reason. How do you come to have two of ours trussed up like lambs going to slaughter?” He indicated the struggling figures tied inside the bearskins.
“They will tell you if you ask them,” said Ragoczy Germainus. “I have brought them back to Chimena—for so I understand she now calls herself—to ask her not to set her tribe on me.”
“Do you suppose she would do this?” Yamut ibn Rabi asked, unconvinced. “For what reason would she?”
“Those two have . . . persuaded me that it is a possibility,” said Ragoczy Germainus, indicating Ennati and Blaga. “They and a number of their comrades attacked my manservant and me. They wanted our horses and mules for blood and rituals, it seems, and they attempted to kill us. Since the others fled, I decided it would be best to settle this now, before they all gather again.” He nodded toward his two captives. “I could easily have given them the True Death, but I did not, to show that I mean Chimena and her descendants no harm.”
“So it is you,” said a voice off to the left.
Ragoczy Germainus turned to see Chimena approaching. She was as magnificent as ever, her silken finery better than most that could be found from Gadez to Roma. Her stole was of thick, pleated silk in a deep, wine-red, belted with golden links, and draped around her shoulders was a loros set with rubies and pearls and embroidered with gryphons—fine enough for an empress to wear. Her shoes were sewn with golden thread and she had added a golden fillet to her brow.
“You are very splendid,” said Ragoczy Germainus as she approached.
“Yamut and Sayed have been busy getting tribute for me; it is only right that I should display it,” said Chimena, nodding to her two Moorish guards. “They have brought me things.” She fingered the loros. “They know what I like most.”
“How unfortunate more of the world cannot behold your grandeur,” said Ragoczy Germainus, no hint of condemnation in his voice. “You have come far into the mountains.”
“They are cutting down the forests. I could not rest safely in my own house; they are emptying the mountain villages, too, and that has driven me here.” Resentment simmered in her eyes. “One day, they will regret what they have done. They all will—the villagers who have forsaken me as well as the Moors.”
“For your sake, I hope not; for in that day, they will know you enough to find you and kill you.” Ragoczy Germainus glanced toward Blaga and Ennati. “They are doing you no good, hunting travelers like wolves.”
She shrugged, then asked, “Why do you think so?”
“Because they cannot catch all of those who have offended you, and eventually the tales will be pieced together and you will be hunted as you have hunted them. Had the Moors not come, you would have been known before now, and you would have been forced to flee or die. Since you have increased your numbers, you have made yourself a reputation that may be your undoing.” Ragoczy Germainus let the small chain slide through his fingers as he saw Yamut ibn Rabi and Sayed coming toward them. “Tell your Moors to keep their distance.”
“This is where I belong.” Chimena sighed and held up her hand to them. “Stay where you are. For now.” She looked back at Ragoczy Germainus. “Very well, you have brought them back to me. For that, you must suppose I will be grateful?”
“No,” said Ragoczy Germainus.
“No,” she seconded. For a short while she said nothing more, then, “Have you thought about how you will leave this place?”
“I am aware that this could be dangerous,” said Ragoczy Germainus, “but I could not think you would be unworthy of trust.”
“How delicately you put that,” she said, false approval making her demeanor overly respectful. “You were counting on my sense of obligation to you, were you not? to ensure your safe passage from here.”
“Rather say I was hoping for it,” said Ragoczy Germainus quietly.
She laughed, throwing back her head as if she were baying at the night. “Very deft, Sanct’ Germain. You know just how to appeal to me, do you not?”
“I am not trying to—” he began, only to be interrupted.
“You are trying to shape me to your desires, as you have from the first, and I have no patience with it any longer. I am not subject to your pleasures or your strictures, no matter how much you suppose I ought to be. Will I never be rid of you?” She pointed to Ennati and Blaga. “Release them at once, and let me deal with them.”
“If you are planning to harm them in any way, I will not; I did not bring them to you for that,” said Ragoczy Germainus.
“But look at them,” said Chimena as she went to stand over them. “They are useless.” She kicked out, striking Ennati in the leg; Ragoczy Germainus moved between her and the two bound men. “How can you protect them when they have done nothing worthy of it?”
“You do not know they have done nothing worthy,” said Ragoczy Germainus.
“You bested them, did you not?” she countered. “They are useless to me if they fail.”
Rotiger spoke up, “Chimena, you may be their master”—he used the masculine word deliberately—“but you should not hold your clan in contempt.”
She looked up at him. “You would say that, for
his
sake!” She flung her hand in Ragoczy Germainus’ direction. “It has nothing to do with me. I make members of my clan as I need them and I rid myself of them when they defy me or have proved themselves useless, as so many have.” She paused. “Yamut and Sayed know what to do.”
“And who will know what to do with them when you decide to be rid of your Moors?” Ragoczy Germainus asked.
Chimena laughed. “You are very clever, trying to make them think I will turn on them so that they will not do my bidding now.” She held up her hands. “You will go now, and you will be unharmed. If you stay, you will have to answer for it.”
“Why do you do this?” Ragoczy Germainus asked, changing his grip on the chain in his hand. “You demand devotion and you reward it with disdain.”
“They are all weak, every one of them,” she said. “What is there to admire in that?”
Ragoczy Germainus shook his head. “You do not understand—”
“Reciprocity,” she finished for him. “And
you
do not understand that I do not want it. Why should I? Reciprocity is for equals, and I have yet to find one, living or undead, who is that. Not even you—especially you, no matter what you think. You haven’t the courage to defend your territory.” She tossed her head, her golden fillet shining in the pale starlight. “Still. You have brought my followers back to me. I acknowledge your service.” It was clearly a dismissal, but Ragoczy Germainus made no move to depart. “I do not want my guards to kill you, but if you insist . . .” She shrugged, finishing her thought with the action.
“I have no desire to fight you, or them,” said Ragoczy Germainus, stepping back to find better footing away from Blaga and Ennati. “If you cannot be satisfied any other way, then so be it.”
“They will kill you,” said Chimena, smiling in anticipation.
“They may try,” Ragoczy Germainus responded, getting more distance between himself and the two men on the ground. “Rotiger, guard them.”
“I will, my master,” said Rotiger, and drew his short sword from its scabbard.
Chimena pointed to her Moors. “Yamut. Sayed.” With that, she got out of the way, choosing the haven of an arched niche from which to watch the fight.
Ragoczy Germainus pulled the chain out between his hands and set the balls on the end to spinning; they made an eerie moaning as they swept through the air. “Come. Let us get this over with,” he said, sounding tired.
The two Moors separated and tried to move in on Ragoczy Germainus from the sides, their scimitars held up at the ready, but the whirring balls kept them at bay, giving them no opportunity to strike.
“What is happening?” Blaga shouted, trying to maneuver the bearskin off his head so that he could watch.
“There is a fight going on,” said Rotiger, his whole attention on the engagement taking place before him.
“The Moors?” asked Ennati. “Is he fighting the Moors?”
“That he is,” said Rotiger.
Sayed made an experimental slash with his scimitar, testing to see how much it would trouble Ragoczy Germainus; the metal ball hummed past his head and forced him to withdraw a step. At the same time, Yamut ibn Rabi tried to get behind Ragoczy Germainus, only to discover the foreigner had swung around on his heel and now faced the Moor, driving him back with the weighted, whirling chain.
“The first passage ends in no advantage,” said Rotiger to Ennati and Blaga.
“Did the Moors draw their swords?” asked Blaga, a note of incredulity in his voice.
“Oh, yes,” said Rotiger.
“How strange that they could not—” Ennati interrupted himself as another sound—metal on metal—claimed his attention. “What was that?”
“One of the Moors tried to catch my master’s chain on the blade of his scimitar,” said Rotiger.
Sayed jumped away, struggling to hold onto the hilt of his weapon, and discovered that it was well and truly caught in the chain. In a quick movement, Ragoczy Germainus jerked the scimitar out of the Moor’s hands, shook it free of the chain and kicked it so it went bouncing and clattering down the mountain.