The Devil's Armour (Gollancz S.F.) (57 page)

White-Eye brought her head close to his chest. ‘I am afraid for you.’ She let him stroke her hair. ‘Are you afraid?’

‘Yes,’ replied Gilwyn. ‘That’s why I wanted to be alone with you tonight.’

She twitched in his embrace. She seemed to understand. He looked down at her hopefully. He felt her body tremble. Or was it his own?

They had never been together as lovers, not in the whole year they had known each other. In such a time of need, in the shadow of war and rebuilding, Gilwyn had never found the courage to ask for it. Now, though, White-Eye understood his urgency. Slowly, she leaned back in his arms and let him lower her gently to the sand. He studied her in the moonlight. Her lips parted, opening for him. Gilwyn bent to kiss her. Deeply, he let his mouth taste her.

In the cradle of sand, he lay with her.

In the feast room of Ganjor’s modest palace, King Baralosus had gathered his family to greet an important guest. The great, low-lying table had been set with ceramic bowls, overflowing with fruit and flat breads and spicy sauces made from local peppers. Colourful pillows were arranged around the table, satiny cushions for sitting on the floor, the Ganjeese way of eating. The northern influence was weak in the palace. Though Ganjor was a city at the crossroads of continents, King Baralosus honoured the old ways, the ways of the desert people, and so his home was furnished thus, with golden urns hung from draping chains and elaborate mosaics of hearth-fired tiles. The smoke of sweet-smelling tobacco rose in pink plumes from water pipes. King Baralosus’ large family – the product of three wives – made the feast room swell with happy noise. Musicians picked at scalthi, the small guitarlike instruments of Ganjor, playing as bare-bellied women danced and twirled their silk garments to the clapping of men in long beards. It was evening in Ganjor, and this evening the city played host to a guest from the desert.

Princess Salina, dark of hair and dark of eye, greeted her father with a respectful bow. She had taken her time making her way to the feast, and now took her place at the table with the rest of her sisters. She was the fifth daughter of King Baralosus but had a better seat at the table than her birth order would normally allow. Lowering herself down
on the carpeted floor, she sat directly across from Prince Aztar. Her father was already seated at the head of the table. At his right side sat Aztar. The desert man’s elevated station was not overlooked by the king’s advisors, whose solemn faces dotted the long table. King Baralosus leaned back on his pillows and glanced disapprovingly at his daughter. Prince Aztar, however, stared with admiration.

Salina remained circumspect. Aztar had desert eyes. Dark eyes, like all the Voruni. His people were a fierce lot, feared by most in Ganjor, including her father. The Desert of Tears was their home. It was, according to Aztar, his own kingdom, and for the past year he had been fighting to keep it pure. That was, in part, why he had come to Ganjor. Princess Salina feared the rest of his motives.

‘At last you come to see me, Salina,’ said Aztar. He watched her, forgetting all the other women in the room, even the sensuous dancers. His voice was a baritone, but he always tamed it when speaking to her. ‘Is there a message in your lateness?’

‘None at all,’ her father was quick to answer. ‘Salina has a love for mirrors, Aztar. Getting her away from them has always been a chore. See how pretty she has made herself for you?’

Salina pretended to blush, though her father’s compliments were tedious and not meant for her. In Ganjor, women did not speak as men did. They were too often merely adornments, but Baralosus had been a fair father, treating his sons and daughters mostly alike. He did, however, expect propriety from Salina.

‘Tell the prince you are happy to see him, Daughter,’ Baralosus urged. A servant knelt beside him and offered him some food. The king waved the man away.

‘I am pleased,’ said Salina. Tonight, they spoke in the old tongue of Ganjor, the only language Aztar recognised. He would never speak the mixed tongue, so popular now in the city with all its northern influence. Salina let her eyes drift
towards his as she spoke. ‘It is always good to see the prince, Father.’

Satisfied, her father nodded. Prince Aztar smiled. A great deal of noise surrounded them. Laughter and music filled the room. Servants shuffled ceramic bowls, and the dancers pressed tiny cymbals between their fingers. Men around the table and scattered along the floor clapped and admired the dancers. Aztar’s fighters were among them, their long, curved swords sheathed and laid beside them. The prince had come with a sizable bodyguard, enough men to worry Salina’s father. They had, however, been respectful. But they were different, these men of the desert. They were Voruni. Some called them zealots. The folk of Jador called them raiders. Salina still did not know what to think of them.

But what did Aztar think of himself? To Salina, he seemed supremely confident. Clearly he was comfortable killing those innocents that crossed ‘his’ desert. She knew he did not think of himself as a murderer, though even the blood of children stained his hands. Because he could be so kind to her, she wondered sometimes if he was brainsick.

Aztar poured some tea from an urn and pushed his glass across the table toward her. Tea in Ganjor was a great prize, and sharing it a symbol of community. And, sometimes, of love. Aztar’s affection for Salina was plain enough; he had told her father of his intentions to marry her someday. But Aztar was not truly a prince. Though he had declared himself one, he still had to prove himself to the old, traditional Baralosus. Salina took the tea Aztar offered and sipped. It was very hot, and as she drank he smiled at her. He was an enormous man, and seeing such gentleness on his face was startling. As if catching himself, Aztar looked away. He straightened his great back, sitting up tall and proud.

‘Let us talk, Majesty,’ he said.

‘No,’ offered Baralosus. ‘Let us eat.’

Aztar pushed his plate aside. ‘The others may fill themselves fat. I have come for conversation.’

Salina stiffened. Her father – all of her family – knew why Aztar had come to Ganjor.

King Baralosus sighed and splayed his fingers in surrender. He had an admirable way of allaying Aztar’s storminess. ‘The sands of time run quickly in your hourglass, my friend. We can speak of Jador now or later, I do not care which. But my daughters and sons have no need to hear our details.’

‘I would speak now, during your kind feast, Majesty, if it pleases you,’ said Aztar. ‘And I would prefer the Princess Salina stay. She has a love for the northerners that her siblings do not share. Perhaps our words will educate her.’

The king’s advisors seated nearby ended their chatter and toyed with their food, leaning almost imperceptibly toward the head of the table. Salina, annoyed at being talked about, turned icy and lowered her tea glass.

‘I will stay, Father, and hear the prince’s plans,’ she said. ‘I would like to know why he plots against a good land like Jador, which has never given us a moment’s distress.’

Aztar turned his dark eyes on Salina. ‘Come to my desert, girl, and you will see the distress they cause.’

‘I have seen them in our city, Prince, the ones you call defilers. They are kind and good. And they are infirm! They seek only the solace of Jador’s magic.’

The Tiger of the Desert leaned closer. ‘Like a plague they stream across my land, Princess. And they bring their ideas with them, and their cursed customs, and I cannot bear the stink of them in my nostrils.’ Aztar looked pleadingly at the king. ‘Majesty, why is the magic of Jador for these outsiders? Why do the Jadori allow it, when you of Ganjor have been their friends for so long? No, I understate it! You are kin to the Jadori! Look at our skins and say that it is not so.’

‘I cannot say so,’ said Baralosus. ‘When it is so obvious to everyone but my daughter.’

Salina frowned at her father, who had long ago sided
with Aztar in the argument. ‘If Jador is to be the price for me, Father, then should I not have a say in the matter?’

‘Jador has gone from a quiet friend to a loud distraction, Salina,’ said Baralosus. His tone remained reasonable. ‘What will they become in the next year? A threat? Aztar has a right to the peace of his desert.’

‘It is not
his
desert,’ said Salina. This time she looked straight at the prince. ‘My lord, no man owns the sand. It does not belong to the Voruni or any other tribe.’

‘Girl, I lead the Voruni,’ said Aztar evenly. ‘Who will protect them if not me? We dwell in the desert. We must keep it free of disease and the mind infections the northerners bring.’

‘And I am so infected, yes?’ challenged Salina.

Prince Aztar nodded. ‘Yes. But you are young, and the young are foolish. With years you will come to see the truth.’

‘This is so,’ agreed Baralosus. ‘Salina, you will understand in time.’

Salina held her tongue, but knew she would never understand. She had already defied them both by secretly helping the northerners across the desert. Now, hearing of Aztar’s fearsome plans, she had no regrets about her treachery.

The feast stretched on into the evening, until at last the crowds tired of the food and music. Finally, Salina’s large family and all of their guests began to disperse. The princess herself was among the first to leave the gathering, longing for the quiet of the palace’s garden, a tranquil place of orchids and bubbling water. A winding stone walkway meandered through the garden, lit by posts bearing lanterns and, tonight, an abundance of moonlight. As Salina walked along the stones she picked an orchid bloom and twirled it in her fingers. She knew it would not be long until Aztar came. She looked forward to speaking with him alone, but also dreaded it. It had been a difficult evening; she had not
meant to argue so loudly with her father. But she had already chosen her secret path. Even if she wound up wedding Aztar someday, she would continue helping the Seekers.

Somehow.

Salina puzzled over this as she smelled the white flower. So far, no one had detected her contacts with the Jadori. When she saw that Seekers were about to leave Ganjor for the desert, she sent her warning birds across the sands. It was all she could do, and she hoped that it had helped. The northerners weren’t the threat Aztar claimed, but she had not been able to help them all, of course.

As expected, Salina soon heard the footfalls of the beast. The Tiger of the Desert padded along the path behind her, stalking through the shrubs and flowers. Salina did not turn around, but rather let his eyes linger on her. Her silk garments clung to her shapely form, and the lust in Aztar’s gaze was always apparent. She twirled the bloom absently in her fingers, then decided to toy with the prince.

‘Come out of the shadows, my lord, please,’ she joked. ‘You are not as subtle as a real cat.’

The flowers parted with a rustle and Aztar appeared. She turned to see him looking splendid in the moonlight, his dark skin offset by his wraps of bright fabric. The gold bands on his wrists caught the lantern light. His slight beard parted in amusement.

‘It is a pleasure to admire you in quiet, Princess. I like you better when you are quiet, I think.’

‘So you want a silent wife, like my father’s wives. You would do better to look elsewhere for a mate, then.’

Aztar came closer, saw the flower in her hand and said, ‘Orchids are so beautiful, yet never make a sound. I do not think people would admire them if they gibbered like mice.’