The Princess and the Captain (11 page)

‘My goodness,' Philomena murmured. ‘I've never seen anyone so agile!'

Watching this exceptionally skilful horseman, she almost forgot her fears. It was as if pure beauty had visited the battlefield: swords clashed, the crescent-shaped axes shone, whips cracked, and the hooves of the animals pounded the snow, as if it were some kind of extraordinary ballet. Malva did not seem moved by the spectacle. She couldn't take her eyes off the strings of teeth hanging around the necks of the hooded warriors, and the sight chilled her to the bone.

Soon, however, the warriors began to falter. Some were wounded, others disarmed, and they turned to flee westwards, uttering furious cries and digging their heels into the bellies of their bull-deer mounts.

When they were far enough away and silence fell over the mountains again, the leader of the horsemen jumped down and knelt beside the fire. He threw handfuls of snow on the blackened skeletons, reciting incomprehensible words. His guttural voice rose from the depths of his throat, and he swayed back and forth as he took in the terrible sight of the charred horses. The other horsemen remained motionless around him, their eyes fixed on the scene, while the plumes of black smoke dispersed in the sky.

At last the man straightened up, and walked towards the cart with a supple step. When he saw the two girls huddled in it, shivering, he bowed to them and threw his whip on the snow as a sign of peace.

Without realising it, Malva and Philomena had just been rescued by the Baighur people, and the man now smiling at them was none other than Uzmir, their Supreme Khansha.

A new life now began for Malva and Philomena. Uzmir had taken them under his protection, and they only had to follow the movement of the tribe, always going eastwards.

The Baighurs were nomads and hunters. They had moved over the Azizian Steppes in their long caravans since time immemorial, following the rhythm of the seasons and the oryak migrations, eating their meat and using what was left to barter with merchants. The animals' skins, bones and long hair were all transformed by the clever hands of the Baighur women. They made harpoons, rugs, cords, oil and lucky amulets which were in great demand among the people of distant cities. In exchange for all this, the Baighurs got horses. Their horses were their only real wealth. Without horses they could not track down the oryaks. Without horses they could not move the carts carrying their children and old people. Without horses, the Baighurs had no hope of surviving in these vast and icy steppes.

Malva and Philomena gradually came to understand all this, and now they knew why Uzmir had seemed so sad as he gazed at the fire consuming the dead horses on the day when they first met. And they realised, too, that the only enemies of the Baighurs were those warriors in black hoods who had attacked them: the Amoyeds.

The name alone sent shivers down Malva's back. And the further east the caravan moved, the more grateful she was to the Divinities of the Known World for sending Uzmir to cross her path. But for him, the Amoyeds wouldn't have hesitated to kill
her, pull out her teeth and add them to the other trophies hanging round their necks.

Days and weeks passed by.

Malva's fears were calmed as the caravan went across the steppes. Uzmir had given her and Philomena jackets and boots of oryak skin so that they could bear the extreme temperatures. The Princess's hair had grown again, and she wound a length of woollen cloth around her head like a turban to protect and hide it. She rode through the wind and the silent steppes all day, buoyed up by her growing hope of reaching Elgolia soon. Philomena had stopped complaining. She seemed to have been won over by the kindness and hospitality of the Baighurs.

In the evenings, exhausted, Malva would join the women to help prepare a meal and to plait cords of oryak hair. The Baighur women taught her to chew paghul, strange seeds which seemed to have many virtues, including strengthening the teeth and making it easier to digest oryak meat, but the paghul had no flavour of its own.

‘What about cramp?' Malva asked her companions. ‘Are the seeds any good for cramp?'

Of course no one understood her question, and the women just smiled and nodded. So Malva helped herself to a few more paghul seeds, thinking that they could hardly do any harm.

As they worked some of the women smoked the chibuk, a kind of long-stemmed pipe, but they did not offer Malva one. They indicated that she was too young; according to their traditions, she must wait to be married before she could own a chibuk. Malva smiled, and tried to explain that in her own country her parents had wanted to marry her off in spite of her
youth. The women opened their eyes wide with surprise: they evidently thought the Galnicians must be real barbarians.

Philomena did not join in these working parties; she refused to chew paghul, and kept finding excuses to be somewhere else. Malva watched her surreptitiously, and saw that she was always going about with the men, with Uzmir beside her.

‘He's teaching me his language,' Philomena explained, rejoining Malva.

‘Yes, of course!'

‘It's true!' said the chambermaid, taking offence. ‘I'm learning fast and Uzmir is very pleased with me, if you really want to know.'

‘I don't doubt it for a moment,' replied Malva with a mischievous smile. ‘A heart in love learns easily!'

Philomena shrugged, but Malva knew she had guessed correctly. Her chambermaid had fallen for the charms of the Supreme Khansha the moment she set eyes on him standing on horseback, leading his men into battle against the Amoyeds.

‘I've heard something very interesting,' Philomena said one evening, creating a diversion. ‘About Elgolia.'

Malva stopped plaiting cords. ‘Did Uzmir talk to you about Elgolia?'

‘I mentioned it to him myself: I said we were going there. According to him, it may really exist, but it's far beyond the horizon. Certain travellers have described it, but no Baighur has ever been so far.'

‘I was sure of it!' cried the delighted Princess. ‘How many days will it take us to get there?'

‘Who knows?' sighed Philomena. ‘For now we're going the right way and we're in good company. Don't be so impatient.'

Malva nodded, guessing how difficult it would be for Philomena to leave her handsome horseman when the time came.

‘Uzmir told me about the Amoyeds too,' Philomena went on, in a lower voice. ‘If I understood him correctly, those brutes carry out commissions for people who will pay them. They steal and loot, and they often abduct women and children to be sold to some Emperor whose name I've forgotten. They kill the Baighurs' horses to weaken the tribe, but Uzmir opposes them bravely.'

‘Uzmir is a great chief,' admitted Malva.

‘He's the Supreme Khansha,' said Philomena, admiration evident in her voice. ‘And he's even promised to teach me to ride standing on horseback!'

Malva laughed. ‘Well, while you're waiting for a chance to break your bones, you might lend me a hand plaiting these cords!'

One morning, when Philomena was still asleep and Malva was walking round in their tent to soothe the cramp in her leg, Uzmir came in. Malva looked at him in astonishment. Until now the Khansha had been the soul of courtesy, and she knew he would never have intruded on their privacy except for some urgent reason. There was indeed an expression of deep anxiety on his face.

‘What is it?' asked Malva, still pacing around the tent to make sure the cramp didn't come back.

With a nod of the head Uzmir indicated Philomena, snuggled into her blankets. He needed an interpreter.

Malva shook her companion, who woke with a start and blushed when she saw Uzmir standing there. They exchanged a few words in that guttural language which Malva didn't understand at all, and Philomena turned very pale. When Uzmir had left, she leaped out of her blankets.

‘Quick!' she cried. ‘Pack up your things! We're striking camp! Some of the horses were stolen overnight.'

Malva felt her heart beat faster. She hastily put on her turban.

‘The thieves left tracks,' Philomena went on, her breath coming short.

Malva bit her lip. ‘Tracks of what?' she asked in an expressionless voice.

‘Hoof-prints of enlils, those bull-deer animals. The caravan is leaving at once. We're going to turn back westwards.'

‘Westwards?'

Malva almost cried out aloud with the combined shock of fear and dismay. Philomena turned to her, hands on her hips.

‘It's a matter of life and death, Malva. If the Amoyeds have found us again they're not going to let us beat them so easily this time.' And then, to soothe Malva, Philomena took her in her arms. ‘We have to trust Uzmir. He saved us once, he'll save us again! And as soon as the danger's over we'll set off for Elgolia again, I promise you.'

Feeling stunned, Malva gathered her things together, put on her oryak-skin jacket and boots, and then stepped out into the early morning air with Philomena. At once the icy cold paralysed them.

The steppes stretched before them as far as the eye could see, flat and still, while a weak sun tried to rise above the horizon in the east. Malva cast a bitter glance in that direction. The promise of Elgolia was retreating, and with it a little of the hope that helped her to rise above the ordeals of the harsh nomadic life: the biting cold, the monotony of the high plateaux, the shattering exhaustion. She sighed. The Great Azizian Steppes set a boundless, hostile barrier between her and the country of Elgolia. Would she have the strength to face all this again if she had to turn her back on her dream now?

While Philomena strapped their blankets under her horse's belly, Uzmir came to offer Malva a cup of grey tea and a few paghul cakes. Then he turned to their tent, and took it down with the help of two other men.

‘Those horrible cakes again!' wailed Philomena, when Malva handed her a share. ‘No thank you!'

Malva put the cakes in the pocket of the jacket she still wore under her oryak-skin coat. She usually laughed at Philomena and her taste for luxury. ‘I'm the Princess!' she used to point out. ‘I'm the one who ought to be complaining!' But this morning she made no comment. The atmosphere weighing on the camp was heavy with anxiety, and no one felt like laughing.

The women and children had gathered around the carts after piling them high with blankets, tentpegs, battered copper cauldrons, cooking utensils and chibuks. Malva saw at once that they were going to miss the stolen horses badly. Some of the old people were preparing to walk, even though they could hardly keep on their feet. She went to find Uzmir to indicate that she could walk herself. But Uzmir shook his head and pointed to her right leg. Malva was surprised. How did he know about her injury?

‘I told him all about it,' admitted Philomena, seeing her look so taken aback.

‘What do you mean,
all about it
?'

‘Well … our shipwreck, that creature whose name we don't know that bit you, the wise woman in Sperta …'

Malva was annoyed. ‘What else? Did you tell him about our flight from Galnicia too, and the wedding I missed? We swore to keep all that a secret!'

Philomena blushed slightly, but the Princess had no time to scold any more. The tents had all been taken down, the horses
were pawing the ground, and there was a sense of urgency in the air.

Malva resigned herself to mounting her horse, and the caravan immediately set off. The men led, the old people and children were in the middle, and the women brought up the rear.

As the sun rose a cold, unpleasant wind got up too, sweeping over the short grass and stinging the riders' lips. Malva hunched her head down between her shoulders and bent her back under its icy gusts. Philomena was walking beside her, holding the bridle of the horse Malva was riding. There was a smell of fear and disaster in the air; none of the horsemen said a word.

After an hour, Malva began to feel the silence was oppressive. She needed to talk to drive her fears away.

‘What will be the first thing you do once we get there?' she abruptly asked Philomena.

The chambermaid looked up, frowning. ‘Oh, Malva, you've asked me that a hundred times already!'

‘Tell me again!'

Philomena heaved a sigh of resignation. ‘There', of course, meant Elgolia.

‘I'll look for that lake the sailor talked about,' she said obligingly. ‘The bubbling lake of warm water.'

‘Lake Barath-Thor,' said Malva, feeling a little more cheerful.

‘Yes, that's the one. I shall plunge into it and stay there for hours doing nothing at all, bathing my frozen feet and my poor tired back. And if I get ten years younger too, as the sailor said, well, why not?'

‘I won't bathe in it!' Malva laughed. ‘I'd risk ending up a little girl again!'

Philomena nodded.

‘Well?' said Malva. ‘Ask me what
I
shall do first!'

Philomena tightened her lips. These questions troubled her, but she always ended up doing as her mistress wanted. ‘Well, what will you do, then?'

‘I'll climb the thousand-year-old tree growing on top of Mount Ur-Tha,' replied Malva delightedly. ‘With a little luck I'll be able to see all the way to Galnicia.'

‘If you do that you might want to go home,' Philomena teased.

‘Not me! When I'm at the top of that tree I'll put out my tongue at Galnicia, the Archont, the Coronada and the Coronador. Then I'll come straight down again and build a house beside the sea, in that bay where a sweet wind blows. The Bay of Dao-Boa. I'll live there for ever and write the story of our adventures!'

In her imagination, the Princess had drawn a map of the entire geography of Elgolia, using the descriptions and names mentioned by old Bulo. She could see herself in the Bay of Dao-Boa, chopping wood, nailing planks together, building the framework of her future home.

‘It won't be a big place, Philomena. There won't be any towers, any Hall of Delicacies, any basins of water like the ones in the Citadel. But it will be my house. The house I built with my own hands.'