To the High Redoubt (33 page)

The current grew more ferocious, and Arkady was swept downstream at an increasing speed. He felt his legs slap against a hidden rock and tried to gauge how badly hurt he might have been if it weren't for the woven armor. He was spun once as the water eddied and swirled, and he looked toward the shore in the hope that it might be safe to swim toward it. The scorpions were there, and with them other creatures that Arkady had never seen and could not name
.

“They are made by the Bundhi.” Surata said breathlessly. “They are only found in this other place; they are not of the daily world.”

Then the river had them again and they were carried toward the rapids
.

Arkady gathered himself into a tighter form, hoping this would make injury less likely. He felt helpless to resist the river. In the next instant, he had slapped against a rock, crying out
and holding Surata fiercely, his fingers sunk into her shoulders as he gasped for air.

“Arkady-champion,” Surata panted, her head pressed against his shoulder. “I did not think that would happen. Truly.”

“I believe you,” Arkady said after a moment. His arms ached from fighting the river, and he was dazed from the suddeness of his return to the daily world. He shook his head, feeling the excitement fade from his flesh. “Does that happen every time I spend myself?”

Surata smiled slightly. “For those who are advanced in their studies, no, because they can sustain their desire after spending themselves. For most men, Arkady-champion, it is as it is for you.”

“And for you?” he asked, touching her face with the tips of his fingers. Her blind eyes were on his, and he had the uncanny feeling that she was
looking
at him.

“It is different with women, Arkady-champion. It is not our part to give but to receive, and because of that, we are…capable of longer unity.”

“What do you mean, you don't give? You have given me…everything.” He leaned forward to kiss her. “Surata, no one has given me more than you have, ever.”

“With my body I receive,” she said patiently. “The female is made to give love and receive the flesh, as a man is made to give flesh and receive love.” She tossed her head. “You wish to argue now?”

“Yes,” he said emphatically. “Surata, I love you. Don't you understand that yet?”

“Ah, but which comes first? Did you know of this love when you bought me? When you allowed me to touch you the first time, was that for love, or the need of your body?” She kissed the lobe of his ear, his jaw, the curve of his collarbone.

“It was…” He stopped. “I don't know
what
it was, Surata.”

“But you see, I loved you from the very first, because you heard my call and answered it.” She moved off his lap. “Arkady-immai, I am tired. Do you mind if I sleep?”

He shook his head. “I'm tired too.” He felt around them for their blankets, shoved the pack away and in a little while was lost in his dreams.

In the morning he saw the bruises on her arms and hips and legs. “What happened? What…who did that to you?” He feared that he might have hurt her without knowing it, and the very idea sickened him.

“In the river, the rocks did it,” she said matter-of-factly. “It doesn't matter that I was not in this body, I still was present and this—”

“Do you mean that any time you are…” He coughed and started again. “When you are my protection, it hurts you?” He made no effort to conceal his indignation.

“Not always, Arkady-immai. But when there are blows, the blows are real, whether they are in the daily world or the other place and…Are they very bad?” She moved a little stiffly.

“You look as if someone has beat you.” Arkady could hear the anger in his voice, and the force of his emotion surprised him.

“Well, someone has,” she said, still in a very reasonable tone. “I do not mind, Arkady-immai. Truly, I do not.”

“I
do,” he shouted. “I won't have you hurt for me, Surata.”

She set aside the blankets she was rolling to put in their pack. “Arkady-immai, that is not for you to choose, it is for me. You are my champion, and I am your protection. You may choose to fight or not, but you cannot stop me from defending you, for that is
my
choice.”

Arkady had almost finished tightening the girths on three of the pack saddles. “And if I don't fight, what then?”

“Then I must face the Bundhi as best I can,” she said with no particular emotion.

“I can't let you do that!” His voice was so loud that the nearest mule laid back his ears and made a distressed sound.

“That is not for you to say, Arkady-immai.” She went back to the blankets. “We should be away soon. Unless you would rather not go on.”

“If I don't, I suppose you will try to get to Samarkand and to Ajni by yourself? You're my slave; I can take you away with me if I want to.” He folded his arms to keep himself from going to her and embracing her.

“You can do that. But you would no longer be my champion,” she told him very calmly.

“Right.” He turned back to the girths, tightening them so forcefully that one of the mules tried to kick him. Suddenly Arkady came to her. “It's just that I can't bear to see you hurt, Surata.”

“I know,” she said to him as she handed him the filled pack.

He took it silently and went on with breaking camp.

At the mouth of the Volga, the river split into many little rivers divided by marshy islands. It was on one of these islands at the edge of the Caspian Sea that Itil stood, its spires and domes rising over the water like enormous marsh grasses.

“They're Islamites here,” Arkady said to Surata as he paid the bargeman whose boat had carried them to the gates of the city. “We'll have to be careful. There have been other religions here, or there must have been, but no longer.”

“Very well,” she said serenely. “Pull the veil over my face, Arkady-immai. I know that they do not wish to look on me.”

This time it took more than four days to find a caravan going to Khiva, and it cost Arkady four gold pieces to be allowed to join it. He complained to Surata that since he could not speak the language of the men of the caravan, he would have to rely on pantomime and signs. “I can't draw well, or that might be a way to tell them what I need to know.”

“When we reach Khiva, then I can help you. I know some of that language; not much, but enough.” She paused. “They will not like to speak with a woman; Islamites don't.”

“We'll manage somehow,” Arkady said bracingly. “We will have to eat apart from the others; they've insisted on that, and it might be best if…if you and I don't—”

“Go to the other place,” she said for him. “Yes, I've thought of that. There is too much of a risk.”

“Do you think…” He made a gesture which she could not see. “The Bundhi has agents, you tell me. Would these be his men?”

“Islamites? No, they would not. To them, the Bundhi is an evil sorcerer and an Infidel. They would never deal with him.” She fussed with her veil. “This is foolish, veiling a blind woman.”

“Surata, it would take little for them to abandon us, and it would not be easy for us to reach Khiva without them.” Arkady put a consoling hand on her arm. “It is only for the length of the journey, and then it will be different.”

She nodded once. “We must do what is easiest.” Her expression was not clear to him, and he waited for her to say more. When she did not, he dropped his hand and went to find the caravan leader to make his final arrangements.

They were required to stay at the back of the caravan, behind two old and vile-tempered she-camels that stank and spat if Arkady let his gelding get too close to them. In the heat of the day, the dust raised by the caravan forced Arkady and Surata to ride in a perpetual gritty cloud; in the evening, they sat together in isolation while the men of the caravan ate, prayed and joked.

By the time they crossed the Ural River and entered the city of Gurjev, Arkady was so vexed that he was tempted to leave the caravan and wait for another.

“It would mean a long wait,” Surata reminded him. “This is the height of summer and few caravans venture across the desert at this time of year. The longer we stay here, or anywhere, the greater are our chances of being found by the Bundhi.”

“He must be as reluctant to go across the desert as anyone else,” Arkady said in disgust. His eyes ached and he was furious.

“He need not cross himself. His agents are eager to have his good opinion and will undertake…anything he wishes.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I am sorry, Arkady-immai, that we must do this.”

Until she said that, he agreed with her, but now that she had apologized, he felt his attitude change. “Well, if this discomfort makes it easier to reach the Bundhi, then it is good strategy for us to do it.”

They were in their tent outside the walls of Gurjev—since they were foreigners and Infidels, they were not permitted to sleep inside the city. It was a still, baking night, one that stifled the very air. Since sunset, they had been alone; the men of the caravan had been accorded a welcome Arkady and Surata were denied.

“Suppose they simply leave without us?” Arkady suggested some little time later. He had tried without success to fall asleep, and now lay staring up at the peak of the tent, feeling the rivulets of sweat run off his body and soak into the blanket beneath him.

“Do you think they would?” Surata was drowsy but still awake.

“They might. What could we do to them? Where could we complain? Who would listen to us? Who would understand?” He sighed and turned over, willing himself, unsuccessfully, to rest.

Surata had no answer for him, and said nothing.

Two days later they once more took up their position at the rear of the caravan and set out across the desolate lands east of the Caspian Sea. Four days out from Gurjev, they encountered a west-bound caravan from Kabul, and the two groups camped together for three days, the traders exchanging information and gossip while Arkady and Surata waited in their tent, forbidden to let themselves be seen by the Kabuli merchants.

Among the Kabuli was a strange, wizened man, gnarled by disease into a skinny gnome. He was regarded by all the merchants with a reverence that bordered on fear. He took an immediate dislike to Arkady and Surata, castigating them in a frenzy of incomprehensible words. The caravan leader who had accepted Arkady's gold began to make the sign to ward off evil every time he came near anything belonging to the foreigners. There was no doubt that the misshapen mystic had influenced the caravan leader.

“I don't like it,” Arkady grumbled at the end of the third day. “That magician, or whatever he is, he's up to no good.”

“I wish I could leave this tent,” Surata said. “I might be able to understand him.”

“No. The leader made it plain that you're to stay out of sight. So am I.” He could not pace in the limited area of the tent, but he moved restlessly, glaring at the wedge of sunlight that slanted in at them.

“Describe him to me again,” Surata requested.

“Little, bent, knobby, old.” He ticked these features off on his fingers. “Falls into trances, harangues the others, eats only cooked grain. I don't know, Surata. I can't understand most of what they're saying, and even if I did, they wouldn't let me near him long enough to find out much.” He snorted. “Fools!”

“Yes, but they know the way.” She rubbed her face. “Do we have our packs ready?”

This question was so unexpected that he turned and stared at her. “What? Why do you want to know that?”

“Because I'm worried,” she admitted and would say nothing more.

By nightfall a slow, persistent wind had come up, and with it, a pervasive sense of unease. The camels became more obstreperous than ever, the mules balked at their feed, and Arkady's gelding tried to nip him when Arkady brought him a leather pail filled with water.

“They sense something,” Surata told Arkady when he complained of the way the animals were acting. “I don't know what it is, but they can tell there is trouble coming.”

Arkady knew better than to discount this. How many times had he felt the same disquiet before a battle? He strove to remain composed, but his inner anxiety grew as the night deepened and he heard the animals grunting and stamping.

“It's that damned holy man of theirs. He's making everyone upset and the animals feel it.” Arkady slammed his fist into his open palm. “By tomorrow, they'll all be as mad as he is.”

Surata shook her head. “That might be part of it, Arkady-immai, but it isn't all of it.” She had been sitting quietly, in one of her ritualistic postures. “He's…summoning.”

Arkady stared at her, the back of his neck prickling. “Summoning what?”

“I don't know. I'm not sure what it is.” She gave an impatient clicking of her tongue. “He is…masked to me. I have tried to reach him, to learn what he is doing, but…” Helplessly she opened her hands. “Arkady-immai, I can discover nothing.”

“Well,” he said wryly, “then we're both confused.” He sat beside her, his legs crossed. “I wish they'd all go to bed. They're still eating and talking. They might be up half the night.” He faltered, then went on. “I don't want to sleep while they're in the state they are. If I have to fight them off, I want to be awake enough to know what I'm doing.”

“I don't know if that's the problem,” she said somberly. “I think it is something…different.”

“Worse?” he asked.

“I don't know.” In her frustration, she struck out in the direction of his voice, but succeeded only in hitting the heel of his boot. With a cry she pulled her hand back.

“Surata, I…” He tried to comfort her, but she wrenched away from him.

“No. I've failed you.”