After they left Samahgan, Warkannan led his men north rather than straight east, just as if he were indeed going to visit Arkazos family in their country villa. In this province, Zerribir, the larder of Kazrajistan, the land stretched out flat in a broad valley, all gold and red with crops wheatian, oil beans, breadmoss, vegetables tended by farmers who lived in white-washed cottages set among the rosy fields.
Graceful mosques, built of white-washed true-oak and adorned with minarets, rose out of the magenta view. Five times a day they heard the call to prayer, either carried on the wind from a distant spire or close at hand from a wayside shrine. They would dismount and stand in the road, holding their horses reins in one hand while they raised the other to point towards the sky, just as the Second Prophet had taught his people to pray when they were outside. Soutan would stand to one side, watching. One late afternoon Warkannan had enough of seeing him sneer.
And just what are you smirking about? Warkannan said.
Nothing. Soutan wiped the smile off his face. Tell me something, Captain. Do you know what youre pointing at?
Of course. The holy city of Mekka.
Which exists up in the air, floating along?
Dont be stupid! Its a symbol of Paradise, where Mohammeds soul went when he died.
Ah. What would you say if I told you it was a real city, made of wood and vines like any other?
Warkannan considered a number of blunt insults but discarded them. Of course it was, he said instead. Back in the Homelands somewhere. In a desert, if I remember rightly. That doesnt mean it cant have some sort of symbolic meaning as well.
Yes, it was in a desert. Arkazo joined in. And it was made of stones and mortar, not vines. They didnt have as many earthquakes back in the Homelands.
Very good. Soutan favoured him with a small smile. There may be more to your mind than I thought.
Arkazos face brightened with rage, but Warkannan cut him off. Lets get going, he snapped. I want to make a few more miles before sunset.
In this flat country the well-kept roads made travelling easy. Warkannan and his men managed a good twenty-five miles a day at a smooth, steady walk. Now and again they pulled their horses to the side of the road to allow a closed carriage to clatter past, drawn by four matched horses, carrying the womenfolk of some rich man behind its curtained windows. More often the roads ran beside canals, where they saw horse-drawn narrowboats glide by, piled high with produce.
Its peaceful here, Soutan remarked one morning. Peaceful and prosperous.
For now it is, Warkannan said. If theres another round of new taxes, I dont know what people are going to eat. The salt tax has damn near broken the farmers as it is. They have to work out in the sun, and salts no luxury to them. Thats something that Gemet will never understand, the greedy bastard hard work and what it does to a man.
Unfortunately, youre quite right. I have no doubt that Jezro will take a very different view of the matter.
Neither do I. God blessed us when He spared Jezro.
As he damn well should, considering all the trouble you people have gone to for his sake.
Now just what do you mean by that?
Only that you left the Homelands to come here. Havent you ever wondered about those Homelands, Captain?
Warkannan considered as they rode past a long maroon field of vegetables. Out among the rows farmers were harvesting, cutting leaves and piling them high in baskets. He could hear them singing as they worked.
From what I understand, Warkannan said at last, were a lot better off here. The Homelands were filled with infidels and evil magic. It was so bad that the great Mullah Agvar was afraid the true faith would be lost.
Soutan rolled his eyes heavenward. No doubt thats what youve been taught. Dont you ever wonder if its true?
No. Why would I? The mullahs are the ones who have all the old books and such. Theyd know the truth.
Maybe. What if theyre not telling the truth, though?
Why wouldnt they?
To keep you from regretting what youve lost, the Homelands, I mean.
Why would I regret a pack of filthy infidels and their tame demons?
Soutan looked at him for a long moment, eyes wide in exaggerated amazement. You belong in a museum, Captain, he said finally. A pure example of a pure type.
Now, watch it, Soutan!
Soutan flinched as if he expected a blow. Sorry. Didnt mean to be insulting.
Warkannan snorted, then changed the subject.
As they travelled north, they stopped now and then at a cavalry fort to see if they could pick up gossip or news that might point them to the Chosens spy. Warkannans twenty years of service had left him with plenty of friends, many of them stationed at one or the other of the chain of cavalry forts that bound the khanate together. It was at Haz Anjilar that he heard more about the officer cashiered out at Blosk.
Warkannan had left Soutan and Arkazo at the inn and gone alone to pay a courtesy call upon the commander, a colonel named Hikko who had once shared a border posting with him. Over glasses of arak, they agreed that the cavalry wasnt what it used to be, that the young officers nowadays were slack and ill-educated, and that the enlisted men lacked a proper respect for authority.
What we need, Hikko said, is a war. A good long campaign against the ChaMeech now that would weed out the unfit. Thered be none of this lying around the barracks and arguing with the sergeants then.
Cant blame the men, I suppose, Warkannan said. When you consider what theyve got for officers.
Now thats true. Hikko shook his bald head sadly. Ive got a story along those lines. A fellow named Zayn Hassan. Everyone said he had a brilliant career ahead of him. He was stationed in Bariza, on his way up, but he couldnt keep his hands off of some officials wife.
What happened to him?
He ended up cashiered, thats what. Down in Blosk, they flogged him and turned him out. A comnee took him in, apparently. But you know whats damned odd? No one knows the name of this very important cuckold or his wife. Youd think the womenfolk would have spread the gossip over half the khanate.
Warkannan found himself very sober very fast. Yes, he said. Youd think so. How many lashes did this Hassan get?
Twenty.
While Hikko poured himself more arak, Warkannan considered the matter. Twenty stripes the thought made him wince. Would the Chosen inflict them on one of their own just to make his story more convincing? Possibly, considering what they were, but not likely. When Hikko offered him the bottle, Warkannan shook his head.
Ive had plenty, thanks. You know, the husband in the Hassan case could have spread money around to keep his name out of it. Who wants to be known as a cuckold?
Now thats true. And the fellow must have been rich as a khan to get the cavalry to take his revenge for him.
Rich or well-connected.
That too. Damned poor way to run an army, letting civilians meddle with discipline, but there you are.
Warkannan found himself thinking about Zayn Hassan as he walked back to the inn. Something about the story nagged at him. He kept coming back to the lack of names and realized that the tale required more detail to be fully convincing as juicy gossip. Still, Blosk lay nearly four hundred miles to the south, while Haz Evol, where their other suspect had turned up, stood only a hundred and eighty to the east. Warkannan decided theyd best stick with their original plan.
Rich or well-connected.
That too. Damned poor way to run an army, letting civilians meddle with discipline, but there you are.
Warkannan found himself thinking about Zayn Hassan as he walked back to the inn. Something about the story nagged at him. He kept coming back to the lack of names and realized that the tale required more detail to be fully convincing as juicy gossip. Still, Blosk lay nearly four hundred miles to the south, while Haz Evol, where their other suspect had turned up, stood only a hundred and eighty to the east. Warkannan decided theyd best stick with their original plan.
On the morrow they left Haz Anjilar early. Some five miles along the khans highway they rode up to an intersection where a square-cut stone pillar stood in a little island at the cross of the roads. Carved arrows pointed north to Merrok, west to Kazrikki-on-Sea, south back the way theyd come, and east to Haz Evol and the border. They paused their horses beside the pillar, and Warkannan pointed to the north road.
All right, Arkazo, he said. What do you say you keep riding north and take some letters to your mother for me?
No! Arkazos face flushed scarlet. You said I could come! I mean, with all due respect, Uncle.
Warkannan laughed. Respect, huh? All right, Nephew. I wanted to give you one last chance to stay out of this.
Arkazo shook his head, glaring at him all the while.
All right, Warkannan said. Ill just have to pray that your mother forgives me.
They reined their horses to the east and rode off, heading for the border. Not far along the east-running road the land began rising in a long slope. Ahead a ripple of purple hills stood at the horizon like a fort wall, guarding the civilized life they were about to leave behind.
And beyond them lie the plains, Warkannan said to Arkazo. And the ChaMeech. Its a damned shame the Third Prophet didnt wipe them out when he had the chance. Kaleel Mahmet, blessed be his name of course, but I cant help wishing hed driven them across the plains and slaughtered the lot.
Indeed? Soutan snapped. Theyre not animals, Captain. They have language, they have feelings.
So? Warkannan turned in the saddle to look at him. They also have weapons, and theyll use them on any Hmai they can.
Horseshit! Do they ever attack the Tribes?
Oh all right, then. They use them on any Kazrak they can.
Now, thats true enough. Of course, they feel they have reason to. Your southern provinces were theirs, originally.
Well, hell, they werent using the land. They turned up there maybe once a year if that.
They dont farm. Their culture needs land for other things.
Like what? Strolling around admiring the ocean view?
Soutan rolled his eyes heavenward and sighed with great drama. No, but I doubt if I can convince you, he said. There are advantages to seeing things simply, I suppose.
And whats that supposed to mean?
Think about it, Captain, think about it. Soutan smiled, then nudged his horse with one foot and pulled ahead to end the conversation.
Warkannan exchanged a look of disgust with Arkazo. They rode on without speaking.
Like all members of the Chosen, Zayn Hassan whose real name was Zahir Benumar possessed odd talents that set him apart from normal human beings, but something prosaic had recommended him for this particular mission. Before the Chosen had discovered his existence, Zayn had spent six years on the border in the regular cavalry, where hed known Idres Warkannan well, a useful thing in the eyes of his superiors, and the reason that they hadnt simply arrested the circle around Councillor Indan and his mysterious sorcerer. When Zayn had insisted that Warkannan would never involve himself in anything the least bit illegal, his superior officers had accepted his opinion, then decided that he was the ideal person to piece together information about Yarl Soutan and Warkannans investment group.
Zayn had also learned the Tribes language, Hirl-Onglay, which he spoke with no noticeable Kazraki accent. He had a knack for learning that went far beyond any abstract intelligence. Just from meeting comnee women at the horse fairs he had soaked up more information about their customs than ten Kazraki scholars might have done. He knew, for instance, that the comnees admired a man with endurance and that theyd see his supposed adultery as no crime at all. All his superiors had to do was to ensure that his little charade got itself played out at a horse fair. So far, the plan was working splendidly; hed even had the sheer good luck to be rescued by a shaman, a spirit rider as the Tribes called them.
But many times in the following days, Zayn had to admit that he had never realized just how much that flogging was going to cost him. He had seen men flogged during his days in the cavalry, but they had endured a few quick stripes, four at the most, delivered by a man who knew them and who kept the lashes as light as he could while his commander watched. Their ordeal had been nothing like his.
That first day Zayn could barely stand, and in fact, Orador insisted he lie prone. The pain burned on his back like a fire dancing on oil. Although he could keep control of his own actions, the world around him ceased to make much sense. People came and went, their voices came and went, the sunlight fell or shadows deepened. Oradors round face would suddenly swim into his field of vision. His broad, scar-flecked hands would shove a piece of leather between Zayns teeth for him to bite on, then drizzle stinging keese over the wounds. When Zayn came round from the resulting faint, the apprentices hands, slender but still calloused and scarred, would hold a bowl of water so he could drink. Afterwards Zayn would sleep, only to dream of the flogging all over again and wake in a cold sweat.
Finally, somewhere around noon of the second day he realized that the pain was lessening. He was lying on his stomach in Ammadins tent when Orador came in, looked over the wounds, and told him that they were scabbing up nicely, as the healer put it. While they throbbed, they had stopped burning.
Dont sit up yet, Orador said. I dont want you breaking them open again.
Dont worry, Zayn said. Thank you, by the way.
Youre welcome. Ill be back around sunset.
Wait can you tell me something? I had a bedroll and some saddlebags when I left the fort.
Its all right here. Orador glanced around, then pointed. Over there by the tent flap. Nobodys opened them.
Thanks. Zayn let out his breath in a long sigh of relief. He carried things in those bags that he wanted no one to see, lock picks and other tools better suited to a thief than a soldier. During his initiation into the Chosen, hed learned that theyd started out back in the Homelands as special military personnel called commandos during dangerous wars that threatened the existence of entire countries. Now, the battles all seemed to be against their own people, though always, or so hed been told, in service to the laws of the Great Khan.
After Orador left, Zayn stretched his arms out to either side and laid his face against the blanket under him. He found himself wondering yet again what had made him come up with this wretched idea. Its for the Great Khan, he told himself, and for the honour of the Chosen. The Chosen had become his whole life and his reason to live. Before his initiation he had been nothing, worthless worse than worthless, a man set apart by evil secrets. They had rescued him, or so he saw it, and he owed them any amount of suffering in return. He fell asleep to dream that once again he stood bound to the pillar of blue quartz in the fiery room, a masked officers glowing knife at his throat, to swear his vow to the Chosen and the Great Khan.