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‘Then you’ll have to go back to your mother’s comnee,’ Apanador said. ‘Maybe your sister will let you guard her horses.’
Blushing a furious scarlet, Palindor strode off into the darkness. When Dallador started after him, Apanador caught his arm.
‘Talking to him right now won’t do any good. After he’s had a chance to think, I’ll take him aside. Zayn, let’s go drink in my tent. There’s a lot you need to know.’
In a group the men surrounded Zayn and led him off. All sly smiles, Maradin hurried over to join Ammadin.
‘Now isn’t this interesting? So you want to have Zayn riding with us, do you?’
‘You’re being tedious. It doesn’t take the spirit power to know what you’re thinking, Maddi, and no, I have no intention of marrying him.’
‘Hah!’
‘Oh, shut up! Why are you always trying to get me to marry some lout?’
‘Well, for the children, of course.’ Maradin seemed honestly surprised that she’d ask. ‘What are you going to do when you’re old, and you don’t have any granddaughters? Who are you going to leave your horses to?’
‘Your granddaughters, probably. You don’t understand. The spirit knowledge is all I’ve ever wanted, and it’ll be more comfort than a hundred daughters when I’m old.’
Maradin thought this over. ‘Well, maybe so – for you,’ she said at last. ‘But come on, you’ve got to admit that Zayn’s a handsome man.’
‘Take him as a lover if you like him so much. I’m not going to.’
‘Hah!’
‘Oh, stop saying hah!’
Ammadin turned her back on Maradin and strode away. She was beginning to regret ever picking Zayn up off the streets of Blosk.
Out away from the camp, in the quiet, her anger ebbed away. She lay down on her back in the crackling grass and considered the night sky. Just overhead hung the Herd, as the Tribes called the spiral of light that the Kazraks had named the Spider. Galloping down fast from the north came the Six Riders, silver and bright against the dead, dark sky. Shamans like Ammadin knew lore lost to the Kazraks, that there were actually sixty riders, ten groups of six apiece, that galloped in formations whose return and permutations were as predictable as the rising of the sun. These flying lamps – or maybe they were tiny worlds; opinions differed – controlled the spirits of the crystals.
And just what, she wondered, was the Herd? She sat up, considering. Her teacher had told her that powerful spirits had gashed the heavenly sphere to allow light from the spirit world to shine through and give the Tribes light in the darkness. Loremasters in the Cantons claimed that suns, thousands and thousands of them altogether, had clustered together to form the Herd. The points of light looked so small only because they lay at some unimaginable distance in the sky. Why would spirits perform such a mighty act of magic just to help the lowly H’mai? Or, if there were other suns, did other worlds circle them? Wouldn’t they bump into each other, in that case? Neither theory made sense.
In the morning, while the rest of the comnee packed the wagons, Ammadin rode back to the stream to check her spirit pearls. She found the sticks, and when she knelt on the bank she saw the two shrivelled pearls still lying where they’d been the day before. They had definitely grown smaller and more wizened overnight. The smooth spherical pearls that had lain near them had disappeared, twitching themselves downstream, she assumed. Why would the gods object if she took a dead thing out of the water? Despite the logic of her own argument, she had to summon courage before she could reach into the stream and pick up one of the dead pearls.
The surface felt like a saur’s eyeball, cold gel in a membrane. She brought it up and laid it on the flattened leaves of a red fern, but as soon as the air touched it, it began to shrink and pucker. She drew her knife and slashed it in half. The interior liquid spilled and ran, leaving thin milky husks to shrivel in the air. In the centre lay something as small as a bead. She slid the point of her knife under a little clot of tissue, touched with pale orange blood.
‘Exactly like the lizard eggs!’
Ammadin used her free hand to dig a tiny grave on the bank, then laid both embryos inside and covered them. She washed the blade of her knife clean, dried it on her tunic, and sheathed it. Apparently the spirit pearls were nothing but the eggs of some animal – a fish, perhaps?
‘But why would they be Bane?’
Witchwoman, help me! Our gods they leave us. Our children they die.
The voice rasped and hissed. She heard it not with her ears, but with the bone of her skull just behind her left ear – or so it seemed. A spirit voice, then. She crouched on the bank and listened.
Witchwoman, please hear me.
‘I do hear you.’ Ammadin spoke aloud. ‘Can you hear me?’
Please hear me. Please help me. I be Water Woman.
The voice disintegrated into a long hiss and crackle, then faded away. Ammadin sat back onto her heels.
‘Her children? Does she mean the pearls?’
It was possible that spirits were trying to be born into this world, and that the eggs were their means of taking on bodies. The theory struck her as clumsy. Questions, more questions, and the cold bite of doubt – the spirit’s voice made them urgent.
‘Water Woman!’ she called out. ‘Water Woman, can you hear me?’
No answer came, not even the hissing. Ammadin got up, rubbing her arms, chilly with gooseflesh still. She decided that she would supervise Zayn’s vision quest, then start looking for another spirit rider to tend her comnee. The questions would give her no peace until she tried to answer them. Besides, if she left on a quest of her own, her absence would keep Palindor from Zayn’s throat. But the trouble came too fast, flaring up like a spark in dry grass when she returned to camp. Most of the wagons stood packed and ready to move out, but the men were still breaking down the last few tents and stowing a few last pieces of gear where they could find room. Ammadin was putting her bedroll into a wagon when she heard someone shout in alarm. As she ran towards the sound, she saw Dallador and Grenidor grabbing Palindor by the arms and hauling him back. Zayn faced him, his hands on his hips. Just as Ammadin reached them, Apanador ran up. She stepped back and let him settle this men’s matter.
‘And what’s all this?’ Apanador growled. ‘How did it start?’
‘Over something really stupid,’ Dallador said. ‘Palindor said Zayn shoved him when they were loading the wagon.’
‘I won’t have this kind of trouble in the comnee.’ Apanador looked back and forth at Palindor and Zayn. ‘I can see that we need to do some hard talking.’
Palindor’s handsome face twisted. He shook free of the restraining hands, but he sheathed his knife.
‘I’m willing to settle this once and for all,’ Zayn said. ‘Let’s have our fight but with bare hands. The one who loses leaves the comnee.’
Apanador turned Palindor’s way and raised an eyebrow.
‘I’ll agree to that,’ Palindor said. ‘But you won’t have a horse and a sabre on your side, Kazrak.’
Zayn merely smiled.
The entire comnee came to witness the fight, held on a stretch of ground where the horses had cropped the grass down to good footing. Palindor handed his long knife and Zayn his Kazrak dagger over to Apanador. Ammadin was furious with both men; no matter what the rest of the comnee might think, she knew they were fighting over her like studs over a mare in heat. Apanador left the two standing about three feet apart and carried the weapons back to the waiting comnee.
‘Very well,’ the chief called out. ‘Begin.’
They dropped to a fighting crouch and began to circle round each other, hands raised, eyes narrowed. Zayn kept his hands open, not in fists, and moved as smoothly as a cat. They feinted in, testing each other, dancing back fast; then Palindor charged, swinging both fists. Zayn ducked, feinted, dodged, then landed a solid punch. The comnee shouted as Palindor staggered back with his mouth bleeding. Zayn closed in and landed a quick series of blows. When Palindor tried to dodge, his foot slipped, and he went down to one knee. Zayn waited as Palindor got up, gasping for breath, his face so dark with rage and blood that he looked like a demon.
The fall taught Palindor something. This time, he feinted in cautiously, keeping his hands low, aiming for Zayn’s stomach, not his head. Zayn danced in, slapped him across the face, and danced back before Palindor could hit in return. With a howl of rage, Palindor charged. Zayn let him close, then struck with half-closed hands, punching him in the face, blocking Palindor’s every blow while Palindor struggled and fought, swaying where he stood but still game. Suddenly Ammadin realized that Zayn could kill him with his bare hands if he wanted. She ran to Apanador and grabbed his arm.
‘Stop it! It’s gone far enough.’
With a nod of agreement, Apanador trotted out and yelled at them to stop. When Zayn stepped back at the order, Palindor threw one last punch. Zayn grabbed his wrist and swung him around, pulling him back against his chest with Palindor’s arm twisted in his grip. Palindor dropped to his knees and bit his lower lip so hard that it bled again.
‘He said stop.’ Zayn let him go with a shove.
Gasping for breath, rubbing his arm, Palindor refused to look up when Apanador walked over.
‘All right, saddle your horse,’ Apanador said. ‘Ride out.’
Palindor nodded, then staggered off, heading for the wagons to retrieve the few things he owned. For a few minutes Zayn stood alone, rubbing his bloody, swelling knuckles, until Orador brought him some herb paste to treat them. Together they went back to loading the wagons as if nothing had happened.
Ammadin waited until Palindor was ready to ride. When he led his bay gelding out, loaded with saddlebags, she joined him at the edge of the camp. He refused to look at her, merely twisted his reins round and round his bruised fingers while the horse snorted and tossed its head.
‘Find a woman who wants you,’ she said. ‘You’re too good a man to demean yourself this way.’
Palindor shrugged and twisted the leather tight. ‘When he betrays you, remember that I love you.’
He turned away and swung into the saddle. Ammadin watched him till he rode out of sight, a tiny figure, disappearing into the purple grasslands like a stone dropping into the sea.
When they were still some two days’ ride away from the Great River, Warkannan and his men came across another Tribal camp, an unusually small comnee led by a chief named Sammador. They rode in, dismounted, and found themselves in the middle of a swarm of young children, who stared at them silently with solemn eyes.
‘Where are your fathers?’ Warkannan said in Hirl-Onglay. ‘Hunting?’
The children said nothing. From one of the tents someone shouted; from another an older girl crawled out. When she called, the camp came alive, and adults surrounded the Kazraks. The girl, or young woman, really – Warkannan judged her to be fifteen or so – hooked her thumbs into the waist of her saurskin trousers and stood off to one side, staring at Tareev and Arkazo with undisguised interest.
Warkannan addressed himself to the young chief. After the usual greetings, Warkannan asked if anyone knew a Kazrak travelling with a spirit rider to the south. Luck favoured him. Sammador’s comnee had travelled to the Blosk horse fair, and they gave him names: Zayn was the Kazrak, and Ammadin, who rode with old Apanador’s comnee, the spirit rider. With this information, however, came ominous news.
‘Ammadin is a really powerful woman,’ Sammador told him. ‘All the other spirit riders say so.’
‘Really? Well, I’ll count myself honoured if I ever meet her.’
‘Good, good.’ Sammador glanced around at his people. ‘But I’m forgetting my manners. Will you join our camp for the night?’
‘Thanks, but no,’ Warkannan said. ‘I was hoping to make a few more miles before sunset.’
With a wave of his arm, Warkannan gathered up his men, mounted, and led them back out into the grass. When they’d gone about a mile, he stopped his small caravan; the other men guided their horses up to his.
‘Listen,’ Warkannan said. ‘We’re going to have to plan Zayn’s death carefully. If we kill the servant of a witchwoman, the Tribes will take it as an insult, and they’ll be crying for our blood. The Tribes practically worship their witches.’
‘It’s much more likely that she’d take her vengeance on her own,’ Soutan said. ‘This is a damned nuisance, Captain. I’ve never met a witchwoman yet who didn’t have the greatest power. They look primitive, these people, but their magic isn’t.’
‘I take it you know something about it, then,’ Warkannan said. ‘Their kind of magic, that is.’
‘There’s only one kind of magic.’ Soutan paused for one of his teeth-baring smiles. ‘The kind that works.’
That afternoon they made camp by a stream deep enough for bathing. The three Kazraks stripped off their clothes and waded in, passing a bar of soap back and forth. Soutan sat on the bank, however, and read a book he’d been carrying in his saddlebags.
‘Don’t you want to come in?’ Warkannan called to him.
‘Later perhaps.’ Soutan kept his nose in his book. ‘Not right now.’
His choice, Warkannan supposed. When Tareev and Arkazo lapsed into horseplay, threatening to drown one another and yelling mock insults, Warkannan left the water. Still naked he knelt on the bank and washed out his undershirt and shorts, then put them on wet. In the heat of late afternoon, they’d dry fast enough. He washed his socks and shirt, too, and laid them onto the grass to dry. Soutan looked up and shut his book.
‘Where did you get that scar?’ Soutan said. ‘The long one on the back of your leg.’
‘From a ChaMeech spear.’
‘It looks like you’re lucky to be alive. A few inches higher, and you’d have bled to death.’
‘Yes, that’s certainly true.’ Warkannan reflexively reached down and rubbed the scar. ‘But that’s not the worst thing they ever did to me.’
‘Oh?’ Soutan cocked an eyebrow.
‘I was taken prisoner by the slimy bastards – me and Zahir Benumar. Kareem and I mentioned him, if you remember. He was one of my sergeants, then; he was commissioned later. Anyway, we caught a pack of them trying to steal our horses, and they outnumbered us.’
Soutan winced. ‘That must have been unpleasant.’
‘You could call it that. They tied leather thongs around our wrists, tied ropes to those, then took off at a lope in the hot sun.’ Warkannan held up his hands so Soutan could see the scars, thick as bracelets, around each wrist. ‘Benumar has a set to match these.’ He lowered his hands again. ‘They dragged us along when we couldn’t run any more. Now and then they’d stop, let us rest, then take off again.’ Warkannan shook his head to clear it of the memory. ‘If it weren’t for Jezro Khan, we’d have been killed for their amusement. Very slowly.’
Soutan winced again, then put the book down on the grass beside him. ‘Jezro was an acknowledged heir then, yes?’
‘Acknowledged and sanctified. He had the zalet khanej around his neck.’
‘Ah yes, the medallion. He showed it to me once. He seemed quite proud of it, but it ended up being his death warrant.’
‘Once the old khan – his father – died, yes.’ Warkannan felt his rage, rising sharp in his blood. ‘Gemet turned out to be a murderous little swine.’
‘Indan told me that it wasn’t technically murder, that the oldest son has some sort of legal right to clear away excess heirs.’
‘That’s true, but it’s a very old law. Most great khans find positions at the palace or in the army for their brothers, or at least for the ones who are willing to swear loyalty. The recalcitrant ones are usually just castrated. Gemet had every single one of them killed, loyal or not, even the bastards.’
‘Except Jezro.’
‘Yes, except Jezro. The Lord is merciful, blessed be His name.’
Soutan glanced away, his lips pursed as if he were thinking something through. Out in the stream Tareev and Arkazo were still splashing around like schoolboys.
‘All right,’ Warkannan called out. ‘That’s enough. Out of the water! Get your stinking underwear clean, will you?’
Still laughing they climbed out to follow his orders. Soutan picked up his book again and ostentatiously began to read. Soutan’s loose trousers had once been tan, and his tunic blue, but they were spotted and stained with grass and sweat both. His face, oddly enough, looked both unstubbled and clean, but the rest of him stank.
‘Soutan?’ Warkannan said. ‘You can bathe in peace now.’
‘Thank you, but no.’ Soutan kept his gaze on the book. ‘I prefer to bathe in complete privacy. I know this seems strange to you Kazraks, what with your public bath houses and all, but I detest the idea of someone watching me.’
‘To each his own.’ Warkannan raised his hands palms upward. ‘It’ll be dark soon.’
After the evening meal, Soutan did indeed borrow the soap and take himself off downstream. As they sat by their fire, they could hear him splashing and even, at odd moments, singing.
‘Tell me something, Uncle,’ Arkazo said. ‘That girl this afternoon?’
‘What girl?’
‘The one in the comnee’s camp. The pretty one.’
Warkannan suppressed a smile. ‘Most Tribal women are pretty,’ he said.
‘Yes sir,’ Arkazo went on. ‘It’s really something, isn’t it, how all these people look alike? But we meant –’
‘Sir, the one who –’ Tareev interrupted. ‘Well, I thought she was looking me and Kaz over. Those stories you hear about comnee women? Are they true?’
