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His sneering assessment of Cassandane’s uniform was familiar too: the Nizam had viewed it with the same contempt.
“Enough.” Arsalan moved to the windows beyond the war room, tracking the Talisman’s progress. “Their army is in a state of confusion after the attack on their commanders. If there was a time to strike out, it would be now. The Black Khan—the Dark Mage—is in conference with the other Mages. If they can give us cover, we could send Cataphracts out into the open.” He pressed Maysam’s shoulder with one hand. “And only Cataphracts. You have your own corps of archers. You’ve no need of the Teerandaz.”
“I still think the risk is too great,” Cassandane insisted.
She was getting ready to elaborate when Arsalan offered mildly, “Do you, Captain? I was speaking to Maysam.”
There was no mistaking the reproof. Cassandane flushed to the roots of her hair, her smooth dark skin aglow. This was the first time Arsalan had rebuked her in the presence of the other commanders. Maysam was quick to take advantage.
“We stand a better chance with archers from the Teerandaz,” he argued.
But Arsalan overrode Maysam’s objection.
“Nonnegotiable. Captain Cassandane is correct. The Teerandaz must hold the gates. But that doesn’t mean we can’t do a little damage. Instead of the ambush you suggest, consider this.” He pointed to a spot farther south, closer to the Zhayedan Gate. The Talisman had set up camp close to their walls for an ugly and sinister purpose. “You could achieve this, Maysam. With the Teerandaz’s help.”
It took Cassandane the briefest glance at the map to grasp Arsalan’s suggestion. The tightness in her chest loosened. She had deserved his rebuke. She should have known better than to think the Commander of the Zhayedan wouldn’t have planned for every possible contingency before he summoned his council.
“You would mount a rescue of refugees? To what end?” Maysam rolled up the map and tossed it to one side, dismissing the idea. Unfazed by this show of disrespect, Arsalan smoothed it out again, pointing to the area where the Talisman had taken prisoners to use as shields.
Only then did he let his anger show, a cloud darkening his brow. He leaned forward, his face within inches of Maysam’s.
“To this end. We do not abandon the people the Black Khan claims as his own.”
When the council had disbanded in resentful silence, Arsalan called Cassandane back. She turned to face him, her hands clenched on her helmet, steeling herself for a thorough dressing-down. Her shoulders squared, she stared at the Commander’s insignia: a small onyx rook mounted on silver at his neck.
“Forgive me, Commander,” she said quietly. “I know I spoke out of turn.”
His strong hand tilted up her chin, the hint of a smile in his eyes.
“It was a tactic, Cassandane. To pacify Maysam’s pride.”
He dropped his hand, giving her a moment to puzzle his actions through. Startled, she made the connection.
“You aren’t certain of the extent of the Nizam’s influence. But do you suspect traitors within the ranks of the Cataphracts?”
“Especially within the Cataphracts. If we are betrayed, it will be at their hands.”
“Do you also suspect the Teerandaz?” She was an experienced soldier, but Arsalan’s air of authority coupled with his physical presence made her second-guess herself. She couldn’t help the note of diffidence in her voice or her desire for reassurance.
She drew a silent breath when he brushed his hand against her cheek, a gesture of comradeship, just as he had pressed Maysam’s shoulder in affection.
“Of course not,” he said. “I’ve known you far too long.” His words were grimly pragmatic as he added, “The Nizam held you in disfavor.”
She gave a grim smile of her own. “He thought the Teerandaz should be disbanded. Until he spoke so harshly of our competence, the Zhayedan were wont to treat us with respect.” Then, not wanting to sound as if she pitied herself, when she’d been fortunate enough to have been given Arsalan’s attention, she went on briskly, “Were you serious about the rescue?”
“It stands a greater chance of success than the sortie Maysam had in mind. It will also end any doubt as to where his loyalties lie.”
Cassandane worked through this. “Because he’ll choose his own men, and if he wishes, they’ll be free to defect. We won’t be able to stop him from joining forces with the Talisman.”
Though his eyes were gentle on her face, Arsalan’s response was pure steel.
“I have faith in your aim, Captain, so do not let me down.”
4 (#ulink_c911cf45-b67c-5693-99a5-c6309607e5d8)
ARIAN SHOOK BACK HER CLOAK TO SHOW THEIR CAPTORS HER CIRCLETS. At once, Sinnia mirrored the gesture. Both women wondered if it would matter, and if there was any hope for Khashayar, their sole remaining escort.
The man in the burnoose paused, his eyes skirting the golden bands. He called another man to stand beside him, his voice rough with command. There were eighteen others gathered on the sand, nineteen including the one who’d spoken. They were dressed in sand-colored cloaks worn over long white thobes, their heads wrapped in red-and-white headcloths. Dark-eyed to a man, their skin was a golden-brown deepened by desert sun, weathered from exposure to its relentless heat. They stood at their ease, their eyes as clear as a desert falcon’s. Nothing in their appearance suggested they were men to fear … save for the whipcord readiness with which they had struck down Khashayar’s men.
“Traders,” Sinnia murmured in Arian’s ear.
The man in the burnoose heard her, his eyes wandering over Sinnia’s face, over the clustered curls that had begun to grow out from her head in tiny spirals. To Sinnia’s surprise, his eyes warmed, as he gave her a slow nod.
“Najashi,” he said with respect, to a murmur from the men behind him. “Companion from the land of the Negus. I do not know the other.”
Arian gave her name. After a pause, she added, “First Oralist of Hira.”
Another murmur, different in tenor than the first. It held a tinge of fear in it.
Arian observed the thick leather belts that cinched the cloaks these men wore. Each belt was inscribed with the words Over this are Nineteen.
She pondered the significance of the nineteen men who surrounded them; perhaps they were the commanders of the army at their back. If the man in the burnoose was the leader of the Nineteen, then the man at his side must be his lieutenant. His stance was poised, his hand holding an iron glaive, a staff with a blade that curved up at shoulder height, just above a spike that pointed outward. The lower half of the glaive was overlaid with damasquinado, a pattern of gold incised on black steel, in contrast to the naked shaft.
The man who held it glanced at Arian’s circlets, then looked up to meet her eyes.
She suppressed a shiver. Though the temperature had fallen, it wasn’t the night that chilled her. It was the man’s gaze—amber eyes with stiletto-sharp flecks of blue and green. He held himself like a weapon, lethally honed and muscled, with an air of quiet command. His leather belt carried a complement of knives, each with a jeweled haft, as if he specialized in killing, and each of the blades he’d chosen was dedicated to a task. Beneath his cloak, he wore a fitted uniform in a color that echoed the sienna of the desert. He watched Arian with a focus that warned her he wasn’t an ordinary soldier.
He was a killer who looked at her like prey.
The man in the burnoose held one hand high to dismiss the soldiers on the dune.
“Gather the horses; return to camp.”
The men who remained fanned out around what was left of Arian’s group to the sound of horses’ hooves behind them. To distract them from her attempted theft, Arian said, “I would welcome the courtesy of your titles.”
The older man spoke first. “Shaykh Al Marra.” He indicated the man with the glaive. “This is Sayyid Najran, my second.”
Arian considered their style of dress. Their headcloths were native to the tribes of the Empty Quarter who made their home in the boundless sands of the Rub Al Khali.
“You are far from your homes, then. What brings you here?”
“What brings you here, sayyidina? You have traveled far from Hira at some risk to yourself.” It was a reasonable question, but it was also a dismissal of Khashayar’s escort, the Shaykh’s shrewd black eyes measuring the impact of his words.
Arian looked over her shoulder to the vanguard of the Nineteen. “And you have brought an army from the Rub Al Khali to the capital of the Black Khan.”
The sayyid planted his glaive in the sand, startling her.
“Is the Black Khan your ally, sayyidina? A pity then, to send his men home to him without their heads.”
His voice rasped like sand over stone, and she tried not to wince at the words. With the party of Zhayedan she’d had as her escort, she could hardly refute his claim. But she could try to temper it.
“The Black Khan is not my enemy, at least.” She made an effort to soften her voice, using a dialect familiar to their ears, rather than the Common Tongue. “Neither are the people of the Rub Al Khali.”
A nod of appreciation from the Shaykh. “Yet it is not a friend who comes like a thief in the night after the Marra’s horses.”
She understood that he referred to the people of his tribe, and not solely to himself. She was on dangerous ground: she couldn’t justify the theft without giving some hint of her journey. So she used a well-known proverb to pay tribute: “The horses of Al Marra are as numerous as the sheep of Awazim.”
Najran’s riposte was knife-edged, a dagger shearing silk. “That doesn’t give you the right to take them.” He took a step forward, then in a gesture of unthinkable familiarity, he covered her circlet with his palm, his fingers tracing its script. “The First Oralist of Hira should know the penalty for theft.”
Khashayar struggled against the men who held him.
“Kill him,” Najran said.
“No!” Arian cried. “Wait! Tell me the penalty you speak of.”
Najran’s cool fingers trailed down Arian’s arm to her wrist. The contact left her shaken; the Claim she harbored in her deepest self recognized that the danger he represented was something new, the aura of death around him so pervasive that she felt it sink into her bones. And yet his touch was an affront—to both the First Oralist and the woman, awakening her anger.
“Your hand, sayyidina.” His hand closed over her wrist, as he fingered the emerald dagger. He moved close enough for her to count the flecks in his eyes. The green flecks had spread … they were glowing … just as his emerald dagger began to throb with light. She could feel the heat of the dagger, stark coldness from the man himself.
Wafa let out a whimper, but Arian held her ground.
“What law commands the loss of my hand, sayyid?”
His headcloth brushed her ear. “Shall I show you the verse of the Claim?”
She shifted the tiniest fraction closer to Sinnia, touching Sinnia’s circlet with her own.
“Could you?”
She was well aware that he couldn’t. No one could, save for the One-Eyed Preacher, who now possessed the Bloodprint. When the flecks of green in his eyes faded, the light from his dagger dulled, and she knew her guess had been correct.
But it likely didn’t matter—she recognized the echoes of the One-Eyed Preacher’s law, a code proclaimed by the Talisman. It seemed it was now the code of the Rising Nineteen as well.
She faced the Shaykh, buoyed by her bond with Sinnia.
“A boon that is granted to Hira will be remembered. My need for transport was urgent, and I feared my escort would not meet with your approval.” Then, to Najran: “The law of the people of Marra does not sanction aggression. Yet here is your army, ready to begin hostilities. What should be the penalty for that, I wonder?”
The words seethed with scorn at the hypocrisy of the sayyid’s application of the law. She caught sight of Wafa’s frightened face. She could sense his confusion, made all the more apparent when he whispered to her in the dialect of Candour, “Make them sleep. Let’s take the horses and go.”
She couldn’t take that risk. She knew more about the Nineteen’s facility with the Claim than Wafa did. It might turn out to be disastrous to test her skills against the Nineteen’s commanders at once.
The Shaykh jerked Wafa close, ignoring his panicked yelp. Holding him by the chin, he examined Wafa’s face.
“Najashi I know. Talisman I know. First Oralist I know. This I do not know.”
“Hazara,” Arian answered. “A noble tribe of Candour.”
The Shaykh’s eyes flicked to Khashayar. His rugged features hardened.
“The Zhayedan’s man stands no chance. But grant us the boy and I will gift two of my horses to the Negus. If that is where your journey takes you.”
An unexpected opportunity presented itself, an advantage she had to seize. Arian stilled Wafa’s struggles by raising her hand. “Yes. The Companion Sinnia returns to pay her respects to the Negus.” She spread her hands. “But I cannot give you the boy. He is my ward. He is under Hira’s protection.”
She didn’t mention Khashayar. She would have to try to save him by stealth.
The Shaykh held on to Wafa. “What would you give, then? For safe passage across the Rub Al Khali?”
Pain struck her heart at this echo of her journey through the Cloud Door. Daniyar had offered the book of the Guardian of Candour to the Lord of the Wandering Cloud Door in exchange for safe passage through the Ice Kill.
In the end, however, she had spurned Daniyar on the slightest of excuses, leaving him to the Conference of the Mages, while she charted her course on her own. She had made him believe no sacrifice he made would ever be enough, when in truth her certainties about her course seemed far less certain now.
Sinnia sensed her emotion through the bond of their circlets. She squeezed Arian’s shoulder. Then she altered her voice so that she spoke in the accents of a woman from the Sea of Reeds. “We can make a suitable bargain, Shaykh. But we will need our escort’s assistance to cross the Rub Al Khali.”
“No.” A flat denial from Najran. “There will be no bargain. Your man is an enemy combatant; he will be treated as such.” He shifted the glaive so that the spike was aimed straight at Khashayar’s heart. “No doubt there is much he can tell us about the Zhayedan’s defenses.”
Khashayar spit at Najran’s feet. A single thrust drove the sharp-edged spike through the surface of his armor. A grimace that passed for a smile settled on Najran’s lips.
“No one has failed to speak under the persuasion of the glaive.”
And Arian knew in that moment that no matter what else happened during their confrontation, she would not permit the torture of a man who acted in her service. She marked Najran for death.
“Will you not at least hear the bargain, captains of the Nineteen? If you will permit me, Shaykh.” Sinnia’s voice was sunny and confident, such that the Shaykh released his hold on Wafa, who clung to Arian’s side.
“What will you give me, Najashi? What might a woman, unencumbered with goods, offer in exchange for a man, a boy, and two of the finest horses bred in the Rub Al Khali?”
Sinnia’s bright eyes touched each man in the circle, lingering on the belts at their waists.
“‘Over this are Nineteen,’” she quoted. “What if I give you Nineteen?”
5 (#ulink_9aa3518e-5cf1-5ee1-85c8-e825991d608c)
THEY WERE TAKEN TO A DESERT TENT, SIMPLE BUT EFFECTIVE IN ITS CONSTRUCTION, a guard assigned to each member of their party, only Khashayar bound. As they had been pushed forward along the sand in the shadow of the dune, Arian had brushed Khashayar’s hands with hers, a message of comfort, encouraging him not to despair.
But Khashayar was a captain of the Zhayedan, brutally honed in battle. There was no fear in his eyes, nor any need for reassurance. He simply remained watchful and alert, waiting for his moment to act.
“Wait,” Arian said quietly. “Wait until I give you a signal.”
Whispering to Sinnia, she switched to the language of the Citadel. “What did you mean? What are you offering to trade?”
Sinnia shook her head, her smile bold and confident. Arian was taken aback. The threat was all around them, the danger to Ashfall ever-present, yet Sinnia showed no hesitation. What had persuaded her she could bargain her way out of this? Arian was still mulling over the Shaykh’s decision to offer hospitality instead of death. But then such were the customs of the people of Al Marra: honor before everything, hospitality before all, even when those who broke bread together were otherwise mortal enemies.
They were taken to a pump to wash their hands, then invited to sit in a circle in the center of the tent. Wafa and Khashayar were pushed into place on either side of Arian and Sinnia, the other men keeping some distance. In a large black cauldron, pieces of camel meat bubbled in water and salt. The pot was tended by a herder not much older than Wafa. The boy served the meat onto heavy platters, his thin arms hardly seeming capable of the task, as he stole admiring glances at the Companions of Hira.
A platter was nudged in front of Arian and Sinnia, two large pieces of meat set aside in the middle. The Shaykh pointed to the chunks of boiled meat.
“Qalb for the First Oralist. Sanam for the Najashi.” An honored gesture to guests—Arian granted a piece of the heart, Sinnia a cut from the camel’s hump. Arian gave a blessing that sharpened the interest of the men. She began to eat, but when she saw that Khashayar couldn’t eat with his hands bound, she urged Wafa to his side with instructions to feed him. Khashayar would need his strength for the battles that lay ahead. But she’d forgotten how much hunger her Hazara companion had suffered; his blue eyes shone with distress.
She kissed Wafa’s forehead. “Fine. One bite for you, one for him.”
