Studying the countryside, Jatal nearly fell from Ash’s back when a woman’s voice called out, laughing: ‘Hail, Jatal, prince of the Hafinaj!’
He flinched and turned to see Princess Andanii come walking her horse. ‘What in the name of the ancients are you doing here?’
‘Same as you,’ she laughed. ‘Scouting a best approach for our army.’
‘This is no pleasure outing, my princess.’
She lost her smile and her eyes narrowed to slits in sudden anger. ‘I had hoped for better coming from you, Prince Jatal.’
He raised his hands in surrender. ‘My apologies. I am aware that you have gone on raids and bloodied your sword. It is just … this will be different.’
‘It will be the same. Only differing in scale.’
He tilted his head in acceptance. ‘Let us hope. Yet I have my reservations.’
As she drew close he dismounted so as not to tower over her. For while they might carry titles of equality among the Adwami, Jatal knew of their differing status: he was one prince of many, and the least, while she was the one and only princess of the Vehajarwi.
Close to her now, and they all alone — a scandalous breach of decorum — Jatal could not help but notice the heady smell of her sweat mixed with jasmine perfume, her proud chin, and the dark eyes which held the teasing knowledge that she too understood the complexities of their … predicament.
‘I have heard much of you, Prince Jatal,’ she said, the teasing even more pronounced.
‘And I of you, Princess.’
She laughed. ‘How I bedevil my father and am the weeping shame of my family, no doubt.’
‘Not at all. I hear how every family envies the Vehajarwi for the strength, bravery and beauty of its daughters.’
Now she laughed in earnest, waggling a finger. ‘I was warned against you. They say you are so learned and cunning you could talk a lizard out of its tail.’
‘Yet I doubt anyone could outwit you, Princess.’
‘Poet and diplomat they say, as well. Is it true you had outlander tutors?’
He bowed. ‘Yes. Travellers and castaways from other lands. As a lesser son, it was the wish of my father that I gather knowledge to serve as adviser to my elder brothers.’
‘As if they would listen to any younger brother — hmm?’
Jatal cocked a brow. No one had ever put it quite so bluntly to him before. ‘Well … yes. There is that.’
‘I do apologize, Jatal. But I’ve met some of them. And so, as I said … I am very glad you were sent.’
Jatal had to clear his throat. ‘Princess … you honour me to no end. And perhaps you had best ride back before we are seen.’
Andanii swept her arms out wide and turned full circle. ‘But why, after I have gone to such trouble to meet you alone?’ And she laughed again, a hand at her mouth. ‘If only you could see your face right now!’
For his part Jatal was struggling to think. Trouble? To meet him? Whatever for? What could she want? Were they not enemies? The Vehajarwi were the only extended clan that could rival his. For generations they had taken opposing sides in all the standing vendettas and feuds. ‘I am sorry, Princess,’ he finally managed, ‘but you have the advantage of me.’
Eyes downcast, Andanii brushed a hand through the leaves of a nearby sapling. ‘You or I could never truly meet or talk there within the column, could we? We are both bound by tradition and history and the confines of our roles. I watched while the cringing Lesser families approached you swearing their loyalty. I know because they came to me as well. As if they could make a gift of what is owed to us in any case!’
Jatal disagreed with the sentiment but nodded his understanding anyway. ‘It is an old story.’
‘Exactly! I almost cry my frustration to think of it!’ She stopped then, as if reconsidering saying more, and instead mounted her handsome pale mare. ‘All I ask, Jatal, is that when this tradition-breaking raid is done and the rewards apportioned, you consider what more could be yours — should you and I agree to put aside even more of the traditions that have hobbled our two families.’ And before he could close his gaping mouth she snapped her reins to urge her mount into motion. His parting vision was of one last look backwards, her hair streaming about her face like a scarf, and the teasing smile once more at her lips.
Jatal stood immobile for a very long time indeed. A scattering of sand announced a spiny lizard scampering over one of his boots. He’d heard the foreign word ‘poleaxed’ and now he believed he finally understood. What Andanii proposed — proposed! — amounted to nothing less than the union of their two families. A union through their betrothal.
Now a strange dizziness assaulted him, and not just from the consideration of her obvious charms. Should they succeed in such a plan all the Adwami lands would be theirs. Only the total combined forces of all the rest of the families could possibly oppose them. And knowing the Adwami as he did, the possibility of such a grand alliance was virtually nil. As his foreign tutors had taught him of realpolitik: in such cases what usually happens is that a third of the remaining families will come out against, justly fearing the looming hegemony; another third will temporize, waiting to see which side appears to be gaining the upper hand; while the remaining third will overtly oppose yet at the same time send secret envoys pledging their loyalty in return for positions of preference in the coming hegemony. Apparently, such a sad tally was how things shook themselves out everywhere, not just among the patchwork of traditional hatreds, alliances and ongoing feuds that was Adwami politics.
He mounted absentmindedly, almost blind to his immediate surroundings, and urged Ash back south. As the shadows gathered among the walls of the canyons around him a further insight from Andanii’s words struck him like a wash of cold rain.
His brothers. She said she’d met a few and was glad he’d been sent.
Meaning … what? That he was unlike them.
Meaning that … she might have made the same proposal to one or more of them.
And they had turned her down.
He reeled in his saddle then, fighting the revolted convulsion of his stomach. Gods of our ancestors! Was that the way of it? Who was in the right? Were his elder brothers correct to have spurned her as an enemy? Was he the weak-willed puppet to deliver the Hafinaj into the hands of the Vehajarwi?
Or was it the reverse? They the mulish slaves to tradition, blind to daring new opportunities?
Ash, his favourite, sensed his inattention and slowed to a halt. Jatal pressed a sleeve against his chilled sweaty brow. Ye gods … that is the problem, isn’t it? How can one ever be certain which is the case?
* * *
In the dim light of the morning Murk warmed his aching bones at one of the driftwood fires the mercenary troops had thrown together. From his years of travel with an army it occurred to him that these warm lands always had the coldest nights. That just wasn’t fair at all. A passing mercenary pressed a stoneware mug of steaming tea into his hand and this small act confirmed his suspicions regarding this band: imperial veterans all, cashiered or deserted. The experienced troopers always took care of the mage cadre. That, he realized, was his and Sour’s position once again. Back to their second career. Such regard came with obligations, though. Always an even trade. Maybe this lot were Fourth or Eighth Army. If they’d been Fifth he’d know them. Or they’d know him.
Sour appeared, groaning and snuffling. Another mug of tea appeared for him. Their employer walked up soon after. To Murk’s satisfaction she looked rather less elegantly made up today. Her long dark hair was braided and pulled back tight. And she now wore a much more functional leather gambeson. Her tall leather boots had lost their polish. The labours of yesterday also showed in the dark circles under her eyes, her lined brow and her squinting pinched expression.