‘We will take the trail to Seven Peaks Pass. You will lead us, Jak. I would pay my respects to old Khun-Sen.’
Kenjak bowed even lower, his arms held wide to either side. ‘As you command, Magister.’ You’ll pay your respects to him all right, you damned snotty puke. But not as you imagine!
CHAPTER IV
The magnificent city of Jakal Viharn lies westward of those lands known as Fist, or Korel, and inland. It lieth under the equinoctial line, and it hath more abundance of gold than any other region of the world. I have been assured as such by accounts from earlier travellers who have witnessed such wonders and have seen with their own eyes the great city. For its richness, and the excellence of its seat, this great city far exceedeth any of the world.
The Adwami cavalry now made steady progress across the great flat plain that was the Ghetan Plateau. This was Jatal’s fifth raid and as before he was very impressed by the land’s immensity and fertility. Broad fields stretched one after the other, each cut by a maze of irrigation canals, ditches and spillways. Interspersed between these stood copses of timber, trimmed orchards, and ruled-straight windbreaks. It all seemed to go on for ever, as if continuously unrolling before them. And when the heat of the baking sun left him swimming in his robes and the constant roll of his mount eased him into a sort of undulating daydream of passing leagues, each indistinguishable from the many before, sometimes he fancied he’d never come to see the end of it all.
Of any armed resistance, there had been little so far. This was of no surprise to the Adwami. Generations of raiding had taught them the miserliness of the Thaumaturgs. It seemed they would rather endure the nuisance losses of raids than suffer the painful outlay of maintaining any adequate garrison. A strategy that would serve them ill — now that the Adwami were set upon a sudden near invasion. And yet again it struck Jatal as odd that this Warleader, a foreigner to their lands, could have foreseen this weakness; unless perhaps he had met or interrogated escapees or fugitives from these regions and such information had suggested the idea in the first place. Indeed, why stop there among the sea of possibilities? The man talked and carried himself as one quite educated and cultured. Perhaps he was familiar with that ancient Seven Cities traveller Ular Takeq, and his Customs of Ancient Jakal-Uku. Or the castaway mariner Whelhen and his account of ten years among the villagers of the jungles in his Narrative of a Shipwreck and Captivity within a Mythical Land. These sources alone could perhaps have served to germinate a strategy.
Perhaps he should be more forceful in his efforts to sit down with the man to get to know him better. So far, however, the Warleader had been quite forceful in his habit of retiring early to his tent. Where, it was rumoured, he inhaled the fumes of various burning substances, thereby smoking himself into stupefaction every night.
Jatal adjusted his headscarf against the glaring sun and eased himself up in his saddle for a moment, stretching his sore thighs. He peered up and down the column as they advanced at a quick walking pace. Speaking of stupefaction — he was drifting into his own reverie. What had he been considering? Oh yes, resistance. It wouldn’t remain so thin. For a time they would manage to stay ahead of word of their advance, but eventually the enemy would be ready for them. Probably at Isana Pura.
Until then, encounters would remain merely a matter of entering the small farming hamlets and depots, disarming the bewildered guards, and sorting through the plunder, including captives, who were sent back in gangs under minimum escort.
What in truth concerned Jatal was the state of the knife-thin accord between the Adwami tribes themselves. Only two blood-feud killings so far — a tribute to the new restraint requested by the Warleader, and the anticipation of the size of the future rewards to accrue from such cooperation. This line of musing brought Jatal to the subject of Princess Andanii and her Vehajarwi. So far, the public face of mutual tolerance between their two tribes, the two largest and most intractable traditional enemies, served to anchor this unaccustomed peace. And what of the princess in all her most seductively alluring flesh? What was he to make of her?
Jatal cleared his throat against the kicked-up dust of the road. From the folds of his robes over his armour he drew out his travel copy of Shivanara’s Songs of the Perfumed Lands and opened it with his thumb.
Jatal shut the tiny booklet and squeezed it in his fist. He rubbed his eyes, dry and gritty from scanning the endless horizons day after day. Yes, what was he to make of her? The heat of lingering sidelong glances from above her veil as she rode by with her guard of lancers. Their brief exchanges at chance encounters, during which she was in turns mocking or mildly provoking. All a pose? And what of his behaviour? Resolutely formal and courtly: the very model of the traditional Adwami aristocrat.
That, too, no more than a pose?
And how much of a provocation was that, given her proposal? And all the oh-so-much-more it implied?
Yet how could he be certain? Was he a coward not to have attempted to sneak into her private tents already? Yet think of the absurd image of himself caught by Vehajarwi guards and paraded about as some honourless prurient seducer. Such humiliation could not be endured. Indeed, there was a summation of the male quandary: so much suppressed by the terror of being humiliated …
‘My lord Hafinaj …’ A gravelly voice spoke from nearby and Jatal glanced down, blinking, to see the Warleader’s lieutenant, Scarza, walking along in lazy loping strides next to his mount. He eased back Ash’s pace and edged aside of the column.
‘Yes, Lieutenant?’
The giant’s tangled dark brows climbed his lined forehead. ‘Lieutenant? Nay. Just Scarza I am and Scarza I remain. I hold to none of these absurd pomposities of rank — my prince.’
Jatal crooked a smile at the man’s slanting irreverence and reined Ash in. ‘Speaking only for yourself, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘What news then? Any further sightings of our damned Agon friends?’
A hand the size of a shovel rose to rub wide unshaven jowls. ‘None at all. Keeping as low as the scorpions, them.’
‘How appropriate too.’
‘I thought so.’
Jatal regarded the man for a time. Of Thelomen blood? Or the ones named Toblakai? ‘And where are you from, Scarza?’
‘From my mother, m’lord. Bless her bounteous bosom. In the meantime, sir, the Warleader requests your presence in an insignificant fleabite of a village east of here, if you would. There is something there he believes may be of interest to you, as a scholar and such.’
‘I see. Thank you, Scarza-who-eschews-all-rank.’
The man flashed his formidable canines. ‘Eschews? Too fancy a word by far for this lowly Scarza. I’ll show you the way, m’lord.’
Village was far too generous a description for the wretched cluster of rundown shabby huts. They passed Thaumaturg chattels who merely paused in their field labours, heads bowed and shoulders stooped, before returning to their tasks. The Warleader awaited them amid his honour-guard of twenty Adwami knights selected from the various tribes. Bowing, the bodyguards eased their mounts aside to make room for Jatal. The Warleader sat leaning forward on the horn of his saddle. He directed Jatal’s attention to the simple mechanism of a muscle-powered grain mill. Only, this being Thaumaturg land, the mechanism was not so simple. Instead of a mule or an ox providing the muscle powering the arm that turned the stone to grind the seed, it was the massive legs, broad back, and trunk-like arms of a man, who, had he lived in any other land, would no doubt be a champion wrestler or fighter.