The next time I see a fifteen-year-old that looks like that—even back home where the girls grow up fast—will be the first.
Cano shot an inquiring look at Rachman, then at the father. Yes, they do mean it.
He thought that, and then immediately looked even more crestfallen than he had before. "But I'm not a Moslem," Cano said. "And I can't give up the faith of my fathers."
All three of the Pashtun, father, son and sister, broke out in gales of laughter. Rachman eventually ended up on one side on the ground, shaking with mirth. The sister, Alena, sank to her knees and held her sides. Cano looked on, cluelessly. (But doesn't Alena have a wonderful laugh?)
Rachman's father recovered first. He picked up a wedge of chorley bread, dipped it into a bowl holding some sauce made from holy shit peppers, and said, just before popping the wedge into his mouth, "Son, take your war chief to see the hieros, why don't you?"
10/7/468 AC BdL Qamra, Hajipur, Sind
Though the sun had not yet set, Hecate shone indistinctly on the eastern horizon.
To the west, the fronts of the Hindu and Buddhist temples lining the waterfront were in shadow.
"They've got a god or goddess for everything, I think," Marta said to Jaquelina, the two sitting side by side on the forward deck, arms around each others' waists. Marta was relaxed enough but Jaquie seemed to her lover to be very stiff.
"Are you feeling all right, love," Marta asked.
Jaquie said nothing, but shook her head and leaned into Marta, tucking one shoulder under the larger woman's arm.
"Tell me," Marta commanded.
"It's nothing."
"Tell me."
Jaquie nestled closer in and admitted, "Honestly, I'm scared."
"Oh."
There wasn't a lot more to say. The carrier was still under repair. The other escorts were needed to secure it in a place that was something less than secure. Even so, the contract with the zaibatsu required, at a minimum, that the classis maintain a presence in the Nicobar Straits. All that was available, or would be available before BdL Tadeo Kurita unloaded Dos Lindas' elevator, was Qamra.
Fosa had given the word the previous day. "Take Qamra out to the Straits and see if you can't take out one or two of the smaller pirate boats. We'll be along as soon as we've fitted the elevator. We'll all be along."
"We're going to be alone out there," Jaquelina continued, with a small shiver. "For a week or two. Maybe more. No back up. No help. Nobody scouting for us. No retreat if we get in trouble. Even the men are worried."
Marta leaned over to kiss the top of her lover's head, then reached out a hand to stroke hair and cheek. "You have too much imagination," she said. "We'll be fine. I won't let anything happen to you."
Jaquie backed off and looked intently into Marta's face. "I'm not worried about me, you idiot. I'm worried about you."
10/7/468 AC, Runnistan, Pashtia
The hieros was carved into the mountain, about a half mile from Rachman's family's home. The trail seemed well-worn, to Cano, as if the people of the village followed it regularly to the rectangularly carved opening in the mountainside. He mentioned this to Rachman.
"We come here often, yes," the Pashtun said. "To commune with God . . . to dedicate the young men to His service . . . sometimes just to be away from people to think."
By the time they reached the carved opening, the sun was down. Rachman took a match from one of the two guards standing by the entrance. With it, he lit a small, oil-burning lamp. It cast a flickering light over what looked to Cano to be brick-sized, carved stones, framing a tunnel perhaps thirty inches wide. With the flame from the lamp Rachman lit a torch lying nearby.
"We took these when we left Old Earth," Rachman explained, gesturing at the stones with the torch. "We had no money to pay for much extra baggage, not unless we were willing to sell off some of our patrimony, which we weren't. So say the legends, anyway. Each man and woman took one stone or one piece of something to rebuild this, here. Come, I'll show you."
The footing was even, if not quite smooth, and Cano, guided by Rachman's torch, felt his way along easily. Seventy-five yards or so into the mountainside the narrow tunnel opened up to . . .
At first, Rachman's torchlight reflected dimly from what Cano judged to be over one hundred dull mirrors. As the Pashtun circled around the room, lighting more lamps as he went, the things Cano took to be mirrors began to appear as round shields, plates, medallions, necklaces and . . .
"Holy shit."
"Very holy," Rachman agreed, "but not shit." He pointed with the torch toward a golden plate, perhaps fifteen inches across. "This is the image of our God."
"Where have I seen that face before?" Cano wondered aloud. "It was in an old book, at the Legion's library . . . an old book from Old Earth . . . Al . . . Alex . . . "
"Iskander," Rachman supplied. "The avatar of our God. God made flesh. It is to Him that we pray. He will come to us again, so say the prophecies." The was no waver of doubt in Rachman's voice. His god would come.
"Ohhh." He thought for a moment about the implications. Then it hit him. "You are not Moslems?"
"We pretend, sometimes," Rachman said. "And give little gifts to Mullah Hassim to make sure he doesn't raise a cry against us. But, no, not Moslems. Which is why—" He raised one eyebrow, waiting to see if Cano could make the connection.
He could. "I would not have to convert to be a suitable match for your sister?"
Rachman was smiling broadly. "Correct, Hektontar Cano."
"She's only fifteen, and she doesn't even know me," Cano objected.
"She is already a woman, ready to bear you fine, strong sons and daughters. And you have two weeks to get to know each other," Rachman answered.
"I am a soldier and I might be killed at any time."
"She is the sister, daughter, granddaughter, great-great-great-great to infinity granddaughter of soldiers. She would understand."
"I don't even know if she likes me."
"I told her and my father about you months ago. They both like you. You don't already have a wife, do you?"
"No," Cano shook his head. "No wife. No girlfriend. I never had time to even look for either since I joined the Legion."
"Well," Rachman said, "let's stop wasting time and get back to my father's home so you can get to know your future one."
In the flaring light of the torch and the lamps, all reflected by the gold and polished stone of the hieros, which Cano now understood to mean "shrine," or perhaps "temple," Cano said, "You are the strangest matchmaker I have ever heard of."
"No, no," Rachman disagreed. "You should see my aunt. She has a better moustache than I do . . . though I think my beard is more manly . . . a little."
Outside, the guards began to laugh so loudly that Cano was sure it was true about the moustache and beard on Rachman's aunt.