But who was she? Where had she come from, and what was her destination?
The questions troubled Dardash at intervals for the rest of the day, distracting him from the endless task of trying to relate the phonetic writing of the scrolls to the complex abstractions of his profession. It was rare for trade caravans plying between the capital city of Koldana and the northern lands to take the longer coastal route, so she was unlikely to be the daughter or concubine of a wealthy merchant. But what possibilities remained? Only in fables did princesses or others of high birth go wandering in search of knowledge. Reconciling himself to the fact that speculation was futile, Dardash worked until long after nightfall, but in spite of being weary he found it difficult to sleep. His rest was disturbed by visions of the unknown woman, and each time he awoke with the taste of her lips fading from his the sense of loss was greater, more insistent.
Part of his mood was occasioned by a belief that important opportunities only come once, that the penalty for failing to take action is eternal regret. Hence it was with a sense of near-disbelief, of having been specially favoured by the gods, that on the following morning as he walked the eastern boundary of his island he again saw the flicker of whiteness on the mainland. This time, vision aided by memory, he had no trouble interpreting the lazy pulsations and shape changes of the blurred speck. She was there again. Undressing, uncovering that splendid body, preening herself, preparing for the sea’s caress.
Dardash paused only long enough to unfasten his sandals. He stepped down into the clear water and swam towards the mainland, propelling himself with powerful and economical strokes which quickly reduced the distance to the shore. As he passed through the perimeter of the invisibility screen which protected his islet, he saw the outline of the woman become diamond-sharp in his vision and he knew that from that moment on she would be able to see him. Apparently, however, she was too preoccupied.
It was not until Dardash felt pebbles beneath his hands and stood up, his near-naked body only knee-deep in water, that she became aware of his presence. She froze in the act of unbuttoning her chiton, breasts partly exposed, and gave him a level stare which signalled surprise and anger, but—he was thrilled to note—no hint of fear.
“I had presumed myself alone,” she said coldly, her beautiful face queenly in displeasure. “Suddenly the very sea is crowded.”
“There is no crowd,” Dardash replied, courting her with his smile. “Only the two of us.”
“Soon there will only be you.” The woman turned, picked up the net pouch which contained her toiletries, and strode away from him towards the narrow entrance to the cove. Sunlight piercing the fine material of her clothing outlined her body and limbs, striking fire behind Dardash’s eyes.
“Wait,” he said, deciding that a challenge could be the most effective way of capturing her interest. “Surely you are not afraid?”
The woman gave a barely perceptible toss of her head and continued walking, beginning to move out of sight behind outcroppings of rock. Impelled by a growing sense of urgency, Dardash went after her with long strides, convinced that were he to fail this time he would never again have a night’s peace. He had almost reached the woman, was breathing the scent of her waist-length black hair, when an inner voice warned him that he was behaving foolishly. He halted, turned to check a deep cleft in the rocks to his left, and groaned as he realised he was much too late.
The braided leather whip whistled like a war arrow as it flailed through the air, catching him just above the elbow, instantaneously binding his arms to his sides.
Dardash reacted by continuing his turn, intending to coil the whip further around his body and thus snatch it from its user’s grasp, but there was a flurry of footsteps and a glint of sunlight on armour and the weight of a man hit behind the knees, bringing him down. Other armed men, moving with practised speed, dropped on top of him and he felt thongs tighten around his wrists and ankles. Within the space of three heartbeats he was immobile and helpless, and sick with anger at having allowed himself to be trapped so easily.
Narrowing his eyes against the glare from the sky, he looked up at his captors. There were four men wearing conical helmets and studded leather cuirasses. They did not look like soldiers, but the similarity of their equipment suggested they were in the employ of a person of wealth. A fifth figure—that of the woman—joined them, causing Dardash to turn his face away. He had no wish to see a look of triumph or contempt on her face, and in any case his mind was busy with the question of who had instigated the attack against him. In his earlier years he had made many enemies, but most of them had long since died, and latterly he had devoted so much time to his scrolls that there had scarcely been the chance to incur the wrath of anybody who mattered.
“Tell me the name of your master,” he said, making himself sound patient and only mildly interested. He wanted to give the impression that he was unconcerned about his safety, that he was holding tremendous magical powers in reserve, although he was actually quite helpless. Most magic required protracted and painstaking preparation, and the ruffians standing over him could easily end his life at any moment if they so desired.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” the tallest man said. He had a reddish stubble of a beard and one of his nostrils had been excised by an old wound that had left a diagonal scar on his face.
“You owe him no loyalty,” Dardash said, experimenting with the possibilities of his situation. “By sending you against me he has placed you in terrible danger.”
Red-beard laughed comfortably. “I must be a braver man than I realised—I feel absolutely no fear.”
You will, Dardash vowed inwardly. If I get out of this alive. The sobering realisation that this could be the last day of his life caused him to lapse into a brooding silence while the four men brought a wooden litter from its place of concealment behind nearby rocks. They rolled him on to it, none too gently, and carried him up the steep slope to the higher ground of the plain that spanned most of Koldana. The woman, now more normally clad in an all-enveloping burnous, led the way. Dardash, still trying to guess why he had been taken, derived little comfort from the fact that his captors had not run a sword through him as soon as they had the chance. Their master, if he was an enemy worth considering, would want to dispose of him in person—and quite possibly by some means that would give all concerned plenty of time to appreciate what was happening.
When the party reached level ground Dardash craned his neck, expecting to see some kind of conveyance that would be used to transport him inland, but instead there was a square tent only a few hundred paces away, positioned just far enough from the shore to be invisible from his inlet home. The tent had an awning supported on gilded poles, and near it perhaps a dozen horses and pack animals cropped the sparse vegetation. It was obviously a temporary camp set up by a personage of some importance, one who was not prepared to travel far without the trappings of luxury, and it came to Dardash that he would not be kept in ignorance of his fate much longer. He lay back on the litter and feigned indifference.
The woman ran on ahead of the others, presumably to announce their arrival, and when the group of men reached the tent she was holding the entrance flaps aside for them. They carried Dardash into the lemon-coloured shade within, set the litter down and left without speaking, closing the entrance behind them. Dardash, his eyes rapidly adjusting to the change of lighting, saw that he was alone with a plump, heavily-moustached man whose skin was as smooth and well-oiled as that of a young concubine. He was dressed in costly silks, and Dardash noted with a quickening of interest—and hope—that astrological symbols were woven into the dark blue of his robe. In Dardash’s experience, astrologers were rarely men of violence—except of course towards those who made their predictions go wrong, and he was quite certain he had not done anything along those lines.