Any one of the plotters might die out there before they could act against Onghwe. The victories that had made all this possible had also doubled the risk.
They watched the gray clouds roll on, struggling to hold back their rain. Kim’s eyes were drawn to where a small cluster of flowers grew wild, not yet trampled by the many feet that trod paths between the tents of the camp.
“You’re certain we can trust Madhukar to stand with us?” he asked.
“I am certain,” Zug said, as if addressing the gloomy heavens.
“I didn’t understand everything he said, but the anger in his eyes was unmistakable. He is like us-glad to die fighting.”
A gleam appeared in Two Dogs’s eyes, a faint stirring of the courage absent or deeply hidden in the man when they had first met. Perhaps a warrior still dwelled within, waiting for the right moment. Kim wondered if any of them would live long enough to see what that inner spirit was now capable of.
And what of me? he wondered. Living so close to death for so long, forcibly made aware that each day might be their last…strange to see how, given sufficient leisure to dwell on things, to imagine over and over what he could lose in any attempt to be free, fear could corrode great holes inside a man.
It was not the thought of this world and the people he might be leaving behind that unnerved him. Kim had known he was living on borrowed time since the death of his brothers. But once the possibility of the Khan’s death became real to him, all the old pain of his buried longing for freedom rushed forward-even while he had to maintain total control, keep his accustomed demeanor, or risk arousing suspicion.
Watch the birds take wing, he thought. Let that be enough. Perhaps some will survive and live new lives out there, away from this hell.
He stood and walked over to the cluster of flowers. Reaching with a callused hand, he plucked one from the dirt and held it high to the slate-gray clouds, like an offering, but the storm did not listen.
The hot grayness continued.
Dietrich von Gruningen stood beneath the barn’s thatched roof and fumed at the insult he had been forced to endure. He certainly knew mockery when he saw it-in his own way, he was a master of that art-and the kindness of leaving the horses for his men to run after like fools sent a message worse in its own way even than the humiliation he had endured outside The Frogs.
We give back what is yours, out of charity, since you are obviously too weak to take it back by force or guile.
Burchard had been run nearly in circles attempting to recover their mounts. One more black mark against a Livonian legacy that had already been hideously battered at Schaulen.
Would Volquin ever have allowed such petty affronts to their honor? Dietrich thought not. He suspected his men had made the same judgment, though they had the sense to keep it to themselves. Order required unquestioned power vested in authority, and in an ideal world, every man knew his place in that chain of command that passed from God to the Pope and down, down, down in every direction from there. And in reverse, from the lowliest cur slinking through the muck and mire to peasant to Pope-to God Himself.
In the service to the Pope, Dietrich was technically the highest Christian authority in this wasteland of decay rucked up around the bones of Legnica. Yet the Shield-Brethren had defied him once and insulted him twice. They had taken these offenses to the very border of what might be allowed to pass without calling down a distracting and violent response.
Dietrich could not himself shed the blood he felt was owed for these indignities. Had these arrogant sons of demon spew kept the horses, had they been foolish enough to kill one of his men-had they done this or done that, he might have been granted satisfaction. But now, instead of revenge, he had only the taste of ash in his mouth.
Ash not at all diluted by bad ale.
As with the aftermath of Schaulen, all Dietrich could truly call his own was this seething anger, and so he held it close to his breast like a disappointed lover clinging to a wilted flower, hoarding it to keep the flame of an all-too-often hopeless passion alive. He was God’s servant, selected by his highest-chosen emissary, and his task was holy in the eyes of the Almighty. Vengeance taken against those who defied God was justified in every sense of the word. He had merely to deduce how to accomplish it without risking his own sacred task. They’ve left me precious few options, but there is always something one may do.
He’d only finished drilling against Burchard and Sigeberht a short time ago. Training against two men at once was a habit he’d maintained from his early years in the order, and it had benefited him both in the skills it had granted him as well as the understanding of how to balance two conflicts in one field of vision. Even so, all he felt now was a weak spark of discouraged anger-not the flame he needed.
And tired. So very tired.
He took off his gambeson alone as his squire saw to the maintenance of his maille. The water he splashed on his face was as warm as the rest of this damnably hot place and brought little refreshment. Resting his hands on both sides of the raised trough that served as the basin, he breathed in and out, filling his lungs with fuel for the fires.
It was not a question of whether he would make them pay but of how and when. To that task, he turned his mind to a long-accustomed meditation of strategy, arranging his key plans in verse and ordering those verses in an elegant, memorable sequence-then analyzing and parsing both structure and logic, to find deeper meaning, alternate interpretations-treating the vengeance he and his brothers were owed as he would a piece of the Holy Scripture.
Necessity demanded subtlety, or at least something that would not provoke an obvious response from them. He could not very well raid their chapter house, and one of his men knifing one of theirs was out of the question; bodies had a way of turning up.
No, the formalities had to be observed in doing God’s work, and this was the work of the Almighty. Of that, he had reassured himself countless times.
Dietrich seated himself on a long bench against the back wall of the barn. The smell of animal feces and straw was overpoweringly pronounced, even this far back, and the crowding of his brothers around and inside the ramshackle structure had made him ever more grateful that his rank afforded him the right to demand a private space to call his own. Heaven’s hierarchies served his purposes well. He could not attack the men of Petraathen overtly, which forced him now to contemplate the options available to him. They took something of value from me-my dignity. Returning pilfered horses does not begin to wash away their crimes. Prudence dictates that I take something of greater value from them. And that would doubtless be their own self-regard-the greater, more shining, infinitely precious pride of a glorious and damnable arrogance.
His stomach twisted unhappily within. Strategizing and hating always knotted his innards. He was hoping for a silent way to release some pent-up gas when the door opened. Clenching his buttocks, Dietrich raised his eyes to see one of his knights standing in the door, an initiate named Gelther.
“I gave instructions I was to be left undisturbed,” Dietrich growled.
“Forgive me, Heermeister,” Gelther murmured, “but a runner has arrived, and I thought you should know-the arena has been reopened. The Circus has begun anew.”
* * *
“What about the Persian with the club?” Zug suggested. “He’s immense and dangerous, and the guards are afraid of him.”
Kim sat across from him in the tent, face set with a frown.
“He’s also been a beneficiary of the Khan’s favoritism before,” Kim said.