Upon seeing the thirteen men riding out of the desert, the trader grew uneasy. Only the worst kind of marauders would dare steal a man’s water, but the worst kind of marauders sometimes traveled this road.
He rested his hand upon his khivar as Raj Ahten approached, and stared at him from eyes as brown as ripe almonds. He was an elderly man, with a beard trimmed impeccably. The old man bowed.
Raj Ahten hailed him, tried to put him at ease. “Salaam. The trail is dry, and I feel weighed down by too much money.”
“Let me lighten your load, O Great One,” the trader said with a satisfied grin, “while you drink your fill.”
With that, Raj Ahten dismounted and found a place to sit under the shade of the baobab. Raj Ahten took out a silver flask he’d brought from Salandar. It was filled with lemongrass tea flavored with honey made from morning primrose.
As a preamble to conversation, the two men shared introductions, and Raj Ahten offered a drink to the old man, for as the old proverb went, “In the desert, drink must come before trust, trust before friendship.”
For a moment they talked cordially of poetry, weather, and the health of the old man’s sister. The man recognized Raj Ahten and showed by his cordial demeanor that he, too, was of good breeding.
“Twelve men came riding from the north, did they not?” Raj Ahten finally asked.
“Yes, men of the Ah’kellah, in a great hurry,” the man said. “They were rude.”
“Ah,” Raj Ahten said, fearing that he’d asked his question too soon, had given offense. “Men on the run are seldom polite. Did they speak of their destination?”
“They are going south to raise the Atwaba,” the old man said. “They are angry with our beloved lord.”
“Indeed?” Raj Ahten asked, feeling mirthful. The trader was being extraordinarily polite by pretending that he did not recognize Raj Ahten. “What did they say?”
“May my tongue be cut from me if I ever repeat such tales!” the old man intoned.
“It is a secret safe with me.”
“They say that Raj Ahten, bless his name, broke a truce and sought to kill the Earth King, his cousin by marriage.”
Raj Ahten grinned. “I am sure that it is all a misunderstanding. When I meet these men, I will clear it up.”
“May the wind speed you,” the old trader intoned.
“Tell me, was Wuqaz Faharaqin among them?”
“I could not say,” the trader answered. “The name I know, but these men did not offer me their names.”
Raj Ahten nodded thoughtfully. He could imagine how the Ah’kellah would tell his tale. They would describe the Earth King as a strong leader, vying for Raj Ahten’s rule. If things went ill for Raj Ahten in this battle at Kartish, it would only justify that view.
Among the simpleminded, the charges of injustice would cause trouble. But here so close to Deyazz, men would ridicule such charges. A second cousin by marriage was still considered a stranger in this country.
But elsewhere...”See here,” the kaifs would say. “Our lord fights for the reavers in Mystarria, while reavers tear apart Kartish. Raj Ahten fights his own cousin! What is he, a man or a reaver?”
This would be a serious accusation in the minds of the young and simple. At the very least, certain kaifs would use it as a pretext to demand apologies—bribes of gold and forcibles and spices.
But for those who hungered to throw off his reign, no apology could ever suffice.
Bhopanastrat and the other Invincibles finished watering the camels. Raj Ahten realized that he did not actually have any money. Normally, Feykaald handled such things.
Raj Ahten went to mount his camel, and said to Bhopanastrat, “Pay the man.”
“As you wish,” the warlord said.
What happened next came so fast that Raj Ahten did not have time to stop it. The old man got up from his seat and dusted off the back of his burnoose, ready to take his coin. Bhopanastrat drew his khivar and quickly slashed the old man’s throat.
He staggered back three steps, turned toward the baobab, and sank to his knees. He slumped forward against the tree trunk, face-first, blood gushing from his neck.
“What?” Raj Ahten demanded. “Why did you do that?”
“He was rude, Great One,” Bhopanastrat answered. “He demanded money. He should have felt honored to give water to his king.”
“Is that the kind of man you think I am, killing harmless old men in the desert?” Raj Ahten asked. Bhopanastrat dared not speak. “We are not in Rofehavan,” Raj Ahten shouted. “These are my people!”
“Salaam,” Bhopanastrat begged, bowing his head low. “Forgive me. I did not know you could care so much for one worthless old man.”
16
Twynhaven
The women of Fleeds are coarse and barbaric. That’s why the men of Fleeds love them so fiercely.
The rain and darkness held Erin and Celinor at Balington. Several times in the night, messengers had come and gone for Gaborn. They left their force horses down in the stalls, fed them rich miln, but no one climbed into the loft where the lovers lay wrapped in one another’s arms.
Celinor promised his undying love a dozen times during the night, until at last Erin realized that it must be some odd custom among his folk. She had worried that if he kept it up, she’d not hear the next time a messenger opened the door.
“Why talk about love when you could be making love?” she finally whispered. That kept him quiet, except for the panting and kisses.
But the few moments of stolen bliss could not last, and when an owl swooped into the rafters of the stable, Erin had known that it was time to go.
Early morning found Erin and Celinor far north of the village, riding the king’s highway through patches of fog that shrouded the dales between the green hills. Crows flew up, cawing in the distance. Their jagged path through the sky intersected sprawling oak trees where they might roost.
Erin and Celinor did not talk much on the ride north. The strange wizard child and her warnings of danger lay heavily on Erin’s mind.
For miles around, the homes and inns were still abandoned. Raj Ahten’s army had passed by here yesterday, and the people had fled his presence. There was no food along the highway, and only once did they stop at a small cottage to pick some pears from a tree.
As Erin gathered the fruit, Celinor wandered to the side of the house and picked a peach-colored rose. He brought it back, held it up for her to admire, and sniffed its delicate scent. Then he offered it to her.
“And what are you thinking I’ll do with that?” Erin asked. She’d eaten rose apples in the winter of course. But picking the rose violated her people’s custom. Fleeds was a poor land, especially in the southeast. Every blade of grass was a valuable commodity among the horseclans.
“It’s to admire,” he said lamely.
“Oh,” she said. Belatedly, she recalled that in some countries men gave roses as cheap gifts. She sniffed it, admired it for all of thirty seconds, and then—not wanting it to go to waste—tried to feed it to her fine black mare. The mare would have none of it.
Celinor came to her rescue. “You can wear it,” he said. “In my country, women pin roses inside their robes. It’s like perfume, but doesn’t have the cost.” He took the rose, and pinned it to the back of the silver brooch that Erin wore on her cloak. She could barely taste the sweet fragrance.
“Cuts down on the smell of horse sweat, I imagine,” Erin said. She wondered at his gesture. Did her odor offend him? Or was he just trying to be nice?
“They say that if you bruise the petals,” Celinor offered, “they smell even sweeter.”
He pulled her close and hugged her fiercely. She decided he was trying to be nice. Different lands, different customs.
In fact, he was more than nice. She thought briefly about kicking in the cottage door and looking for a bed. He’d shown himself to be more than an adequate lover last night.