The Golden Griffin (Book 3) (13 page)

The khalifa’s arm throbbed where the dagger had struck her. It was only a scratch, but if it was poisoned, if the dagger had even a drop of the golden bloom that had taken her father, she would suffer horribly. Her flesh would rot on her body and her eyes would dim. At last she would die, coughing up blood.

“I am very sorry,” the girl said in an earnest tone.

“You saved my life.”

“Barely. I almost slept right through it. Another moment, and it would have been too late. What kind of protector am I?”

“No kind of protector at all. That’s what the palace guard is for. You did more than was asked, believe me.”

“Not true. My father told me to keep you safe.”

“Ah. So that’s why you were in my room. I thought maybe you were afraid of the dark.”

It was meant as a jest, but the girl’s eyes flashed. “Of course not! I can’t believe you’d think that.”

Now Kallia had to stifle a laugh. “I know, I know. This is a strange place and you wanted to be close to your father.”

“Maybe that’s a little bit of it,” Sofiana said, grudgingly. “Where is he, anyway?”

“He went to the barracks.”

“Please don’t tell him what happened. Not before we leave.”

“But you saved my life,” Kallia repeated. “He’ll be proud, I promise.”

“It’s not that. I’m worried if he finds out, he’ll . . . ” Her voice trailed off.

“He won’t want to leave?”

“Yes, exactly. It’s hard enough for a man to march into war with the memory of a woman’s warm embrace waiting back home. But if he finds out people are trying to kill you, what then?”

“Oh, please. Now you’re being ridiculous. And what kind of child speaks like that? I’m doing my best to convince people you’re not a barbarian—a wild child. A woman’s warm embrace? Can you imagine if Princess Marialla heard that? She’d assign you an etiquette tutor and that would be the end of you.”

Sofiana grinned. “My apologies, oh Jewel of the West, oh khalifa. May you live forever. I shall guard my tongue forthwith. About my father . . . don’t tell him.”

“You’re probably right. Very well. I won’t. But there’s something I need to tell you, and I need you to be mature about it.”

The girl’s smile curdled into a frown. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Your father isn’t taking you with him to Veyre. Not this time.”

“But the battle is about to start! No more skirmishing, it’s going to be a real war this time.”

“That’s kind of the point.”

“No way. I’m going to meet him at the gates, and I’m going to follow no matter what. I don’t care if I have to go on foot.”

“You can’t do that,” Kallia said.

“Try to stop me.”

“Your father was adamant. If you appear one night in his camp, he’ll only truss you up and send you back to Balsalom. Only it will be through hostile territory, so he’ll have to send you back under guard. Imagine if twenty men have to return from the front because one person didn’t follow orders.”

Sofiana’s face fell. “Wonderful. So I have to stay here going soft while the war goes on without me? Boring. If only there could be more assassins. Do you think there might be?”

“Oh, sure. One can only hope.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. But you understand. This isn’t fair.” Sofiana stomped her foot.

The wheels began turning in Kallia’s mind. “There is one other possibility. If you want some adventure, something exotic, this might be just the thing.”

The girl brightened. “Yes?”

“What do you know about the Sultan of Marrabat?”

Chapter Eleven

Kallia inspected the city walls on the northern edge of the city while she waited for Whelan’s army to march. Men scrambled like spiders along the scaffolding latticed against the wall, carrying buckets of mud. Ten men stood in the breach, straining against a rope set in a windlass. They slowly winched a heavy stone toward the gap. Others stomped straw and mud in vats on the ground.

If they didn’t get the wall completed before the Harvest Festival, they would never finish before the frost, and then it would be too cold for the cementing to set properly, and the damage left by Mol Khah’s troops would stand until spring.

The Kratian raiding season began in the winter. And the Sultan of Marrabat’s 30,000 men also lurked on the other side of the southern desert.

Pasha Boroah had warned her of the flaws in the workmanship. “A good sneeze will blow it down,” he’d said.

Indeed, she could see gaps even from her litter. One part of the wall buckled outward. She was no engineer, but she knew that even the slightest flaw could be magnified by a few years of freezing and thawing, especially given the generous gaps they’d left in the stone. No, this would never do.

She bid the slaves to set down the litter. They obeyed, relieved to be free of the burden. It was several miles from the palace to the western walls and the journey left them shaking with exhaustion and drenched with sweat. The crisp morning air would cool them quickly enough, she suspected. Boroah had sent six guardsmen to escort her safely through the city, and their horses high-stepped impatiently when she stopped.

Sofiana stepped from the litter first. She glared at the staring workers until they looked away. Then she turned back to Kallia. “It isn’t very good, is it?”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Maybe Balsalomian stone cutters aren’t as good as Eriscobans. I saw masons rebuilding the wall outside the Citadel, and they did a much better job than this.”

“I’m sure they did. But you might keep that to yourself.”

The master stonemason spotted Kallia and hurried to her side, wringing his hands. He was a Selphan and wore a blue turban. He bowed low, then eyed the guardsmen fearfully as if afraid they would suddenly jump from their horses with drawn scimitars.

“Oh Khalifa, may you live forever, I beg your forgiveness. I just came from the palace this morning. I had no idea. No idea.”

“Master Thibert, this is unacceptable. The wall buckles. The lower masonry already flakes away. And there are holes between the stones.”

“Yes, there are a few small cracks,” Thibert allowed.

“Small cracks? A troop of Veyrian cavalry could ride through your holes, five abreast and dragging a full-grown mammoth between them.”

He bowed again. “Jewel of the West, you are absolutely right. I should be whipped for pretending I could do the work. No, whipping is too kind. Summon the corrections guild. They can place my head on a spike as a warning for any other shifty, lazy fools.” He snapped his finger. “Jothran! Come here.”

A young man trotted up. Mud streaked his face and his bare legs all the way up to his knees. His eyes widened when he saw the khalifa. He bowed to her, then turned to Master Thibert. “You called me, master?”

“What is the meaning of this?” Thibert demanded, as if he had yet to speak to the man. “You claimed you were my best journeyman. My best! I leave you for two weeks and come back to find this. By the Brothers, boy, why?”

Jothran bowed his head, shame on his face. “There are no masters to oversee our work and not enough journeymen. Only apprentices. The enemy captured our best masons and marched them to Veyre.” He lifted his hands. “What can I do?”

Thibert spat at the ground. “Pah! You dare come before your khalifa with such lies? Fool, you are less than camel dung. Get out of my sight before I have you whipped.”

“Yes, master.” The boy fled.

The master stonemason gave Kallia an apologetic shrug. “You see what I have to work with? How can I build a wall when all I have are these rejects from the stall-muckers guild?”

There was no such thing as the stall-muckers guild, but Kallia took his point. “I’m not a tyrant, Master Thibert. You could have explained your problem without the theatrics.”

“Of course I would never make excuses, but it is true that the masons guild is a shadow of what it was before the enemy came.”

“Nevertheless, this wall must be repaired. Tell me how you will fix this problem. What about the other cities of the Western Khalifates? Can we hire men from there?”

“Darnod, Ter, and Havorn all suffered a similar fate. There isn’t a mason to hire within two hundred miles who isn’t already working on this wall.”

“What about men from the Free Kingdoms? Or even the sultanates?”

“Perhaps,” Thibert said with a frown. “But that would take time.”

Yes, and money. Kallia had already drained the coffers and had resorted to selling the khalifate jewelry to pay her guardsmen. Whelan had told her he could raise a thousand gold marks and eight thousand silver marks from Arvada, but she didn’t want to risk angering the Eriscoban lords by so blatantly plundering their treasuries. Not when Whelan had his own army to equip.

“Wait a moment,” she said. “You’ve got men working at the palace. I can hardly avoid the clanking of chisels and hammers.”

“I can’t spare those men,” Thibert said. “The viziers need their apartments. And if I don’t repair that outer wall, assassins will find their way in.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that.” She made her decision. “But better an assassin in the palace than an enemy army in my city. You will bring all of your men here until the city wall is repaired.”

He sputtered. “But the palace—”

“The palace will wait.” Kallia hardened her tone. “That is my decision.”

He bowed his head. “Yes, my khalifa.”

“How long will it take you to finish here?”

Thibert lifted his head and rubbed his chin. Like Boroah, his face was free of whiskers, while his sideburns connected in a shaggy mass to his mustache. “Three weeks, perhaps, if we’re lucky.”

Kallia frowned, unable to believe his estimate. “You can tear down the wall again and rebuild it in three weeks?”

“Tear it down? Brothers no. But I can finish repairing the breach in three weeks. If the engineers tear it down again, it will take six weeks, minimum.”

“Unacceptable,” Kallia said. “I won’t leave the wall in such a poor state. We have to tear it down and start over. And you must finish by the Harvest Festival. A fortnight from today.”

He shook his head. “I’d need twice the men. And more journeymen.”

“Requisition whatever labor you need, but as for journeymen, there are none to be had. If you and the other masters must work through the night, you will do so.”

“Yes, Khalifa. May you live forever.”

She touched his shoulder. “Thank you, Master Thibert. Balsalom depends on your skill. Make the wall strong enough to last for a thousand years.”

Kallia returned to the litter, then, having second thoughts, declined to climb back in. The slaves lifted the poles on either side of the litter and heaved it into the air, following in case she changed her mind. The mounted guardsmen drew ahead of the litter to clear the way. Workers stopped to gawk as she passed.

Sofiana walked next to the khalifa. “You handled him.”

“Did I? Or did he just agree with everything I said while intending to carry on the same way as before?”

“He’d never do that. You could have him killed.”

“I could, if I were a despot. I am not. And Master Thibert knows it.”

“That’s why your people love you.”

Maybe so, but there were times that Kallia wished she could wield power with a ruthless edge. They were at war, had only just avoided complete enslavement. She hadn’t retaken Balsalom by negotiating with the enemy, she had done it by waging a bloody revolt.

They followed the walls, which led through the small markets that stretched north and east from the Grand Bazaar. People gaped when they realized who she was. Spice sellers and carpet hawkers fell silent. A man sitting on a rug piled high with bread sprang to his feet when she approached with her retinue.

On the next street people lined in front of barrels of olive oil to get their pots filled for the Feast of the Olives, while others carried huge baskets of green or golden brown olives. A man in red robes played a sitar in the shade of the merchants tower and accepted olives as well as coins as payment for his music.

Two women threw sprigs of olive leaves at the khalifa’s feet. One man with reddish teeth and a wad of khat in his cheek begged her attention. He held a flask of olive oil in trembling hands. The guards tried to push him back, but Kallia stopped them.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Oh Khalifa, light of the world. Bless this oil, I beg you. My daughter is gravely ill.”

Kallia took the oil and put a hand on his cheek. His skin was leathery. She pulled the stopper from the bottle and touched a drop to his brow. “May she live to see another spring, and may the Sky Brother kiss her face with warm sun and heal her pain.”

“Bless you, Khalifa. Bless you!”

She handed back the oil. Other hands thrust bottles in her face. Men, women, and children alike kissed her hands and wept on her sandled feet, while she took their oil, touched their heads and blessed them.

“Jewel of the West,” a woman cried. “Veyrians killed my husband and dragged my sons east in chains. Please, I have nothing.”

At Kallia’s urging, the captain of her guard gave the woman a coin, and this only made the crowds press harder. She made her men give away every coin they carried, promising to recompense them when they returned to the palace. Soon they had no more money, and she grew anxious to keep moving toward the Great Gates. The guards cleared the path.

Behind her, people exclaimed their wonder that they had seen their khalifa on this day, of all days. The Harvest Festival was still a fortnight away, when the city would stop working and celebrate the year’s final milling of grain. But a second, equally important festival began that night and continued for the next three days. The Feast of the Olives. It celebrated the founding of Balsalom almost three hundred years earlier.

There had been no food as the survivors of the Tothian Wars gathered that first year. Survivors came from the surrounding khalifates, hoping that the legendary bounty of Aristonia would feed them. But Aristonia had taken the brunt of the final battles and would never recover, while her greatest city, Syrmarria, lay in ruins. The Famine Child stalked the survivors, taking hundreds. Winter approached.