To the High Redoubt (9 page)

“That is a start, I suppose,” Surata said, snuggling closer to him.

“Right,” Arkady whispered with a single twitch of laughter, thinking that she meant his attitude and not the kiss.

Chapter 5

“There are many skills we are taught,” Surata told Arkady the next day as the rode toward the pass they had heard other travellers call Giants' Causeway. “Most of them are to strengthen us and show us the limits of what we do, but some are…useful. There are ways to help a wound heal.”

Arkady knew she was referring to his arm, for the infection he had feared had stopped for no reason, and now there was a red, puckering seam there, as if he had been cut three weeks ago, not three days. “And can you cure all things?”

“Of course not,” she said wistfully. “I cannot cure age or mortal wounds or the sickness of rotting, or any other of the gods' maladies. I cannot cure blindness. I cannot make the dumb speak.” She leaned her head on his back. She had grown used to the pace of the gelding, and it was no longer a constant struggle to keep her seat on the bay.

“Our priests said that the Son of God did those things,” Arkady said, not to criticize her, but out of curiosity. “Do you think He did?”

“If he was an advanced Master, then perhaps he could. I've never known anyone who could, but there are always legends that say the Great Masters could do such wonders.”

There were kites and other carrion birds hanging high in the air, dozing on the wind in ominous circles. “There might be trouble ahead,” Arkady warned as he watched the birds.

“Why do you say that?” She had her hand inside his jerkin, resting on his skin, and their conversation was easy. “What do you see?”

“Birds,” he answered tersely. So many boded ill, he thought.

“Ah,” she responded with a wise nod. “I know of such birds, too. Outside of Samarkand, I saw them where a herd of goats had been slaughtered.”

“Is that where we are going?” he wondered aloud. “To Samarkand?”

“We are going beyond Samarkand, into the mountains, near the city of Ajni. The Bundhi is beyond that.” She sighed, this time with real distress. “You have no idea what power he has, and how ruthless he is in its use. He follows the Left Hand Path, and is rewarded for his destruction.”

“And you follow the Right Hand Path?” Arkady said, still watching the kites. “You believe that you must oppose him?”

“He blinded me and killed half of my family.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but her breathing became deeper and more irregular.

“And you want revenge.” He understood that need, that obligation.

“I want to restore order, balance.” She paused. “And I want some recompense for the pain he caused my family and me.”

“Revenge,” Arkady said quietly. “I would want it, too.”

“The Bundhi will do everything to stop our coming, once he knows that we are after him.” She sounded distant. “He has a high redoubt, both here and…in another place. Here it is near the top of Gora Čimtarga, south of Ajni.”

Arkady chuckled to hide his doubts. “These are the realms of Prester John, aren't they?”

“Prester John?” Surata repeated. “Who is this?”

“A king, or so I have heard. He is in the East and is the most powerful monarch in the world. That is what is said, at any rate.” He narrowed his eyes at the kites. “There are dead on the road, Surata.”

She did not shudder, but her manner was remote. “There are always dead on the road, but most of the time we do not see them.”

There was nothing that Arkady could think to say to this, and so he remained silent, watching the road ahead. “There's a party of merchants coming. A dozen asses and half that number of camels. I don't recognize their clothes, but they aren't dressed the way you are.”

“What colors do they wear?” Surata asked with some interest.

“They're dusty,” Arkady told her, squinting toward the little caravan in the distance. “But I'd say that they wear red-gold color and a very dark blue. They have turbans. I don't know if they are men of Islam or not.” He had come to mistrust all the followers of Mohamet, and his battles with the Turks had given him a suspicious respect for them.

“Long knives in their belts?” Surata suggested. “Short beards, wide metal belts?”

“I can't see them that clearly yet. They're nearer than the kites, however.” He took this as a good indication that whatever misfortune had brought the ominous birds, it had not been recent.

“They probably come from Kashgar. I know a few words of their language. Perhaps I can find out what the road ahead is like.” She pressed herself more tightly to Arkady's back. “When I was made a slave, they sent me first to Tabriz and then to Trebizond. The Bundhi wanted to be sure that I was far away from Ajni and Gora Čimtarga, with or without eyes to guide me.”

Arkady could sense an emotion in her that was not bitterness but had in it much deep-burning anguish, and he wished he had an easy way with words so that he could say the thing that would relieve her distress. Since he could not, he remarked, “We will want to stop for a while; the horse is tired.”

“And you wish to have an opportunity to assess the merchants before we reach their party,” Surata finished for him, apparently untroubled by his lack of response to her comments. “That is one of the reasons you are my champion—you are one who battles wisely.”

“I don't like battling,” he said curtly.

“Yes; that is why you do it well,” she said in her tranquil way. “Find your place, Arkady-champion, and let us be done with this watching.”

“Right.” He began to watch the sides of the trail for a place where they might be able to wait. “I will be glad of tomorrow. By then, we should be out of the mountains and onto the plain.”

“If that is what you think is wise, I will hope for the time,” she said. It was pleasant to be silent with him, to turn her mind inward to the teachings she had mastered. She was young enough to be proud of her abilities, but wise enough not to be vain about what she knew. “Arkady-champion,” she whispered, not caring if he heard her or not, “there is so much to do.”

“What?” he asked. “What is there to do?”

“I will tell you soon,” she promised. “But for the time being, watch the merchants. They are not all that they seem.”

He was about to demand she explain herself but had sense enough to stop the challenge before he uttered it. “What merchant is?” This quip was meant to be amusing, but it did not succeed.

“There are those you may trust, but many that you may not,” she said seriously. “It is a pity you don't have more arrows.”

“True enough,” he sighed and scanned the road ahead for cover. The mountains were rugged here, and the trees were sparse near the trail. It had been done on purpose, he knew, to make it more difficult for highwaymen to waylay travellers, but at the moment, he would have been pleased for the cover trees or brush would provide. “We'll have to get some distance from the road, I'm afraid.”

“Do as you think best, Arkady-champion.” She deliberately took her hand off his skin and held the cantel of the saddle. “There are more words now, but not…many.”

“Not enough,” he corrected her absently. He noticed a small track leading off the road not far ahead. “I think we have what we need.”

“A tree? Many trees?” she asked clumsily now that she did not have direct contact with him.

“Not trees, but a road, probably a farmer's or a vintner's.” He pulled the gelding toward the narrow, rutted path. “We can wait here until the merchants have gone by.”

“Good,” she said. “So many, you do not…”

“No, I don't,” he agreed. “Even if only a few of them are fighters, their numbers are too great.” He drew up in the cover of a large boulder. “This will do, I think. The merchants should be along in an hour or so. That will give us all a chance to rest.” He patted the bay's neck.

“Horse has no…word…name,” she said, commenting on something that had puzzled her for some time.

“No,” Arkady said.

“What reason?” She was aware that he did not want to answer the question, which made her more curious about the circumstances.

He dismounted, pulling the reins over the bay's head before reaching up to help her. Finally he decided to tell her the reason. “You'd probably find out, anyway,” he growled. “My first horse had a name, and my second. The first was killed. The second…the second went into the stewpot when my men had been three days without meat. Since then, I don't give my mounts names.” He thought back, remembering Ruddy, his first horse, a big, raw-boned sorrel with a shambling trot and the smoothest canter. His second horse—he still winced when he thought of the liver-chestnut—was called Crusader and possessed enormous stamina as well as an uneven temper. There had been six horses since then, this bay gelding being the most recent.

“Good horses?” she inquired as she bent and twisted to work the stiffness out of her muscles.

“Most of them. One was too nervous, another was twelve years old and not up to fighting anymore, but they were good horses.” He reached over and patted the gelding before loosening the girths. “This one is…reliable.”

“What is that?” Surata asked.

Arkady reached for her hand and was surprised when she pulled away. “You were the one who started this,” he protested.

“Not good to use it every time,” she explained awkwardly. “Not always are hands touching. Not always…near.”

“All right, all right,” he said, reaching for his waterskin. “Have some of this while I fix a nosebag for the horse.”

She took the waterskin and sipped at the brackish water. “More is needed,” she said to him. “More new.”

“But there isn't any nearby,” he told her. “For the time being, you'll have to use that.” He had taken a sack from the saddle and was putting grain into it. “As soon as I've got the horse taken care of, I'll get some fruit for us.”

“Good fruit,” she said.

“Yes.” They were also getting low on food as well as money, and what they would do for more of either he was not certain, which troubled him. With just his brigandine, two swords, maul and bow, the most he could hope for was passage for him and Surata with a party of merchants going east. No lord or local Marshall would take him on with such equipment, even if he spoke the bastard version of Hungarian he had been told was the language of the area. For the first time he was convinced he had chosen foolishly when he had turned east, for the farther east they ventured, the more mute he would become. And there would be many, many leagues to cover before Surata reached her people again. He stared off into the distance, his thoughts bleak.

“Not good, Arkady-immai, to be…head down.” She waved her hand to show that she had not found the right word and knew it. “You say.”

“Cast down,” he corrected her, motioning her to come closer, then cursing when he recalled she had to hear him speak. “Over here, Surata.”

She obeyed at once, moving into the shadow of the boulder. “Good to be here?”

“Very good,” he said. “The men are coming, and they out-number us. With those kites in the sky, I don't know what we should expect, and so we'll wait here until they pass.”

“Many…roads…” Her expression was exasperated, and she reached for his hand, smiling as they touched. “There are several trade routes once we leave these mountains, and there is no certainty that the kites have anything to do with the merchants you see on the road.”

“And there's no certainty that they do not,” he reminded her. “I don't want to have to settle that when they get here, do you?” He did not feel comfortable so close to her, for she was very attractive, and he did not want to add to his dishonor by using her badly. If she had been a campwoman, or a slattern in a village tavern, that would be different; but Surata, he knew in his bones and sinews, as he knew the weight of the sun's heat on him, was his true lady and deserved the best of him.

“Do not be troubled, Arkady-champion,” she said quietly. “You could not disgrace me if you wished to. It is not in your nature.”

He tried to scoff at her remark, but it so nearly caught his thoughts, he was not able to. “You're wrong there, Surata.”

“I am not.” She turned her head. “It is time to be quiet now, for the merchants will hear us soon.”

“You blind hear better than those of us with sight,” he said, hoping to still his lack of ease. “We had a blind priest for a while, and he heard everything.”

“Not better,” she said very softly. “We simply pay more attention to what we hear.” Her hand dropped his, and she fell silent, her attention turned inward.

Arkady watched her closely, marvelled at her dark hair and smooth face. She was as beautiful as she was exotic to him, for all the dust that clung to her. He wanted to touch her again, to close the gap between them with his fingers, but he could not bring himself to do this. Then he heard the first, distant sound of the caravan coming toward them, and he went to his gelding, holding the bay's head so that he would not neigh to the other horses.

The sound of the caravan grew louder, and there were bursts of conversation over the shuffle and clop of hooves. One of the men was singing, the words repetitious and droning, the melody an eerie wail. The merchants moved slowly but steadily, almost without purpose; they spoke little, surrounded by the mountains and the dust they raised, which curled upward like an offering of incense.

In the shelter of the boulder, Arkady leaned toward Surata and whispered, “Listen, and if you understand what you hear, tell me.”

“Yes,” she promised. “I will understand.” Then she settled back, her features composed, her body still and quiet.

Arkady watched her, both curious and apprehensive. He could not think of her without turmoil. He held the bay's bridle, prepared to pinch the nostrils closed at the horse's first sign of whinnying. He had done this many times before and did not need to concentrate on the task. Instead, he studied Surata. She was almost a decade younger than he, but she made him feel an untutored youth. It was more than her skills, he decided as he looked at her, at the way the shadow and sunlight crossed her face, revealing and obscuring at the same time. Her sightless eyes were closed, and had he not known better, he might have thought she was half-asleep.