Emissary (39 page)

The first seven days passed in a monotonous routine and everyone settled into rising before dawn, walking for a few hours until the sun noticed them and threw down her fury. They would ride for another four hours, hardly wasting words, focused on nothing other than the swaying of their camels, and making it through the next hour when the skins of water would be handed around. The camels did not drink any of their water during this time but Lazar knew from Salim’s urgings that on this eighth day they must make it to a well or the animals would simply stop. Everyone, including the royals, had given up eating until the cool of the evening—no-one even bothered with the flatbread of a morning any more.

Salim complained that if his men had been allowed to bring a saluki, the dog could have coursed for the desert hare and fresh meat might have been enjoyed. Fortunately he had shared this gripe only with Lazar, who kept it to himself. He didn’t need anyone fantasising about roasted fresh meat when all they had was thin dried strips of goat that had been packed at the palace.

Still, it, together with the flatbread they cooked each evening, oil, dried fruits, nuts, kept them alive. He knew everyone’s stomach was grinding as it began to adjust to this lean new diet and soon he imagined the gauntness that struck all desert travellers would begin to appear amongst the ranks of this party. His body was already wasted enough and he was sensible enough to take Jumo’s advice seriously that he should eat more.

‘We can always kill one of the camels in the future,’ Jumo had urged at the outset.

Salim had come up with a solution this morning when they had woken groggily to the screech of several falcons swooping above.

‘If we could catch ourselves a bird, he could hunt hare, bustard, just as easily as a saluki.’

‘How?’ Lazar asked, intrigued.

‘If we find the well today, then we will rest the caravan and take that time to hunt a bird.’

Lazar nodded, more out of fascination at the idea of trapping and taming a falcon. ‘This well, you’re sure it’s about two hours from here?’

Salim shook his head. ‘There is no surety in The Empty, my friend.’

‘Then—’

‘But we have knowledge that a well should be due two hours west of here,’ Salim finished.

Lazar accepted this—what else could he do but get the caravan moving in its westerly direction and hope the Khalid’s ‘knowledge’, as Salim put it, was true?

An unspoken truce had fashioned itself around the Spur and the Valide, and most in the party, including the Elim, were feeling less tension on the journey as a result. Lazar didn’t trust the easy manner of Herezah, of course—he had known her long enough to appreciate the masterful pragmatism she could demonstrate when cornered. Herezah had no doubt taken stock, realised that she had no supporters amongst this company and that to lock horns with the only person who would feel obliged to protect her was sheer madness. Lazar knew the Elim were entrusted with her care and safety, but she had punished them for so long that he was sure if it came to a choice between saving Ana or the Valide, they would choose the girl. The Spur was different. He was bound by oath allegiance to his Zar, her son. He was not so sure which way he would go if forced to make that same choice.

Herezah’s good sense had prevailed during this last week and she had bit back on her own fury, swallowed her pride and allowed this uneasy peace between herself and the Spur to build. It certainly made for a less tempestuous time and she noticed that Lazar was dropping back from the head of the caravan more frequently now to talk with the royal party. He seemed ever so slightly more relaxed—that is, she thought grimly, if a stern expression and distinct lack of humour could be considered relaxed.

She noticed he paid Ana no special attention and seemed to enjoy the Grand Vizier’s company, although once again, how did one tell if Lazar was enjoying anything? He certainly talked more to Tariq than either of them. Ana was saying little enough anyway. The girl had become all but mute these past few days, withdrawing entirely into herself.

‘What is wrong with you, child?’ Herezah finally enquired. ‘Why don’t you speak?’

‘Forgive me, Valide, I have kept myself to myself because I haven’t been feeling well.’

‘What sort of unwell?’ Tariq enquired gently. ‘Do you need more water? I can—’

‘No, I’m not overly thirsty,’ Ana replied. ‘I just feel slightly nauseous.’

Herezah shared a sly glance with the Grand Vizier and both knew they were wondering the same thing—whether Ana was already pregnant.

‘Don’t worry on my account,’ Ana continued. ‘I’m perfectly capable of the journey, just not in the mood for conversation.’

‘That’s all right, Zaradine Ana,’ Maliz said, and touched her arm. He satisfied himself that he felt nothing once again. ‘Just keep us informed. We’re here to protect you.’

Ana gave him a small smile of thanks from behind her veil and returned to her silence. They rode on for another hour and it was Jumo who dropped back this time, smiling widely and with information that was obviously good news.

‘We have found the well. We shall stop here for the rest of the day, water the camels and replenish our own stores.’

‘I thought these beasts didn’t require watering.’

Even Maliz laughed. ‘Do you mean
ever,
Valide?’ he said and bowed to show he meant no disrespect, simply some levity. ‘Camels can go for long periods without water—in this case I think we’ve been travelling, what is it, seven full days?’ Jumo nodded. ‘We will no doubt plot our journey by the availability of wells. The beasts need to drink for many hours to refresh themselves and then they can last for a long time.’

Herezah didn’t reply but didn’t look abashed either. Camels were meaningless, smelly beasts of burden as far as she was concerned and so long as one didn’t die beneath her, that was all she needed to know about them.

‘So we camp here?’

‘Yes, Valide. The Spur, myself and some of the Khalid are going hunting after the watering but the Elim will remain to guard you.’

‘Hunting?’ Herezah said, her eyebrows arching with surprise. ‘What?’

‘Falcons,’ Jumo replied, unable on this occasion to conceal his excitement.

‘Oh, I should like to see that,’ the Grand Vizier said. ‘Include me in the party.’

‘I shall let the Spur know your wish, Grand Vizier.’

The atmosphere around the camp was almost festive as the tents went up far earlier than usual, and everyone could sense the Khalids’ relief that they had found the promised well. It had been unused for a long time and half buried, but nothing that three men digging hard for an hour couldn’t unearth. Before long the water was surging again, goatskins were being replenished and the camels were happily restoring themselves. Men’s laughter could be heard and conversation was flowing in tandem with the water.

Lazar sipped the bitter nectar from the earth and grinned for the first time in ages, it seemed to Jumo and Pez. ‘Sherem!’ he said to Salim.

‘Sherem!’ the Khalid echoed, offering up good health to all.

Pez turned cartwheels for everyone and the Khalid laughed and clapped. They had already worked out that the dwarf was insane but it troubled them not; they seemed to like the little man who entertained them with his acrobatics and obvious problem with flatulence, which he seemed to save for whenever the royal party were near him.

‘And now we hunt the falcon,’ Salim said to Lazar. ‘Come.’

Jumo had already mentioned to Lazar that the Vizier was keen to observe and this news had been greeted with a scowl but Lazar could hardly refuse, so the Grand Vizier, together with Lazar, Jumo, a babbling Pez and four of the Khalid, set off, having
taken their leave from the women and the rest of the party.

They moved slowly on foot for the sun was scorching the sands this day. Nothing moved, other than themselves, not even a scorpion or snake, both of which seemed impervious to the desert elements. And then they heard it, the high-pitched shriek of the two falcons that had seemed to follow them on this journey.

Lazar mentioned this to Salim, who agreed. ‘These birds are patient. They wait, they watch, they are opportunists who never know when something might move that they can hunt and eat.’

‘So what do we lure them with?’

Salim touched his nose in a knowing way. ‘Watch,’ he said and pointed to one of his men, who dragged from a sack at his waist a plump pigeon.

Everyone’s mouths went slack. ‘He’s had that with him for the whole way?’ Lazar asked the question on the mind of everyone who wasn’t Khalid.

Pez waddled up and stroked the pigeon’s head, licking his lips in an obscene way.

‘Very lucky none of us discovered that stowaway until now,’ the Vizier commented, for once agreeing with the dwarf. ‘I love roasted pigeon.’

‘What now?’ Lazar asked.

‘We make a hide. Only one man can do this bit so you will have to simply watch from a distance. It needs patience so if any of you don’t
think you can make it through an hour or more of absolute stillness beneath this sun, then you should return to the camp now.’

Lazar nodded. ‘We understand.’ He looked around at the party and translated. No-one blinked. ‘I think everyone here wants to remain. We’ll need some shade, though.’

Three of the Khalid unravelled fabric that had been tied around their waist. It was the same colour as the sand.

‘This is what we use,’ Salim said as the lengths were given to the Percherese. ‘From the sky, if you remain still and upwind, the falcon will not know.’

The Khalid showed the uninitiated how to set up their shade, even how to sit. And then the Percherese watched with great interest as the men of the desert set about digging a hole into the sand to create the hide with yet more of the fabric. Once that was completed, Salim came over to remind his audience of the need for silence and stillness. As he climbed into the hole, Pez began to sing softly and Maliz watched Lazar quieten him with a gentle touch to his shoulder.

‘Why is he here?’ Maliz asked, his tone still with its good humour and yet there was a sense of irritation beneath the enquiry.

‘For the same reason you are, Grand Vizier.’

‘He’s told you he wanted to witness this, did he?’

‘In his way, yes. I have known Pez for almost two decades as you have, but I understand him through his eccentricities.’

The Grand Vizier did not look convinced and was about to say so when he was interrupted.

‘Hush,’ Jumo murmured. ‘They are ready. Do you see, they have tied a length of all-but-invisible string to the leg of the pigeon, its other end to a stone. The falcons are still here, hovering, circling. They are peregrine—shahin—and prized.’

‘Do they not use the hawk?’ Maliz whispered, captivated by the scene unfolding.

‘They prefer the shahin for their speed, courage and tenacity. A shahin does not give up.’

‘So why would they ever use a hawk? I’ve seen them used on the gravel plains.’

‘My understanding,’ Jumo whispered, wondering, as both Lazar and Pez were, when Tariq had ever visited the gravel plains two hundred miles north of Percheron, ‘is that the hawk—or hurr, as the desert tribes call it—has better eyesight and is more suited to that region.’

Maliz nodded, satisfied, seemingly unaware of questions silently flying around him. Pez had been in the palace for longer than Tariq and had never heard him speak of travelling beyond the city and its regions.

Lazar believed Maliz had made his first real mistake in revealing himself. He knew for a fact that Tariq had not done much travelling beyond the city’s borders and also that the Vizier—as he’d been for most of his life at the palace—would have sneered at anything connected with the desert.

‘The Khalid will launch her now,’ Jumo whispered.

‘You know a great deal about this, my friend,’ Lazar murmured. ‘I’m impressed.’

Jumo shrugged. ‘We hawked as youngsters but we were told stories about the desert tribes of the Great Waste and their shahin. I feel privileged to share this.’

Lazar smiled inwardly. Jumo suddenly looked like a boy again in his obvious excitement.

‘Here she goes,’ Jumo warned. And at his words, the pigeon was thrown aloft and with a great flapping of wings she steadied in the air and then began to ascend, the string unravelling behind her.

The falcons saw her immediately, for a pigeon is hardly silent in its bustling effort to rise. One flew behind her, banked, and then dipped its wing, shaping itself into an arrow that would swoop through a killing arc. The men watched, enthralled as the pigeon, still ascending and unaware of the danger, was hit at full force and killed in the air before both birds toppled back to the sands.

Salim cautiously appeared and stealthily made his way to the stone to which the string was still attached. Up ahead the bird of prey was tearing at feathers and flesh.

Jumo spoke softly, answering the question burning in everyone’s mind except Pez’s it seemed; he was unravelling a long thread from his robes, smiling at its endless length. ‘The
falcon always faces upwind. This means it cannot pick up the scent of the man. It is also gorging now, not paying as much attention to its surrounds as it might otherwise. It is vulnerable in these moments only. Watch.’

The string was ever so slowly reeled back in and the falcon came closer and closer until it was barely a stride away from Salim secreted in the hide. He waited patiently for the hunting bird to be so engrossed in its kill that it didn’t even sense the reaching arms and only realised it was caught when the Khalid began shouting and cheering.

The group returned to camp triumphant and everyone watched with fascination as Salim threaded a piece of cotton through each of the bird’s lower lids and tied the ends at the top of its head, drawing the lids up so the falcon was now blinded.

‘How long does it take to train him?’ Herezah asked, the most fascinated of all.

‘Depending on her intelligence, she can be ready in a week.’

Sounds of surprise came from the audience.

‘That fast?’ Lazar asked, incredulous.

Salim nodded. ‘I promise you, meat in a week.’