Hand of the King's Evil - Outremer 04 (35 page)

They could see how the road wound on around the base of the hill, and vanished into shadow — and they knew what lay beyond that shadow, and that even so much shadow could not linger now, would be burned away with the rising of the sun.

In short, they could see the way to Surayon, that they had waited for and prayed for all this time.

'Rouse the men,' Fulke said, after a swift murmur of blessing, gratitude to the God which should also be proof against any lingering, leaking corruption from the cesspool that was Surayon. 'See them fed, and then break camp. We ride at sun-up.'

Not knowing what they rode into, except that it was accursed; none in their ranks could remember — or would admit to - passing through Surayon in the years before it was Folded. Not knowing what would result either, except that there would be a cleansing, a great scouring of the poison that oozed from Surayon to infect all of Outremer.

Poisoned flesh must be cut out, the doctors taught; Anton had seen the truth of that, time and again. Trying to save a rotten limb could kill a man. Better to seem harsh than kind; better to strike, swift: and sure in certainty, than to meddle and hope with doubt.

The land lay before them, the breeze was fresh and the night was paling; there would be blood and death before this new day was over, and that only the first of many days. It would be a hard and a cruel time that people would still speak of generations hence, as they spoke yet of the winning of Ascariel, where bodies had floated on the pools and lakes of their own bleeding.

Anton couldn't wait.

Coren had been here before, of course. He was the King's Shadow, and the King bestrode this land from northern march to southern sand, from western sea to eastern height where Coren was standing now. The King sat in Ascariel and never left his palace, but his Shadow fell wherever his will might glance; in forty years that will had pried into every secret corner of this country, and much that lay outside its borders too.

But Coren had known this pass even before he was the King's Shadow, even before there was a King. At that time it had been a killing-ground, where they had hounded the Sharai through the mountains and back into the desert.

Ten years later it had been a way of trade, a constant passage between Surayon and the Sands. By then, though, Surayon was already anathema to its neighbour states, and its dealings with the Sharai only further evidence of its debasement. All of Outremer traded across its borders, it had to in order to survive; but the other states traded only goods, what could be bought and sold from camel trains. Surayon traded in knowledge, the arcane wisdom of its Princip and his court for the witchcraft and indecent practices of the Sharai. That was heresy and should have been forbidden, only that the King was silent on the subject. There had been worse rumours too, even that the lords of Surayon traded in people also: not the slavery that was common throughout the country, but their own children sold to sorcerers deep in the desert, apprenticed to the blackest of the arts.

And then Surayon had Folded itself away before the other states could bring the Gods clean justice down upon it, and like every path across the border, this road had passed into nothingness and out the other side of Surayon.

And so Coren had seen it for the past thirty years, like every traveller who came this way. As the Kings Shadow he could come and go throughout this land, no work of man could bar him, but his eyes still saw what other mortals saw.

He'd always hoped to see it again as the God had made it, the high pass running down into the broad, deep cleft of the valley principality. He'd never truly expected it, though; he was too wise in the ways of his people. Mistrust and bigotry fed off each other and could thrive for generations, building higher and stronger walls even than these mountains. He hadn't dared to hope
that Surayon would unf
old itself in his lifetime, and he'd been sure that no outside force could break in through the Folding.

He'd been sure, and he'd been wrong.

For all the King's insight and his own, for all their knowledge and their great anticipation, he could never have imagined that he'd find himself here like this, in the road with the Folding dissolved and gone, an army from the Sands marching towards him and the body of his friend laid out in the dust at his side.

He'd insisted on that, against Julianne
’
s tearful pleading and Elisande's tight silence. 'I'll bring him home,' he'd said, 'as soon as I may. That I promise. But the Sharai respected Rudel while he lived, and they respect the dead who died bravely. If I cannot persuade them to turn back, it may be that Rudel can. Without Hasan's determination to drive them on, they might choose not to pass his body; it could win us a few days' grace, if nothing more.'

Privately he thought that the opposite was more likely, that finding the road open and having pursued Hasan this far, the Sharai would pursue him further, all the way to Surayon town and the Princip s palace. This was a desperate cast of a die that was weighted against him, against them all; but he'd still seize any slight chance that he could. The sheikhs might at least honour Rudel's memory far enough to turn back to the fork in the road and ride for Ascariel instead. That would be a small, if a bitter victory; the King held a special fondness for Surayon, as did Coren also. And Ascariel at least mounted an army, which Surayon did not. Perhaps the tribes' love of battle would draw them that way; perhaps in Hasan's absence, the sheikhs would yearn to show that he was not needed, that they could achieve what he had not. Sharai ambition had won many a fight for the Patrics, before this.

But they were coming now, and he was dreaming. This was a situation that might more properly call for prayer, though he made none: neither to the God he had long since ceased to worship - though not to believe in; he had seen too much to allow of any doubt, but too much also to allow of any praise — nor to the King whose hearing he was more sure of, whose help he might have hoped for. He had learned long since that such hopes were commonly vain. The King ruled, but left his country for his Shadow to administer.

Coren stood foursquare in the road beside the body of his friend and waited while the long shadow that was only the outriders of the Sharai army came slowly down the defile from the mountains. It would be past dawn on the Sands, he knew, but not yet in Surayon; there were still stars to be seen above him, though they were fading now. Light was creeping into the sky, but matters here would still be decided in the dark However they fell out, the sun would look down on a new-made world by the time it had climbed above the mountain wall; he doubted if that world would be better made.

It was as ever the sheikhs themselves who led the line of march with their immediate retinues, young men of their close families. He knew them all by more than name and reputation. He knew their tempers and their temperaments, their pride and ambition, their quarrelsome natures and every quarrel that lay between them. Under other circumstances, he would have been confident in playing one against another until their unity was shattered and the best that they could hope for was a chaotic withdrawal, the worst a pitched battle between their tribes. Here, though, on the very borders of the country that was as holy to them as to his own people, he felt himself weak and helpless. His own reputation would protect him personally, not one among them would raise a blade against the Kings Shadow, but he thought that nothing could protect the land or the people at his back.

Nothing unless it was the King himself: now would be a good time for him to guard his realm with an earthquake or a vision of fire, something to terrify or tear apart these long files of desert men, rip the courage from their hearts or the ground from beneath their camels' feet.

But the King did not and would not work that way. Sometimes even Coren did not understand the King, although he'd known him longest and best. Except for the Princip of Surayon, of course, always excepting him. Maybe even the King would make an exception for the Princip
...

But he did not, and Coren had still not expected him to. The leading sheikhs rode up and reined in, three abreast, as many as could be accommodated without crowding on the road.

Coren read their mood on their faces - exhaustion, anticipation, exaltation - and almost stepped aside without a word, almost bowed and waved them on their way. The smoothest voice in Outremer, which was his, would do him no good here. He held his ground, though, scrabbling after every little minute he could buy for Surayon; he folded his arms passively, impassively, and awaited their questions.

'What has happened here?'

'Rudel has been murdered, by Morakh the Sand Dancer, while he was working us a passage into Surayon. As you see, that has undone the Folding. Also, we were attacked by an 'ifrit. We slew them both, spirit and Dancer; Morakh's body is over yonder,' a casual wave of his arm towards the rocks beyond the road's limit, 'if you wish to bury your man before you continue on your way.'

A general hissing, hands touched to scimitar-hilts, and, 'Morakh was not our man!' from several throats at once.

'No? Strange, then, that he was so eager to ease your path for you. Honourable men would refuse to accept this gift he has left you,' a bare movement of his eyes to show what gift he meant, the death of a man they knew well. 'Honourable men would turn back and wait word from Hasan, whom we are seeking to heal.'

This was the crux, confrontation the only tool he had where diplomacy was bound to fail; he did not think that it would be enough.

Nor was it. There was mocking laughter at his words, and, 'Hasan must take his chance. If he recover, he may join us or not, as he sees best. The Dancers serve God, and so do we; if Morakh won us this opportunity, he is among the blessed in Paradise.'

'Will you serve the 'ifrit, as he did? They tried to destroy you at Rhabat; now they will use you to destroy the Patrics. Is this wisdom?'

'It is as God wills it. Do not stand between us and our own lands, Shadow, unless you desire to follow Rudel sooner than you might.'

Imber was a deserter, he supposed. For sure that would be

That was it, that was all he could do; he had lost, as he had been sure that he would. He stepped off the road and stood watching in silence as the Sharai began their slow ride across the border i
nto Surayon at last, going quietl
y in single file past Rudel's body, each man offering a salute or a blessing before lifting his eyes towards the country so long hidden, so long desired.

how his uncle treated him, when — if ever - he went back as a milk-sop and a coward both, a weakling who ran away from family and duty at a time when danger threatened, who went in search of a fled woman without even the poor excuse of dragging her back He was reconciled, never to live with Julianne; she'd slipped away from him twice, and he wouldn't be so cruel as to force a third time on her. He'd find out why, though, he was determined on that. She had seemed — well, not unagreeable to the wedding. Not distressed, as some girls were when they were forced to the altar. Sometimes - brief times, they'd only had brief times together — he'd thought she might return his own affection; something surely had burned the air between them when their eyes locked
...

First he had to find her, though, before he could understand her. Find her and rescue her.
Great danger,
the djinni had said, and so he had come at great speed; and the major, the overriding surprise to him was that his cousin Karel had come with him, and half their men beside.

'They're more or less the names I would have chosen,' Karel had said the first night as they walked the bounds of the camp together, supposedly choosing picket-sites, 'if I'd had my pick of the squad. They would have come for me, if I'd ordered them; and I'd have done that, you know, if you'd tried to sneak off alone.'

'I know,' which was one reason why he'd asked for more than Karel's blessing. Better to ride in company than to be hunted. 'But you didn't need to order anyone.'

'No. They volunteered. They'd have obeyed me, because I'm a soldier,' which was the other reason Imber had wanted him along, 'but they follow you because of who you are.'

'Because of what I am, you mean.' The Baron-heir, the Counts son, too valuable to be let wander unprotected in the Kingdom or outside it.

'That's not what I mean at all. "You're too young yet to see it, but the men know. They fear your uncle, and so they obey him; they respect me, and so they obey me; you they simply love, as they have loved your father. You give them cause for it, without realising what you do. Can you imagine your uncle riding patrol as you have these last weeks, living with the men and sharing their work, their food, their discomforts
...
?'

Imber smiled briefly. 'No
, perhaps not - but it was only
because of Julianne. I couldn't
find her, and I couldn't sit in
the palace and do nothing. B
esides, there was need, we have
to watch our borders '

'Exactly, that's my point. The men understand all of that. They'd have known, if you were doing it to win their favour; they're hardy souls, and hard to fool. But you came because your girl had driven you to shame and anguish, and they've all been burned by women in their time. And you came because it was your duty, and that's something else they're glad to share with you. And then a will o' the wisp from the desert sends you on a mad ride south, the wrong side of the mountains in a time of war; of course they follow you, how could they not? They're glad to have me here, but they'd have come without me if I'd stayed. If I'd ordered them to stay, I'd have faced a mutiny. And that's the difference between us, Imber, and by the time you hold the County you'll have learned how to use it as your father does now, and then it'll be all the difference in the world.'