Sandstorm (8 page)

Because if he had councilmen plotting against him, working with the west to grab hold of the Wild Desert - which would bring the west uncomfortably close to Tavamara - then he had no doubt that getting rid of him would at some point become necessary.

He motioned the next supplicant forward, warmly greeting the son being presented, making him an official part of society now that he'd come of age, then waved the family away and motioned for a pause in the proceedings. "Something to drink?" he requested of a guard, and wine was immediately brought, light and sweet, pale pink in color.

For the first time in two hours his harem men moved, Aik carefully pouring wine into a shallow drinking dish and passing it to Witcher, who held it to Shah's lips, face expressionless but eyes smiling. "Better, my King?" he murmured, words only for Shah to hear.

"By your presence, my witch," Shah said just as quietly, wishing he could touch but ever aware of his station. "Thank you," he said more loudly. "Let us resume." He motioned the next supplicant forward as the wine was taken away.

Six

Jackal rested on the edge of the Desert, right where it began to shift into the hills that eventually joined the mountain range that divided the Desert from the West, and eventually wrapped around to form Tavamara's northwest border. It was no wonder most thought the Tribe long dead.

Who could really be bothered to come all the way out here just to shed blood?

Though, it probably didn't hurt that people in this region feared Jackal the way the southern region feared Ghost. In Jackal's case, however, it was not an ability to be everywhere and nowhere, but their utter ruthlessness in protecting their territory and disposing of enemies.

Jackals bore marking on their face to indicate rank, achievements, and the distinctive jackal head, inked into different places depending on the person and their place.

Security around the camp was light. Not because Jackal was lazy or careless, but simply because they were confident they could kill whatever was stupid enough to wander too close.

He had yet to see evidence that they couldn't.

Snorting, longing for cold water and a soft bed, he checked that his face covering was in place, that his equipment was easily accessible, then ran through his plans one last time.

A horn sounded in the dark, high and long, spreading across the surrounding area just as the cold did once the sun vanished. Near as he'd been able to tell, that meant no one was to enter or leave camp - or their tents.

Shadows, of course, were exempt. Hopefully they were aware of that. Laughing softly at himself, he gave Angel one last pat and then slid down a dune, weaving his way slowly through the thinning sands, snaking into the grasses and around to the back of the camp.

Getting in was easy. If he did everything right, as he probably would, getting out would be just as easy. If he messed up…

Better to think positive. All would go as the Lady willed. Assuming her will matched his. If not, then there would be problems.

The problem with invading camps on flat land was the general lack of places to hide. He had nothing but the absolute dark of a moonless night and his memories. If someone had neglected to put something away, that would be another problem.

Problems, problems, never any real solutions.

Stifling a sigh, keeping positive thoughts in the back of his mind to spur him on, he followed the trail he'd planned, wending his way toward the camp. Paused, knelt in the grass, froze in place as guards passed by, walking the wide, open perimeter of the camp. Slunk by once they were well out of range. Unlike rock in an echoing canyon, dry grass would mark him all too readily.

Heart knocking against his ribs, fighting an urge to make some sort of noise simply to release tension, he finally reached the edge of the tents and released a soundless sigh of relief.

Fingers brushed briefly across his pouches, touched his knife, assuring him that all he needed was there and ready for use.

Even Viper hadn't been as nerve-wracking as this venture, and the close call he'd had there still woke him up in a cold sweat.

Rolling his eyes, giving himself a stern reprimand, he finally moved forward, calling up the image of the layout of the camp in his mind and turning left as he passed by the first one.

A hand snagged his wrist, dragged him roughly inside and up against a wide chest.

"It's about time," his captor said, voice as dark and rough as desert wine, sending helpless shivers down his spine. Fingers brushed over the fabric on his face, and the voice laughed, causing new shivers, before rough fingers tore the fabric away and a mouth closed over his, immediately aggressive, hungry, consuming, tasting like honeyed nuts and something familiar…something he should know…

He couldn't help kissing back, bewildered and enthralled, wishing for a moment that he was the lover this man had mistaken him for. But it lasted only a moment, and in the next his captor realized something was wrong.

"You're a fine kisser," that rough voice said, "but not the one I was expecting."

"I'm better," he replied, then lashed out with his foot, kicking hard, breaking free when the hold weakened briefly, giving himself space to launch a high kick - crying out briefly in dismay when his foot was grabbed, the neat counter knocking him hard to the ground, darkness spinning dizzily around him. Then a flash of pain, and the darkness thickened.

Then nothing.

He woke to laughter and an aching head - a head that he realized lacked a cover.

"The prisoner wakes."

He closed his eyes, fear settling hard in his gut as he remembered what had transpired. This probably wouldn't end well. At least his father would never find out he'd failed because of a kiss.

The world spun dizzily, pain exploding in his already aching head, as he was backhanded by a nearby soldier.

"Who are you?" When the world finally stopped spinning, and the figure before him became one and not three, he saw that the speaker was a thick, heavyset man with a beard that looked like somewhere a black sheep was missing a chunk of fur. He didn't need to know the marks on the man's face to know he was the Sheik.

"No one of importance," he said slowly, pain making his words somewhat slurred.

"How doe a western bastard know our language so well?"

He glared. "I'm a good soldier."

"You were," the Sheik replied. "Until you attempted to invade Jackal. What was your goal?"

He refrained from pointing out that he'd only been caught because he'd interrupted one of the Sheik's men in a tryst. But that would imply the Sheik's men had trysts, which implied disobeying orders, which implied they had no respect for their Sheik's authority, which was not the best thing to bring up when you were not only a prisoner but one they thought was western. Making the Sheik mad would get him killed that much sooner, and he preferred to stay alive as long as possible.

This time he saw the hit coming, and managed to avoid the worst of it, though the room still spun dizzily for a moment.

"Why are you here?" the Sheik repeated.

"Just visiting," he replied.

The Sheik shook his head, but held up a hand to forestay another hit. "Clearly you are western; a man of the Desert would have more respect for the situation you are in. Tell us your name."

"All this smacking me around seems to have scrambled my memories. I don't remember my name."

Chuckling, the Sheik motioned and the nearby soldier backhanded him again, over and over, repeatedly, until he was dizzy, nauseous and bleeding. "This isn't helping my memory."

This time the Sheik threw his head back and laughed. "How rare, a western man who can stand upon the sands." He started to say more, but a motion from someone across the tent stopped him. "A pity I do not have more time for you. We will continue this discussion later, yes prisoner?"

"I will look forward to it."

"Bahadur," the Sheik said, "take him to the prison tent. See that he's sedated. I don't trust this one to be left too aware. If you can learn anything, do so, and perhaps I will relax your punishment for disobeying my orders."

"Yes, Sheik," Bahadur replied, voice rough, dark.

Calloused hands hauled him to his feet, and he was dragged away, barely able to stay upright, and eventually thrown to the floor of an empty, barren tent. He didn't bother to resist as his hands were chained to the central pole, behind his back, giving him almost no room to move.

He looked up as the man called Bahadur knelt before him.

Dark and rough was rapidly becoming the best way to describe the man. Bahadur was tall, broad-shouldered, built like he could probably lift and throw a grown man with very little effort. His skin was bronzed dark, no doubt as rough as his hands, weathered by the son. He was smooth shaven, odd when everyone else in the tent had favored beards. His eyes were a clear, pale gold, made all the paler by his dark skin. Scrolling calligraphy was inked into his cheeks, across his forehead, a small jackal head at the center. He was handsome in the same manner as the desert - in a hard, untamed sort of way. Not to everyone's taste.

"I'd really prefer not to be sedated."

Bahadur looked at him thoughtfully. "I would like to know your name and purpose for being here. Given…" he sighed. "Let us start with your name, and perhaps I will not sedate quite as heavily as the Sheik would like."

"That depends - do you think me eastern or western?"

Bahadur looked at him, confused. "What else could you be but western?"

He sighed, the pain familiar. If not for his inordinate amount of time in the sun, his skin would be bone-white, as his mother's was. Hair that looked wildly exotic to the Tribes; Isra had once told him it looked like dark rubies. Eyes a bright, bright green. "Then I guess my name is Simon," he said, no longer caring.

Bahadur frowned. "What if I had said eastern?"

"You didn't," Simon said, unable to keep out the bitterness. "My name, so far you're concerned, is Simon. Will you hold to our bargain?"

"Of course," Bahadur said, frown turning into a glower. He hefted a small wine skin from the floor nearby and poured the contents into a small cup. "We noticed, searching your things, that you use valtyanar." He grinned, and for a moment looked almost boyish. "If I had not mistaken you, I think you would have found yourself caught anyway. This wine is unique to our Tribe, and we're the only ones who can drink it without immediately passing out." He pressed the cup to Simon's lips. "Drink." His tone said he could, and would, force the issue if he had to.

Too exhausted with pain and relief that he was alive to feel pain, Simon obediently drank. His eyes widened in surprise - there was valtyanar in the wine. That was what had tasted familiar about Bahadur's kiss; a lingering hint of the potent drug.

"I think the only thing that surprises me is that only one Tribe uses a potent poison in wine."

The world was beginning to dim, blur. "This is a light sedation?"

Bahadur laughed. "Yes."

"One…one more thing…" Simon struggled to get the words. "My horse. She…take care of her. Doesn't deserve to…die because…of me."

"We'll see to it," Bahadur promised. Simon knew he would. To let a fit horse die needlessly was a crime punishable by death. No one would let a good horse go to waste. He hoped they took care of Angel until he could take her back.

Then thinking became too hard, his head too heavy, and he let the darkness take him.

He was starting to hate waking up. Pain from the blows combined with a sick, heavy feeling from the wine, and Simon thought briefly, fondly, that waking up to one of Isra's temper tantrum's had never seemed more appealing.

Simon ignored the panic that suddenly tried to overwhelm him. Absolutely no one knew he was in danger. Isra was used to him vanishing for days and weeks. By the time Isra began to suspect something was wrong, it would be too late.

Unless he could escape, which he was fully intending to do.

Making a vain effort to will away the pain in his head, Simon finally settled on trying to ignore it and focus on his surroundings.

Which weren't much. Sand. Empty tent. Arms stiff and sore. If he ever got captured again, he was going to insist on a different method of imprisonment. And Lady spare him another taste of that wine.

Though he would dearly love to take some home and see what havoc he could wreak.

Simon grinned briefly at the thought, then forced his attention back to matters at hand. He strained to hear what was going on outside, but if the Jackal were like any other Tribe, they would have made certain he was just far enough away from the rest of the camp to avoid such things.

The tent flap moved at the corner of his vision, and he wasn't surprised to see Bahadur appear - though he was surprised to see the man brought food. "Are you my caretaker, then?

Punishment for kissing me?"

Bahadur grunted, and Simon could see he was fighting a smile as he knelt. "I will confess that I have rarely enjoyed getting in trouble so much." Bahadur briefly touched a mark on his left cheek, and Simon wondered suddenly what the scrolling bit of ink meant. "A pity you're a prisoner. Ah, well. The Lady has her reasons, no?"

"Oh?" Simon asked, genuinely surprised. "Did you just admit you enjoyed kissing a western bastard?"

"A kiss is a kiss," Bahadur replied, "and I think I was mistaken in calling you western, though I don't know how you could possibly be eastern looking as you do." He held a piece of soft bread up to Simon's mouth. "Eat. Then perhaps we can reach another bargain?"

Simon nodded. He was going to argue with that? "Not fond of the confession by beating method?"

"The Sheik told me to obtain information; he did not specify how."

Strange. The proper form when speaking of one's Sheik was to say 'my sheik' not 'the sheik'.

To say 'the' was to separate oneself - from Sheik and even Tribe. Bahadur was quietly saying that he lacked confidence in his Sheik. That he did not stand with his Tribe. He was saying this to a prisoner.

Interesting.

The food was good, surprisingly so, though by that point Simon would have been grateful for nearly anything. Soft, chewy bread spread with a crumbling white cheese, slices of mutton heavily seasoned. Best of all - water. "You must really want to know what I'm doing here, if you're serving me real food."