'Elisande went into the castle - and you left her, you let her do that? Alone?'
'Yes,' said quietly, sullenly, aware of its moment. 'Would you have done otherwise, could you have stopped her? I could not.'
'You could have tried.'
'I did try.'
'You could have tried harder.'
'Marron, peace.' That was Coren, pushing his way physically between them, and only just in time. Rage made him stupid, rage was a danger to his friends but he would rage despite that, despite them. 'You cannot think rationally while Jemel is bleeding, the Daughter prevents you. This is disturbing, of course, but good may yet come of it. Jemel, change your robe and wash the blood from your hands. I don't have Elisande's gift of healing, but I have an ointment that will stem the flow, enough to quiet what burns inside Marron. Then we will talk, and decide what's best to do.'
Marron knew already what was best to do, the only thing that he could do. Jemel had abandoned Elisande; Coren would find some reason to do the same. That meant it lay with him to go after her and try to bring her back. With or without Julianne. There had been altogether too much talking. Words had left Julianne too long in her captivity; they wouldn't do the same for Elisande.
Jemel unlaced his robe with awkward fingers, let it slip from his shoulders; Marron turned his back on that well-known and well-loved body and stormed out into the yard, first steps on a far longer journey—
—and was stopped, was startled to find a djinni spinning strongly in the gateway, barring his access to the street.
Don't ask it questions, but he might have done that anyway, his fury burned so hot. Who are you? perhaps, or what do you want? Or he might simply have given it orders, out of my way, spirit, and if it didn't react he might simply have leaped the wall and run towards the hills, towards a pair of needy girls who could hope for no one other.
But the djinni spoke before he could; it said, 'Ghost Walker, do not walk into foolishness. Think. I know where you mean to go, and what you mean to do there. If I can see this, who can see so little' - it was Elisande's djinni, then, the only one that would so brag of weakness — 'of a certainty the
'ifrit can see it too. If you went to the castle, you would meet nothing there but a waiting death.' 'Then so will Elisande.'
'Then you would be too late to save her; she is within its walls already. But Lisan moves more quiedy through the world than you, Ghost Walker. She slides between the threads of the weft and leaves them barely singing, while you tear wherever you touch. She is within the castle, and not dead yet. Believe me, I would know. The weight of my oath is a burden; her death would free me, and I am not free.'
'So obey the terms of your oath, and help her!'
'What is true for you is equally true for me. We have spoken of this before. If I go to the castle, I will be destroyed there. Lisan would not be helped by that. Be patient, and take counsel; there are wiser men than you among your party, and others coming.'
They would come too late, he thought, and wanted to disregard the djinni and go after Elisande whatever the consequences, as Elisande had gone after Julianne. But then Jemel would come after him, surely, despite angry words; and Coren would certainly come after them all, and one by one they would be easy prey. The djinni had shown him that, as it had meant to.
He sighed, and heard it say, 'Now you are thinking clearly,' high and clear as ever above the sound of his breath but somehow moving further off, although it was not moving. He saw it not fade but reduce to a shimmer, a whisper of wind, and wanted to call it back. But he was not Elisande, to order its comings and goings. He had enough trouble already with the supernatural.
He stood silent until it had disappeared entirely, until a cautious step forward confirmed that the way lay open to the street, although he would not take it now. He lingered a while in the yard, telling himself that he was only waiting until all traces of blood had been washed away within; it was nothing to do with what harsh words had passed between him and Jemel. And yet, when he did go back inside, his feet lagged heavily against his will. He felt as though he waded through turbulent water all the way to his friends side, as though the weight of a boys dark gaze was enough almost to hold him still. His hand reached out nervously to touch cool clean robe and cooler skin beneath, still damp from a hard scrubbing; his fingers hesitated, tremulously uncertain, before they dared to circle Jemel s elbow, the most casual of touches.
'I'm sorry,' he said; and was rewarded with a smile as anxious as his own, more than sufficient.
'I should have followed her, perhaps. I thought I should; but she forbade me, and she is hard to ignore ...'
That brought stronger, safer smiles to each of them, and a chuckle from Coren where he was wiping his hands in a corner.
'Hard? Impossible, I should have said. And no, you should not have followed. Sometimes the gallant thing, the thing of honour is the most foolish. To lose Elisande would be bad for us, worse for her father; to lose both of you and not know how would have been worse for us all.'
'The djinni says we have not lost her yet,' Marron murmured, shifting his arm round Jemel's waist and feeling the jolt of that news, that double news snatch his friend breathless.
It was Coren, always apparent master of his emotions, who said, 'Djinni? What djinni?'
'Hers, Esren Tachur. It came, it wouldn't let me go to her ...' That was a confession that won him another hard stare from Jemel, but it was followed by the weight of the boy's head falling against his shoulder, warm breath on his neck and an awkward hug, hands held apart. Marron rested his cheek on wiry hair, gazed down at those hands - one maimed, a finger short for his sake, as Jemel insisted - and saw how both were deeply scored and glistening where they caught the light, coated with a sweet-smelling ointment.
'Did it, indeed? That's ... interesting. Has it ever come to you before?'
'No, never. Why would it?' Why would I want it? Even when it kept him from an impulsive stupidity, even when it led to reconciliation he didn't want it. Marron had grave doubts about the djinni, and all the djinn. They had surprised Rudel, and now they were surprising Coren; they must surely have some purpose of their own, to be so interfering in the lives of mortal men. He didn't even trust Esren's oath; it seemed to keep its word or not as it chose, and find some plausible-sounding reason whenever it chose not. To be sure, the djinn did not lie; but even so . ..
Even so he felt like a piece in a game of stones, moved according to another's will, and all of it a mystery to him. Again he wanted to step out into another world and leave all of this behind; and again he could not, this time he couldn't even take that first step and fool himself for a while.
There was something frightening and frustrating both, in being the tool of a creature that could see even a small way into the future, that knew what he would do before he did it. He nudged Jemel - who might try, who might yearn to know what he was thinking, but could come only as close as nature and knowledge would bring him, which was still outside Marrons skin, if barely so - and said, 'Let's walk in the sun a little.'
'Patric madness. The wise man avoids the sun.'
'The wise man sits in shadows all his life, for fear of being burned. And light would be good on your hands, come. I want you.' Not Elisande, not her djinni, you I want.
In honesty, the worst of the sun had passed. Even Jemel could be drawn to confess that at this time its warmth was almost pleasant, though he had to add that only in the true Sands did you meet the true sun, God's hammer against the infidel and the tool with which He tempered the steel of the one true people, the Sharai.
Marron didn't argue. Born and raised under gentler skies, he was sure there was some touch of truth in Jemel's vision, beyond the pride of a demanding people. He might have lost his own faith, he might give no more credence to priests of his faith or any, but he'd been wrong before; and if there were a God - any kind of God, Patric or Catari or otherwise - then surely this land of fierce light and heat must be His country, as the priests of ever
y people seemed to claim. And if not, Marron still believed that there must be a power in sunlight that reached beyond the known things of the world. Even as a child, butter-brown in summer and roaming his uncle's lands amid the heady scents of the herb-strewn hills, bird-cries and insect-cries the only noises, not a whisper of a thought in his drowsy mind, only the ease of warmth and long contentment — even then, he'd known that there was a magic to the sun that lay outside the miracles of the Church, perhaps even outside the miracles of the
God, although they thanked Him for it. It wasn't an idea to mention to the priest, nor to his uncle; he tried to tell his friend Aldo once, and failed, and stepped quickly back onto safer ground as soon as he saw and understood the failure. Good boys didn't wonder about such things, certainly didn't ask such questions; and Marron could be good in those days, if Aldo was.
They set their backs against the sun; squinting into its brightness would mean also squinting up at the castle. That way lay the girls in their danger, the risk of blame rising again. Better to go the other way, to go nowhere: to walk without purpose as the town came to slow and sullen life around them, to skirt the marketplace, to press through the throngs of boys released from lessons - ignoring how they stared at a Patric face, how those stares were redoubled at their first sight of his eyes - and so to come at last to that high angle of the walls that faced due east, back to the Sands and Rhabat. Nothing was neutral in that direction either, but at least those memories were a story told.
There was a flight of steps leading up to the wall's height, and a man standing watch at the top; truce or no truce, Selussin had learned to be wary. He glanced down as they climbed, but if his face held any expression Marron could not read it. He said nothing, and his body showed no tension; his hand stayed far from his scimitar's hilt.
After murmuring a greeting which brought no response, Jemel led Marron to stand at a little distance.
'He thinks I am mad, no doubt, keeping company with a Patric who dresses like a Sharai and has the eyes of a devil. Mad or heretical, or both. Perhaps he is right, perhaps I am.'
'Mad, or heretical?'
'Both. You have made me both, Marron. You have turned me from my good sense, so that I stand bareheaded in the sun; and you have turned me from my God also, so that I cannot remember when last I prayed and meant it.'
'Do you regret either?'
'No.' He might have said that with a laugh, or with a gesture that would speak of love that overrode both sense and God, but he did not. 'I have one purpose left that you cannot turn me from, one oath yet that you will not make me break; so long as I have that, I am still Jemel. All else that I am is yours, and I do not regret it nor ever will in this body. If God condemns me for it when I am dead, then perhaps will be the time for regrets; but I can always plead madness,' and he still wasn't smiling though he should have been, surely. 'Duty would be a better plea, I think. So long as I follow you and love you, I betray no one and can still hope to fulfil my oath.'
His oath, of course, was to kill Sieur Anton d'Escrivey. Marron harboured his own secret oath, to prevent that by any means in his power. So long as Jemel was mad enough to follow him, he thought he could achieve it; his dream of travelling came back to him, the call of the far lands to the east. That way, perhaps, lay safety among strangers — but not yet. Sieur Anton was still a small world away, in Outremer beyond the mountains; Julianne and Elisande were closer and in peril, in need. Even if he could find no rescue for them, he could not leave them yet.
He gazed outward, feeling the lure regardless, trying to see past all the country he'd walked thus far, into the haze beyond — and was distracted suddenly by something closer, significantly close, a stirring twist of dust that hid dark figures at its heart.
'Look,' he said softly. 'There, do you see?'
'No, nothing. What is it?'
No dispute, no suggestion that perhaps there was nothing to be seen: Jemel had desert eyes, but knew that Marron had the Daughters.
'They are coming.'
At last, they were coming. Marron hadn't realised until this moment came just how much he'd been waiting for it, for them. Waiting more in hope than expectation, perhaps, but waiting none the less. At least he could be sure of something's happening now, something's being forced to happen. A handful of people could sit quiet within a township's walls, perhaps; an army not, and this should be an army. Coren could be patient, Coren could outsit a mountain; Hasan not, and this must be Hasan.
'Who, and how many?'
Marron smiled; even his eyes couldn't make out banners or numbers at this distance. 'You could guess, better than I can see. These are your people. A group of men, though, it's not a column, the dust is settling at their backs; and they're riding swiftly. Outriders, come to scout the land?'
'Of a sort. There will be two dozen men, and I could put a name to each of them. Will you wager?' 'Would I lose?' 'Oh, yes.'
'Name your terms.'
Jemel chuckled, and brushed the back of his hand lightly against Marron's arm as he shook his head. 'Gambling is a sin, forbidden. But I will tell you, and you will see how well I know the tribes, and be impressed.' 'Isn't vanity a sin too?'
A purse of the lips, a rocking motion of the head: 'It is preached against. Does it offend God, or simply courtesy? I am not sure. Ask an imam; I am a warrior. And this I am sure of, that Hasan leads those riders himself, and at his back you will find the sheikhs of every tribe that rides with him. Where else would they be but at the head, how else could they bring the tribes to follow? Besides, this country is known, their coming cannot be hidden; what need of scouts? If any, they would scout themselves, and trust their own eyes before another mans.'
Marron nodded. Hasan, the sheikhs - and one other, sure to be riding in that party.
'One of us,' he said neutrally, 'is going to have to tell Rudel that his daughter has gone into the castle.' When Jemel didn't answer, he went on, 'We could leave it to Coren, perhaps?' Let the diplomat break the news ...
But Jemel was shaking his head, as Marron had been sure that he would. 'No. If there was a fault, it was mine; if there is a storm to come, it is mine to endure.'
Not alone; Marron would stand beside him. But, 'If there was a fault, it was Elisande's, in choosing to go.'
'You did not think so when I told you. Perhaps her father will not think so either.'
'I was wrong, Jemel, and I am sorry for it. And Rudel knows her better than any of us, he will not make the same mistake.' He knows her better and loves her less, he might have added for his friend's comfort, except that he didn't believe that it was true.
'You think so? You may be right — but he is still her father. We should go and meet them.'
'They'll be a while yet.' Indeed, Jemel was still straining to see what was so clear to Marron, the distant figures and the dust-cloud of their passage; the watchman close by hadn't sighted them at all. 'No point walking so far out that we have to run back at their stirrups.' Marron could run all day, with the Daughter's strength allied to his own; Jemel only thought that he could. 'Wait a little, and watch.'
'If we wait much longer, he' - the watchman, indicated with a contemptuous jerk of the head - 'will see them at last,' for all the world as though Jemel saw them clearly himself, 'and strike his alarm,' an iron ring suspended from a tripod at his side.
'And then?'
'And then they will close the gates, and we will be prevented from leaving the city.'
Only Jemel could call this little township a city; surely only Jemel could imagine that it would have fire enough in its belly to defy an army of the Sharai. Marron smiled, and said, 'Wait. If they will not let us out, then we will wait until they let Hasan in. I do not think it will be long.'
It was long enough before the watchman spotted the approaching riders — so long, indeed, that Marron was tempted to go to him and point them out.
At last the man stiffened and stared, muttering nervously into his beard; then he snatched up a bar and belaboured
his alarm-ring, crying out above its clatter to reinforce its warning.
Marron turned to watch the streets below, and saw the panic that he'd been expecting: people spewing from every house amid a rising babble of voices, men and boys milling uncertainly, looking for leadership and finding none while the women came running in from the fields, herding their daughters before them and trying vainly to gather in their sons. Some of the men carried arms, and some of those came to the walls, but more were hurrying to the temples where their greater confidence lay, their better chance of another survival.
'We should go to the gate,' Jemel said urgently. 'If you think so.'
It was easier to make their way along the wall than through the streets, there was far less press of people. The men who had climbed up stood for the most part numbly clutching a useless scimitar or spear, or eke gripping the parapet two-handed, gazing at the plume of dust that foretold their greatest fear. Some were silent, some spoke of the supposed truce, of the faithlessness of the Sharai; more than once Marron had to drag Jemel on, where he would have stopped to dispute that.
When they reached the gates in this south-easterly wall, they found them still standing wide, abandoned even by their guards. Jemel exclaimed aloud; Marron grinned, and led his friend down the steps to ground level.
'Why slam a door, only to have it broken down and needing repair after? These people cannot stand against the Sharai, Jemel, they know that as well as you do. They will welcome Hasan as they have welcomed my people before this, and yours again before them; they will starve themselves to feed his army, and pray only that he leaves or is driven back into the Sands before they starve indeed.'
Even as he said it, here came the welcoming-party: a group of flustered elderly men in ornate robes, clutching talismans or plucking at their beards with fretful fingers. They arrayed themselves in the road below the gateway, jostling for precedence or seeking to deny it, some of them, pushing others forward in their stead. Jemel hissed in irritation; Marron swallowed a chuckle, and pulled him into the shadow of the high gate.
Hand of the King's Evil - Outremer 04 Page 15