“Enough,” Adala said. “What does he want?”
Bindas read silently for a moment, then related the kernel at the end of the flowery message. “I therefore beseech all peoples of the desert, who hold in their hearts the true soul of Khur, to ride to Khuri-Khan and destroy the laddad pestilence there.”
Wind made the flames of the oil lamps waver. The great horse, obviously disliking the large number of humans that enclosed it, snorted and stamped its hooves. No one spoke.
“Well, what is your answer?” the messenger finally asked.
Adala stared up at the horse, ignoring its rider’s question.
Bravely, the Weya-Lu woman held up her hand. Even with her arm extended, the horse’s head, at the end of its proudly arched neck, was beyond her reach. The horse might have snapped off her fingers with one quick champ of its teeth. Instead, its nervous movements halted, and it lowered its head so the Weyadan could pat its cheek. Lowering it further, the horse nuzzled her hand.
The rider was surprised by his mount’s docility. He jerked the reins, pulling his horse’s head up again. “Are you going to answer?” he demanded.
Adala spoke, but not to him. She turned, black robes swirling around her feet and announced, “The foreign messenger and his great horse are signs. We will go to Khuri-Khan. We will raise the tribes. All the children of the desert will take up this cause. It falls to us to purify Khur.”
Looking north, toward the blackness that was Torghan’s Teeth and the mouth of the valley, she added, “Let the laddad perish in their vanity. Those on High will attend to the blasphemers.”
Half a thousand Weya-Lu warriors raised their hands over their heads and shouted in unison. “Adala maita! Adala maita!”
The noise was so great the courier’s horse reared in alarm. Only the rider’s skill and quick thinking kept him in the saddle. His task was complete, and he had no desire to linger. He put spurs to his black horse and galloped away.
Filled with new spirit, the nomads heaped all the carefully hoarded fuel on their campfires. The flames blazed up, sending gouts of sparks into the air. The tribesmen’s chant soared upward as well.
As he rode away, the Nerakan courier could see the glow of the nomad fires for a long time. He could hear their roar in chants even longer.
Hengriff, waiting on horseback in a draw a mile away heard them, too. Sparks had fallen on the tinder. All that remained was to see how big a bonfire would result.
Chapter 10
The gates of Khuri-Khan were closed and bolted. There was no warning, no flurry of horns or rushing of guards. The iron portcullises, which once defied the minions of Malystryx simply dropped into place. The battlements, normally patrolled by the Khan’s soldiers, emptied.
This was not a development Gilthas had expected. For a day and a half, since word arrived of the supposed massacre of the nomad camp, mobs of Khurs, armed with sticks, hand tools, and stones, had issued from the city to attack Khurinost several times. The largest of these groups comprised a thou san people, but each time, they were turned back without difficulty by Planchet, Hamaramis, and the elven host. Tents on the camp’s periphery were torn down and burned, but the angry Khurs never penetrated far into Khurinost. Then the city gates had closed.
The Speaker and most of his advisors stood in the clear area in front of his royal tent. The spot was the highest point in Khurinost, though not by much. The late afternoon sun was behind them. Its orange light sparkled off the glazed tiles and yellow domes of Khuri-Khan, washing the scene in a deceptively pleasant and benign glow.
“What’s Sahim-Khan playing at? Is he trying to protect us from his people, or what?” Gilthas muttered.
None of his advisors knew. Absent from the group was Lord Morillon. He was in the city, seeking an audience with the Khan. Planchet, just returned from surveying the damage done to the outer ring of tents, removed his helmet and mopped his forehead with a rag.
“Could be he wants to cut off our water,” he said.
He spoke out of his own thirst, but his suggestion was a logical one. Every drop of water in Khurinost had to be carried from the city. If Sahim-Khan refused them access, the next nearest wells were at Ving’s Oasis, forty miles northeast, a journey of two or three days for elves on foot. The horrors of the march to Khur five years ago would be repeated, and on a daily basis. Gilthas needed alternatives. He recalled Hamaramis and, with Planchet, discussed how to repair the Situation.
“We ought to storm the city,” Hamaramis suggested. “The humans have left us ladders all around Khuri-Khan.”
The scaffolding, erected for repair work on the walls, remained in many spots.
Planchet shook his head. “Sahim-Khan must know that. He’s not a fool.”
The Speaker studied Khuri-Khan through a brass spyglass. Its ruby lenses, polished by the gemcutters’ guild of Qualinost, had allowed him to watch the streets of Qualinost from the heights of the palace. Now they brought Khurish defenses into sharp focus for the Speaker’s tired, sun-scorched eyes. He hated the idea of attacking Khuri-Khan. They had dwelt here in relative peace and safety for five years. They had no real enmity with Khur. If they stormed the city now, they would have to go all out to win. Failure meant utter destruction. They were too few to overwhelm the humans quickly, so war in the desert kingdom would go on and on. If Neraka or the minotaurs intervened, catastrophe would engulf elves and Khurs alike.
“Perhaps it was not the Khan who closed the gates,” Planchet said. He was worried about his young friend Hytanthas, who had not returned to the elves’ camp. Perhaps Hytanthas had stumbled in his mission, and the gates had been closed at the instigation of the mage Faeterus.
Hamaramis reminded them about the fanatical followers of Torghan, and Planchet said they mustn’t forget the Nerakan emissary they’d seen in the Khuri yl Nor. The Khurs had long-standing ties to the Dark Knights, and many of Sahim-Khan’s soldiers had served as mercenaries in their hire.
“Are we prepared to move?” the Speaker asked, still gazing through the spyglass.
“We are short several hundred carts,” Hamaramis replied. “There wasn’t enough timber to build them, and no time to trade for the wood. So we’re building travois.”
Wilder elves often transported goods and possessions by this means. A simple travois required only two long poles and canvas or hide to stretch between them. It could be pulled by horse, donkey, or even a sturdy goat. The trailing runners would not bog down in the sea of sand outside Khuri-Khan.
Glumly, Hamaramis departed to continue the preparations. He was against leaving, and his opposition had grown more open over the past few days. He preferred to stay and attack. Seize the city, he had argued; negotiate with the Khurs from the safety of their own stone walls.
What this bold, forthright plan failed to consider was that once the city was theirs, the elves were trapped. The nomad tribes would gather and expend every last drop of blood to drive them out, and Neraka could not be ignored. The Knights would certainly intervene, storming into Khur as liberators. The last hope of the elven nations would be caught neatly in a stone prison of their own making.
The answer, Gilthas still felt certain, lay in finding a new place to live. The elves needed barriers of distance and inhospitable wastes to guard them from the sudden proliferation of enemies. Only then could they grow and rebuild their strength.
A shadow fell on him, and Gilthas looked up. Planchet had opened a linen parasol to shade him.
“I wonder where Lady Kerianseray is?” the valet said, offering him a damp cloth.
Gilthas pressed the cloth against his throat and brow. “Some place cool, I hope.”
He’d received a very short dispatch from her, two days after the arrival of the first. Kerian and her warriors had entered the valley. The climate was mild and damp, but they’d found no signs of life. Strange stone ruins covered the valley as far as they could see. She intended to penetrate to the center of the valley, fulfilling her mission of exploration, then r
eturn.
Gilthas hardly knew what to make of the terse report. It contained no details from his archivist, Favaronas, and raised more questions than it answered. Was the Inath-Wakenti suitable for their people, or not? Was there a supply of fresh water? Any game? What was so strange about the ruins? Did they show evidence of having been built by ancient elves, as some of the legends had it?
The Lioness did thank him for sending Eagle Eye to her. But her promise to “put him to good use against our enemies” did not have a particularly diplomatic ring to it.
Of course she was under great stress, but did her reports have to be so vague and unhelpful? Was she allowing her personal feelings to color them? She was dead against his plan to migrate to the valley. Like the other warriors around the Speaker, Kerian preferred to decide her own fate by fighting. Even though he understood this, he could not allow war to overtake his people. He had to rule his own wife in that regard. The stakes were too high.
He mopped his brow again, glancing skyward. The sun was relentless. Khurinost would exhaust its ready water supply in a day if Khuri-Khan remained inaccessible.
“More to the point,” he said, “where is Lord Morillon? We need those gates opened!”
* * * * *
Lord Morillon was saying those very words to Sahim-Khan, on the rooftop garden of the royal citadel. Enormous screens, woven of reeds and rushes, shaded the garden. In better times, fountains flowed among the ferns and willows, adding the music of falling water to the scene and allowing more tender plants to be grown. As yet, the water system had not been repaired, so the greenery was confined to smaller, potted bushes and flowers which servants carried indoors during the worst heat of the day. Despite its sparse look, the garden still afforded an excellent view of the city.
“If our people are shut out, Great Khan, they will be forced to storm the city for water.”
“Attack Khuri-Khan?” Sahim thundered. “Blood will run down the walls of the city should that happen!”
The Silvanesti noble bowed, saying smoothly, “Your Majesty is wise. Blood indeed will flow, elven and human.”
Honey-tongued Zunda stepped forward and intoned, “Great is the patience of my master, Sahim the Many-Blessed! His forbearance is like the gods’ own! He has heard of the terrible atrocities wrought against his desert children, and still he is merciful. Still he stays his hand against the laddad, for he has pledged to maintain their safety. The word of Sahim-Khan is like a thunderbolt, implacable and unchanging!”
Suave, diplomatic Silvanesti never grind their teeth in frustration, but Lord Morillon was close to doing just that. He said-for the eighth time since arriving at the palace-that there was no proof a massacre had occurred, much less that it had been perpetrated by elves. “If the Mighty Khan would receive my king, the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, he would know this tale is false.”
“Desert tribesmen are known throughout this land for their truth telling,” said Zunda. “It is, for them, as essential as water and salt.”
“I can only repeat: There is no proof Lady Kerianseray or any other elven warriors have harmed a single nomad. No one has offered the slightest evidence an atrocity has even occurred. If it has, the Great Khan should look elsewhere for culprits-Neraka, perhaps.”
Lord Hengriff also was present on the rooftop. The representative of the Dark Knights stood a few steps away, among a crowd of other foreign dignitaries he overtopped by head and shoulders. His dark face was expressionless as a mask, even when the Silvanesti noble invoked his country’s name.
“The truth will be known,” Sahim declared. “I believe in the will of the gods.”
In reality Sahim-Khan believed in nothing but Sahim-Khan. As always, his mind was busy considering how best to make use of the current situation. Morillon’s threat to fight for water might prove a useful lever for prying more money out of Neraka. Sahim sought out Hengriff in the crowd, only to discover the bull-voiced warrior had slipped away unnoticed. Such discretion was remarkable in so large a man-remarkable and unnerving.
“Mighty Khan, the gates?” the Silvanesti lord was saying.
He was a persistent snake. Sahim had to credit him for that. Next to round, bewigged old Zunda, Morillon looked trim, cool, and elegant.
Sahim settled himself back in his throne-not the heavy, priceless Sapphire Throne, which never left the audience hall-and arranged his white and gold robes. Thus seated, he was a head taller than the standing elf. He made the most of his advantage, looking down his nose at Morillon.
“Zunda, how long till sunset?”
“One hour, Mighty Khan,” the vizier replied promptly. He’d long ago learned to have a multitude of disparate facts to hand, even one which his master could easily know for himself, simply by looking over his shoulder at the lowering sun.
Sahim mulled the answer in silence for moment, then barked: “Commander of the Guard!”
The quick flash of surprise on Morillon’s face was most gratifying. The laddad wasn’t as sure of himself as he appeared.
General Hakkam came forward. Armor clanking, he knelt before his lord. “Commander, take what troops you need and clear the city gates of all malcontents,” the Khan said. “If they resist, put them to the sword!”
Hakkam’s weathered face showed even more surprise than the elf’s, but he acknowledged the command immediately. Before he could rise to go, Sahim spoke again.
“However, the gates will remain closed.”
It seemed all in the crowd were holding their breath. None could fathom what the Khan was up to. From the look on Morillon’s face, it was obvious he, too, was at a loss.
“As you must certainly recall, my lord,” Sahim said, “elves are not allowed within the city after nightfall. The Khan of Khur cannot allow his defenses to be compromised. The malcontents and rioters will be cleared from the gates at once, and the gates will open as usual-at sunrise tomorrow.”
General Hakkam departed.
Morillon expressed his gratitude. His words carried no trace of irony.
“Justice is the cornerstone of khanship,” Sahim said, allowing his amusement to show. It was not a pleasant expression. “The merchants in the souks must trade. I’m sure they miss their laddad customers.” He put a hand to his lips, as if a thought had just occurred to him. “You had best warn your Speaker. Keeping sufficient troops on the gates to ward off rioters will be a drain on my treasury. I will of course be forced to institute a new tax.”
An awed hush fell over the rooftop garden. Morillon’s breathing seemed suddenly loud. All of his diplomatic training was required to keep him from shouting. “What tax, Mighty Khan?” he asked.
“Henceforth, all persons entering Khuri-Khan to trade must pay an entry tax.” He glanced at Zunda. “One gold piece per head.” The vizier lowered his eyes and nodded, ever so slightly.
The amount was ridiculous, exorbitant, and fell especially on the elves, who entered frequently for trade purposes. Morillon’s Silvanesti aplomb failed him utterly. His mouth fell open. Sahim smilingly assured him the tax was only temporary, until the troops could be returned to their barracks.
Morillon bowed stiffly. “I will convey the Great Khan’s words to the Speaker of the Sun and Stars. Will Your Mightiness receive the Speaker to discuss the matter of the alleged massacre?”
Sahim waved a hand magnanimously. “I need no reassurance, my lord. The word of the Speaker of the Sun and Stars is more than enough for me.”
Pale, tight-lipped, Morillon swept out, ignoring the stares of Sahim’s uncouth courtiers. Another so-called tax! This was the second time the Khan had insulted the Speaker to Morillon’s face. The Silvanesti was a lifelong servant of the throne of the Stars and his patience was nearly at an end. Sahim-Khan didn’t know it, but he’d made a lasting enemy of Lord Morillon this day.
Passing through the citadel courtyard, walking so rapidly his small entourage had to jog to keep up, Morillon noted two humans talking together. Lord Hengriff and Prince Shobbat were deep in co
nversation by a shadowed wall. That is to say, Shobbat was talking animatedly. Hengriff was listening, arms folded across his chest.
The Knight’s eyes moved, crossing Morillon’s gaze in passing, and his impassive countenance altered. The look on his face was so fleeting, Morillon found it difficult to categorize. Was it acknowledgment? A grudging respect? The Dark Order, for all its machinations, was a far more honorable opponent than the grasping, conniving Sahim. Perhaps in that brief moment Knight and elf shared the realization that both were heartily sick of Khur and its ruler. Change was coming. Whether it would be for Neraka or the elves was uncertain, but the current course could not continue.
A very eloquent glance. In a snap of sky-blue silk, Morillon was out the gate and gone. Hengriff continued to stare thoughtfully after him.
“-was delivered!” Shobbat was saying, voice rising. “Did your courier get through as I ordered?”
Hengriff nodded, and the prince demanded, “Well, has he returned? I would speak to him about the nomads’ reaction ”
The Knight didn’t respond. He was still thinking about the Silvanesti noble. Lord Morillon was a chink in the Speaker’s armor. Gilthas trusted him too much, relied too heavily on his counsel, but Hengriff recognized Morillon’s type. He was of the class of elves who let their nation slide into ruin while they observed all the niceties of protocol and manners. Kerianseray and the Qualinesti were much more dangerous. They would have deduced long before now that they had a spy in their midst. Morillon was still in the dark.
“You’re not listening!”
Hengriff fixed the impatient prince with a baleful eye. “No, I’m not. When you calm down and speak rationally, I’ll listen, Your Highness.”
Shobbat quivered. He wasn’t used to such insolence, any more than he was used to standing in the beat. Sweat stood out on his forehead. Tiny red veins webbed the whites of his eyes. He had dyed his hair its usual dark shade, but in strong sunlight, the black carried a faint greenish tinge.
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