The Hero's Lot

by Patrick W. Carr

  Ru stepped into his path, speaking quickly in the same language. The man’s face showed surprise and recognition. He clapped Ru’s extended hand, pointing to the rest of the party. Ru shook his head. The man nodded in resignation and greeted them, bowing as he touched his forehead with both hands. “Your caravan master says you need lodging. I am Sahion. Welcome to my lokanda, my inn. Please come in. I will have my sons care for your animals.”

  He barked a command over his shoulder through the rear entrance of the inn. A stampede of boys and young men—all younger versions of Sahion—came pouring out to take reins from each member of the party.

  “Are all these yours?” Martin asked. There must have been close to a dozen boys in the penned area behind the inn, laughing and kicking up dust as they worked.

  Sahion rested his hands on his belly and gave a proud laugh. “Yes. My wife has blessed me with many children, all boys. Every man should have a passion—mine is sons.”

  His good-natured laugh drew a smile from Martin and everyone else—except Errol, who merely waited. They stepped forward into an open-air dining area filled with small tables and old men who drank dark, strong-smelling drinks and played a game that looked similar to chess. Looks directed toward the group ranged from curious to hostile.

  “Perhaps you would like a little privacy,” Sahion said, his face troubled. “Come. I have a room where you will be away from those who object to Illustra’s people.”

  They passed by a series of pointed arches covered with intricate wooden lattice screens and into the inn. Broad windows filled the interior with light, and the smell of unfamiliar spices emanated from the kitchen.

  Sahion beckoned to a young man standing by the door to the kitchen. “Amun, check the roof.” They followed him into a private room, and Sahion gestured to the lattice roof overhead. “My son will guard to make sure nothing that is said is heard by the wrong ears. Be seated, my guests. I will bring date wine.”

  He departed to return a moment later with a stoneware pitcher and a tray of cups filled with a dark brown beverage. Martin took a sip, coughed. Sahion laughed, his eyes narrowing to slits with his mirth.

  “Careful, my friend,” his voice rumbled. “Kingdom men find our date wine to be heady stuff.”

  Ru tossed back the contents of his cup and smiled at the goblet before he refilled it. “I’d forgotten how much I’d missed it.”

  Despite his assurances, Sahion leaned forward and his voice dipped so that any eavesdropper on the roof would have to strain to hear. “What trade brings a shade and a spirit back to the sand between waters, my friend? I thought you were dead.”

  Ru didn’t blink. “Medicines. Profitable and easily transported.”

  Sahion dipped his head once. “Well spoken. What I do not know, I cannot reveal. But be careful, old friend. The ranks of the akhen swell to keep the populace in line, and any male above the age of fourteen is conscripted into the army.”

  Martin looked around the table. Rale and Merodach sipped from their cups as if they held only a passing interest in their innkeeper’s news. Errol stared through the walls to the south, his eyes dead. Everyone else showed signs of the fear Martin felt.

  “We saw no signs of war preparations on our way here,” he said.

  “Yes, and you would not,” Sahion said. “They are hidden out in the sand. The desert teems with the sons of the river waving their swords and screaming whatever the akhen tell them to scream. The chieftains are powerless against them.” He leaned back, shaking his head in confusion. “The tribal leaders, our sultans, were always able to keep the akhen in check before, balancing the power of the religious leaders. Things are different now.”

  Sahion leaned farther in to Ru, his voice a whisper. “A year ago the armies to the south broke northern Ongol’s resistance. Gold and slaves with skin like midnight flood the streets of Guerir, and the akhen are drunk with power. If a chieftain objects to the orders coming from the council, he finds himself short of a head before sunset. Only an outrageous bribe allowed me to keep my sons here with me to run the inn.”

  He leaned again, until his nose almost touched Ru’s. “Go home, my friend. When your king dies, Merakh will erupt with warriors. The people of the river do not like the cold. Find a place far to the north of your kingdom where you can hide.”

  Ru leaned back and laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. “You have no idea how much I would like to follow your advice. Perhaps I shall.”

  Martin spoke, hoping he wouldn’t unknowingly give offense. “Your words surprise me, my host. I had not thought to find such opinions in the river kingdom of Merakh.”

  Sahion chuckled. “You thought we spent all our time waving our shirra and screaming, eh? Well, I screamed much in my youth, but I find myself desiring peace for myself and my sons as I grow older.”

  Sahion leaned back and surveyed the company one by one. His gaze moved over Karele as if the solis’s seat were empty. Martin felt himself weighed and dismissed before Sahion’s attention rested on Rale and Merodach, but he still spoke to Ru. “You travel with dangerous companions, my friend, but I seem to remember you as one such.”

  His eyes snapped to Rokha and Adora. “Would it not be wise to leave your daughter and the kingdom woman here until you return?”

  As one, Rokha and Adora crossed their arms, looking defiant. Sahion noted the look and laughed. “Sons are a blessing to the mind,” he murmured.

  “And daughters a challenge to the heart,” Ru finished. They laughed together.

  Ru refilled his and Sahion’s cup. “Now, what can you tell us of Guerir?”

  In the fading light of the afternoon, a hawk cried, but Martin paid little heed. He hung on every word of their host.

  38

  Taken

  ERROL STOOD IN THE INNER ROOM, leaning against the wall, feeling the gritty texture of whitewashed sandstone through his shirt. He heard the conversation between Sahion and Naaman Ru in the same vein as one of Quinn’s lectures on the casting properties of different woods. His sense of abstraction had grown since Martin’s revelation. The image of Antil’s face, clenched into a rictus of blind hate, hovered in Errol’s vision over everything he saw—the sand, the buildings, his friends.

  Adora, clothed in the garb of a Merakhi merchant but clearly still a woman, almost held the power to break through the walls his mind had erected. Almost. The squeeze of her hand on his and her whispers of encouragement touched the surface of his emotions, but failed to break through his shell.

  Then the hawk cried.

  His eyes met Rale’s across the table. Ru pulled his sword, held it against Sahion’s throat.

  “I’m sorry, my friend,” Sahion said. “Kill me if you must, but they arrived before you. At least this way my sons will live.”

  Errol broke for the door the same instant as Rale, who shouted commands to flee. He paused for a heartbeat to grab Adora’s hand, then joined the press that streamed out the back toward the stable. The sounds of men, a lot of men, and horses came from the front of the inn. Their only chance would be to outride them.

  They poured out the back door and stopped—those behind crashing against the ones in front. Errol pushed Adora back toward the inn and shouldered his way out into the light. Ringed around the entrance were a hundred white-robed horsemen, curved swords drawn and pointing toward their group.

  There would be no escape.

  A rider at the center of the arc with a pair of blue stars stitched into the shoulder of his shirt moved forward on his dappled horse, his dark, dark eyes hard. “I am Kayeed Rayn. You will all accompany me to Guerir. If you attempt to escape, you will be killed. Place your weapons on the ground before you.”

  A clatter of arms—swords, staffs, and daggers piled high.

  Ru stepped forward, bowing and touching his forehead as Sahion had. “Surely there is some mistake, good kayeed. We are merchants carrying rare medicines and herbs. Please, check our packs—you will find I speak the truth.”

&nb
sp; The kayeed smiled. “I have no doubt you carry those items of which you speak. The most cunning spies are always the best prepared. But checking your packs will not be necessary—though they may accompany you on your trip south, if you wish. There is one in your caravan my masters have been seeking.”

  Ru’s eyes betrayed his nervousness, and he pressed his lips into a line. “Good kayeed, I have no idea whom you might mean. We are just traders, as I said.”

  The captain’s eyes glittered, and he considered Ru and the rest with the hint of a smile on his lips. “Perhaps I was mistaken,” he said. His tone contradicted his words. “Like all officers, I rely on external sources of information.” He snapped his fingers twice, and the horses behind him parted to reveal a lone rider, wearing kingdom dress.

  Lord Weir. He prodded his horse forward and scanned the crowd until he found Errol. A triumphant smile split his face. “Well, peasant, I see you’ve gotten yourself into a bit of trouble.” He leaned back in his saddle and took an exaggerated look at the mob of Merakhi soldiers. “Somehow I don’t think you’re going to be able to fight your way out of this one.” He pursed his lips. “Pity, really. Now the king will have to find some other little urchin to play with.”

  The numbness in Errol never wavered. His eyes saw Lord Weir, but even this betrayal couldn’t rouse him to response. He merely stared at the excuse for a man before him and waited.

  Weir looked away. “I will take my price and go,” he said to the kayeed.

  “You may go,” the captain said. “But my orders are to bring all suspected spies before the holy council at Guerir. We leave in the morning.”

  Weir’s face reddened. “My father will hear of this disrespect, Rayn. But I will travel with you to Guerir—to take my price from there.” He dismounted and threw his reins to the soldier next to him. “Make sure my horse is well cared for.” He turned to Errol. “You don’t mind if I make use of your room, do you, peasant? After all, you won’t need it.”

  He strode over to stand in front of Adora, his face growing hard. “It was most ill-mannered for you to run off, my lady. Once we are back in the kingdom and married, I will ensure you know the proper way to behave.”

  Adora’s eyes blazed. “We will never be married. And I will see you cut in pieces for this.”

  Weir smiled and turned away.

  The ranks of the Merakhi parted to let him through, but the eyes of the kayeed and his soldiers went flat and hard as they watched him leave. Men gathered Errol and the rest into a knot and roped them together. A dinner of flavorless flatbread and water followed. A ring of guards remained around them where they sat in the middle of Sahion’s stable yard.

  Errol noted these things peripherally. Deep inside, a twinge of regret nagged him. At least Adora would be safe back in the kingdom if she returned with Weir. Perhaps Liam would manage to see her married to a more worthy man after he became king—perhaps even himself. It was out of Errol’s hands now. They would kill him in Guerir. After the sun went down, he slept, dreamless and sound.

  A boot in his side woke him the next morning. Moments later he sat his horse, his hands tied to the pommel, as they thundered south. The pack animals had been left at the inn. By Rale’s estimate they covered perhaps twenty leagues that day, twenty leagues in which the air grew sultry as they approached the next loop of the river. Unrelieved stretches of scrub, sand, and rock gave way once more to crops, gardens, and exotic flora. They camped near a bridge that stretched across the river. Once the captives were fed, soldiers tied their wrists and staked them to the ground.

  Weir sauntered through the camp, flicking his sword in casual disdain at the fronds that grew too close. “Hello, peasant.”

  Errol didn’t bother to meet Weir’s gaze, but Rale muttered something that earned him a kick in the ribs from the noble. “Watch your tongue, Captain,” he said, “or I might have to relieve you of it.”

  Rale laughed. “You must be singularly stupid, Weir. Even if they let you take the princess back to the kingdom, she’ll denounce you at the first opportunity.”

  Weir laughed. “The princess will be too overcome by her ordeal with the traitorous peasant to speak publicly for quite some time. By the time I let her see the light of day, no one will have any reason to believe a word she says. Women are so very fragile, you know.”

  An expulsion of air sounded through Rale’s nose. “I was wrong, Weir. You’re not stupid, you’re insane. What do you think will happen when Rodran dies and the barrier falls? The whole kingdom will be at war.”

  Lord Weir threw back his head and laughed. “The barrier? You actually believe in that myth? The only thing that will happen when Rodran dies will be the elevation of my father to his rightful place on the throne.”

  “Elevation?” Rale said. “The next king will be chosen by lot, Weir. Even you must have sense enough to know that. Or do you think Deas favors your father over all others?”

  Weir squatted between Rale and Errol, his grin growing malicious. “Of course they’ll draw lots, Captain, but those lots will choose my father, and without an omne to gainsay them, no one will have cause to question the results.” He rose and moved closer to Errol, until he towered directly over him. His sword twitched. “But I didn’t come here to converse, not when the peasant can offer me a few hours amusement.” The sword flicked, just missing Errol’s face.

  His detachment didn’t lift, but he thought it would be nice to be free and cave Weir’s skull in with his staff. He savored the image and smiled.

  “You find this amusing, peasant?” Weir snarled, and his grip on the sword tightened. “Let’s see how entertaining you find this.” His arm drew back.

  Before Weir could follow through on his threat, a hand clamped his wrist from behind. “We do not deliver injured slaves to the council,” Kayeed Rayn said. “These captives are the property of the ilhotep. To damage his property is to invite his wrath.”

  Rale laughed. Almost Errol joined in, but his indifference to his fate and that of Weir wouldn’t lift enough to allow it.

  As soon as full dark came upon the camp, he slept.

  The next day and the day after were the same—a fast ride and then a stop before sunset on a different bank of the river that looked the same as before. They were fed and staked.

  On the fourth day out from the village of Shagdal, Kayeed Rayn set a slower pace, his manner almost casual. One of the guards, a talkative middle-aged fellow with a thick red scar on one cheek and a pointed beard shot with gray pointed ahead.

  “Now, infidel, you will see a sight of which you would tell your children’s children if you were fated to have any. Behold”—he swung his arm wide—“the countless spires of Guerir.”

  Errol interrupted his disinterested contemplation of the horse in front of him to follow the guard’s gesture. Off in the distance, shimmering through the warm Merakhi air, rose a city the likes of which he’d never imagined. Behind a towering white wall rose a city of hundreds of needlelike spires clustered around one predominant building with a spire sheathed in gold that rose higher than all the rest. Sunlight blazed from the city and reflected off the broad river running before it.

  Errol shielded his eyes from the glare.

  Their road joined with others, and traffic began to slow. Painted women and men in dirty white robes jeered at them in the Merakhi tongue, making cutting gestures across their throats. Their guards boxed them in, and the kayeed sent riders ahead to clear the way.

  They passed through enormous iron-bound gates of wood, swung wide to accommodate the traffic. The clamor from the market rose to a deafening crescendo with screams and epithets for the guards as Captain Rayn forced his way toward the inner part of the city. Strange-looking animals with long, curved necks and slit noses rested by a well.

  One of the animals spat as they rode by, striking the talkative guard on the chest. “Filthy creatures. You are lucky you do not have to ride such as those, infidel. They are a trial to the spirit.”

  The fa
rther away from the market they rode, the more the noise faded. The hooves of their mounts no longer crunched on sandy gravel but clopped instead on broad white sandstone. Always they ascended toward the golden spire. They passed a huge amphitheater on their left, and noise washed over them like a tidal wave.

  Errol tried to see into an arena revealed between the massive pillars.

  “You may see the stadi soon enough, my friend,” the guard said. Then he gave a raucous laugh.

  Half an hour after entering the city they arrived at the inner wall, behind which rose the central spire and a score of other buildings. Guards in white with red sashes and bared swords patrolled the entrance. At a salute from Kayeed Rayn, they opened the iron gates and stepped aside to let them pass.

  Inside, they were relieved of their horses and escorted toward the central building. Weir walked next to the kayeed with darting looks behind at the gate that now blocked their retreat. Servants or slaves—Errol couldn’t tell which—moved through the alleys, intent on the myriad tasks it took to keep the capital city functioning.

  At last they stopped. A dozen white-robed guards stood watch at iron-grated doors. A man in rich blue robes stepped forward, and as one, Kayeed Rayn and the guards surrounding him dropped to one knee.

  Hands forced Errol down into the same position.

  “Get your hands off me,” Weir yelled. “I am a lord.”

  Errol jerked his head up to see a pair of guards in the act of forcing Weir to obeisance. Their hands, heavy on his shoulders, pressed down, and he struggled to shake them off. The man in blue held up a solitary finger. The guards stilled.

  “Please forgive our soldiers’ rough handling,” the man said. His voice flowed like honey, but his dark eyes, lids painted red, glittered with malice.

  Either Weir did not notice or chose to ignore the man’s intent. “I do not bow until I know whom I address.”

  The man in blue smiled. Despite his numbness, it chilled Errol to see it. “The world has need of such boldness. I am Ilakhen Osiri, servant of the council.”