To the High Redoubt

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Reluctantly Arkady got out of bed and reached for his acton. It was in a wadded heap where he had left it, and it took him a moment or two to sort the garment out. “Where are we to go at this hour, Surata?”

  “Away from here, that’s all that matters,” she insisted. Her outer robe was in place and she was knotting her belt. “Hurry, hurry.”

  He sighed to let her know he was not pleased, but he pulled his acton on over his head and tried to locate his leggings.

  “I’ll tend to the blankets. Get up.” She shoved him aside and set about folding and rolling the bedding. “Where are the cords to tie them?”

  Arkady, who was now half-dressed, reached for the two cords and held them out for her. “Is it really so urgent?” he asked, no longer mocking her for her dread was as real as the darkness around them.

  “Yes. He was more prepared than I thought he would be. I assumed that he no longer concerned himself with me, but…” She broke off as she finished tieing the blankets. “They’re ready. How much longer will you need?”

  “Not long,” Arkady said, recalling all the times he had had to arm himself for battle in far less time than this. “Can you carry three of the bags? If you can, we won’t have to make more than one trip to the stableyard.”

  “Yes. Yes, I can. We must not come back once we leave, for that would tell him everything: where we are and that we have fled.” She clapped her hands in impatience. “Listen!”

  “What?” he asked as he fastened his belt and picked up his helmet.

  “That sound,” she said.

  “Mice,” he told her after listening briefly. “Or rats. Most inns have mice. You said so yourself.” He chuckled and was worried when she grew even more agitated.

  Surata reached down and gathered up the blankets, slinging the two rolls over her shoulder by the cords and then fumbling to carry more. “Where is the door. Quick!”

  “They’re just mice, Surata,” he said. He reached for the two leather bags and hefted them to his shoulder. “It’s not as if they can do—”

  “Don’t you understand?” she demanded, rounding on him. “They can be instruments of the Bundhi. They can be after us now, and if they are, it is too late already!”

  From the next room, someone banged on the walls and gave an incoherent and angry outburst.

  Surata swung around toward the wall and thumped it as hard as she could with the largest sack she could. The thump was a resounding one and made the man in the next room more outraged than ever.

  “What the Devil…?” Arkady demanded.

  “If he becomes active, the mice may go to him instead. Since he is not the one they search for, he will not be harmed, and by then we will be away from here. Get the bags and move!” She felt her way to the door and pulled it open. “Arkady-immai!”

  “Right.” He could hear the mice more clearly, along with the outbursts of the man in the next room, who had started to drum on the wall between their chambers with something very solid. Arkady hesitated just long enough to make sure he had their gold and the flint and steel for lighting fires, and then he left the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

  Surata stood at the head of the stairs, waiting for him. “You must lead me down. I can’t manage them on my own, not with everything I’m carrying.”

  He reached for her arm and half guided, half dragged her down the stairs. Behind them, the man in the next room let out a loud and indignant yell, and as Arkady and Surata reached the bottom of the stairs, another one of the guests was shouting, and there were more sounds of mice, scampering and skittering through the inn.

  There was a stout bolt across the door of the inn; Arkady dragged it from its housing and flung the door wide open. Pulling Surata after him, he kicked the door closed and sprinted for the stables. His arm braced Surata, and when she might have stumbled, he held her up and kept her moving.

  In the stable, he forced her to stand to the side, all their gear at her feet, while he saddled and bridled his bay and the two mules. It did not take long to load the pack saddles, and to bring his two scabbards with their swords to a position of easy access on his gelding’s saddle. “Almost ready,” he called to Surata.

  There was an outburst from the back of the stable and a sleepy voice shouted at them.

  “What’s he saying?” Arkady asked as he led the bay out of his stall to where the two mules waited, their long ears twitching at this unusual behavior.

  “I don’t know,” Surata replied, not amused by the question. “He probably wonders what’s going on.”

  “Natural enough. Come here.” He held out his hand to her. “Get up.” He had lifted her onto the horse enough times that he could do it easily, and this time was no exception. He did not wait to be certain she was well seated, but swung into the saddle, trusting her to duck out of the way of his leg.

  An old man carrying a lighted candle appeared at the far end of the stable, a pitchfork in his hand. He shouted indignantly at Arkady and Surata and stumbled forward as if to stop them.

  “Hang on!” Arkady shouted and kicked his gelding sharply, jolting himself, Surata, the bay and the two mules into action.

  The little party was almost halfway across the innyard when the bay brought his head up, snorting and neighing in distress. His hooves struck sparks from the cobbles and he pulled at the reins, attempting to bolt. Behind him, the mules brayed at the ends of their lead lines.

  “What is going on?” Arkady demanded of the sky as he struggled with the animals. However late it was, he doubted that this was reason enough for the strange reaction of his horse and the mules. He used all his skill to bring the gelding back under control and finally was able to do it.

  Surata, who had clung to Arkady without speaking, released her hold on him a little. “Do you know why they did that?” she asked him when the gelding had ceased to toss his head.

  “I don’t know,” Arkady answered, becoming as worried as he was puzzled. “He doesn’t do that.”

  “The mules too,” she said, turning toward the sweating beasts. “They are mad with fear.”

  Arkady once again started his gelding across the innyard, but this time was much more deliberate in his actions. He rode as far forward as the saddle would allow, half standing in the stirrups, his eyes scanning the building and the ground. “Steady,” he ordered the bay as they inched toward the gate. “Keep going, fellow.”

  The gelding made a quiet, uneasy whinny and began once again to sweat. He panted as if he had been running for an hour.

  “It is the Bundhi,” Surata said to herself, with conviction and misery. “He has found us after all.”

  “You can’t be certain of that,” Arkady told her without letting his attention be diverted from the ground ahead.

  “He has found this inn. I know that,” she replied. “You heard the mice. You know that they were not…natural.”

  “I heard mice, but that…” He halted his gelding and stared down at the ground.

  The cobbles appeared to heave and slide in the dim moonlight. It was a little time before Arkady realized that what he was seeing was not stones at all, but a huge tide of mice sweeping toward the door of the inn. They made almost no sounds and they ran with grim purpose that was not like what Arkady had seen mice do before.

  “You’d better hurry,” Surata said. “There must be a back way.”

  Arkady knew he did not need to tell her what he saw. “They are going to the inn.”

  “We still have a chance,” she said with a little hope in her voice. “Find the back way.”

  Arkady wheeled his bay—which was plainly relieved to be sent in another direction—and started back toward the stable.

  The old man with the pitchfork was blocking the way, his candle flickering in the wind. He bellowed some sort of order or insult at Arkady and shook the pitchfork at him.

  “Behind the bakehouse,” Arkady said as he caught sight of a break in the high fence that surrounded the innyard. “We can get out there.”<
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  Surata said nothing but held on with determination as Arkady kicked his gelding to a fast trot. For once the mules were willing to move, and they both broke into a jagged, rocking canter as Arkady got them away from the inn and its visitation of mice.

  Chapter 13

  At Tana there was a constant confusion, with merchants from all quarters of the world—Greeks and Byzantines from the fallen empire; Arabs, Turks and Persians; a few Egyptians; traders from Moskva and Kiev and Kazan—gathered there on the edge of the Sea of Azov, for the purpose of selling and exchanging wares.

  In an outburst of pleasure at the variety around them, Arkady bought three changes of clothes for each of them, rationalizing this extravagance as a good precaution. “The Egyptian cotton will do well on the long trek from Sarai to Samarkand, where it is hot and the sand is mixed with salt. This”—he lifted his second ensemble—“is Byzantine and should do me very well when we are riding. It looks prosperous without appearing rich, and the armor is good. I think that the mail is old-fashioned, but it is versatile and it doesn’t need a squire to help me into it. This for you”—the garment was also old-fashioned, of patterned silk from Antioch—“will do you well when we are in cities or other places where a great many people gather. No one will approach or insult you in garments like this. I’ll show you how to wear them, so that you can dress for yourself.”

  Surata could not help laughing. “What else have you got?”

  “The last I bought from a merchant from Smolensk. He has brothers who are priests there, and they are anxious for him to purchase goods for them. I have a priest’s habit, and a nun’s. They will help us while we travel.” He wished she could see these last two, very dark, woollen garments with belts and crucifixes with the two straight bars at the top, and an angled one further down. “I’ll show you how to handle the things so that you can convince others that you know the rites of the Christians.” He knew that he was fairly ignorant of the Orthodox ceremonies, but he was determined to continue in this plan. “While we’re by ourselves, we can decide when it will be best to wear the clerical garments.”

  “The further east we go, the fewer Christians we’ll find,” she pointed out, not entirely convinced that this ruse would work. “Think of what could happen among followers of Islam. They are already battling with Christians. Might it not be dangerous to appear as members of Christian clergy where Islam rules?” She did not expect an answer, but Arkady gave her one nonetheless.

  “You’re right, for some of the places we must go. But there are others where it would be to our advantage to be any sort of clergy, so that we may excuse ourselves from battle or from joining with other company that might be more dangerous than these robes are.”

  She shrugged. “Well, later today, you can explain the significance of the dress to me. That should be the first step in any case.”

  “You’re not convinced it will work, are you?” He respected her enough that this question was quite serious.

  “No, I’m not. It’s too chancy, but if you think we’d be safer, you are the one who has fought most of your life, and you know far more than I about avoiding conflict. That is why you are my—”

  “—Champion; yes, I know,” he countered with impatience. “For the time being, I also have travellers’ cloaks for both of us. I trust you won’t object to wearing them?”

  “No, not at all. I’ve wanted a cloak for…some time. I thought…” She broke off, her face very still. “We must be careful tonight, Arkady-immai. There is danger waiting for us. The Bundhi is searching for us, and it would be simple enough for him to…” Her hands came up to her face, covering her blind eyes. “I hate this darkness! I hate it! To be able to see only in the other place, where no one needs eyes…It’s impossible!”

  Arkady, distressed at her outburst, came quickly to her side and took her in his arms. “Surata, no. Don’t let yourself give way to despair. For my sake, if not for yours.” He kissed her hair, then her forehead. “With determination, we can prevail, but if you abandon our fight before it has even begun, what will we do then?” He felt how fiercely her sobs tore through her, and that caused him more anguish. “Surata, please.”

  She did not respond at once, but when she did, she had brought herself back under firm control. “I didn’t expect this would happen. You will have to pardon me for carrying on in this way.”

  “Everyone has times on a long campaign when it presses them. You’re no different than a green soldier. But Surata, this is just the beginning of the fight. Until now, there was no campaign. You will have to watch yourself, or you will be exhausted long before we reach the Bundhi or Samarkand.” He held her less tightly and took a more comradely attitude.

  “And if the Bundhi reaches us first? The mice were little more than an entertainment, a warning that our presence was known, and our intent understood. The Bundhi has done nothing difficult yet, that I am aware of. That frightens me, as well,” she went on in a hesitant way. “I know that the Bundhi is capable of…much more than…a sea of mice. He had great power. It could be demonstrated in weather or enemies or animals or…anything. I know that I should be able to recognize him and his agents, but what if I don’t? What if I fail to…see? It’s possible, Arkady-champion.”

  “That shouldn’t bother you,” he said, hoping to cheer her up. He realized that her new worries were well-founded, and he could not deny that she had good reason for her concern.

  “Don’t dismiss me so easily,” she told him with some spirit. “I don’t want to be killed, or worse. It could happen, more easily than I want to think it could. If you won’t listen to me, and help me to take precautions, then we might as well turn around now, and go back to the West, where I will be your slave for as long as you find me…desirable. After that, it will not matter.” She pushed away from him.

  “For the love of Saint Michael!” he exclaimed. “What’s come over you? For almost three weeks, you can say nothing but how urgent it is that we get to Samarkand and that place beyond it, so that we can engage the Bundhi in combat. Now that we’re on our way, you’re talking as if we had already been defeated. What’s the matter with you?”

  Her hands knotted together and she remained stubbornly silent for a little time. “Arkady-immai, I don’t want to see you hurt or harmed. I have been raised to this battle, but you’re not born to it as I am, and…you’re from another people, another country, another faith. You have no reason to risk so much.”

  “Yes, I do. I’m your champion, remember? You’ve been telling me that since before you could speak my name. If that’s the case, then your battle must be my battle as well. Right?” He was secretly deeply touched that she had so much concern for him. With the suggestion of a chuckle, he reached for the cloak he had bought for her. “Here. You might as well try this on. I think it’s long enough, but I couldn’t be sure when I bought it.”

  She grasped the sand-colored garment. “Arkady-immai…”

  “It’s cut very full, so that you can roll up in it at night if you need to,” he went on, as if he had not heard her.

  “Arkady-immai, let me speak,” she said very quietly.

  “All right.” He stood facing her, looking into her face, wishing that he could see her thoughts in her eyes instead of the blankness that was there.

  She began slowly, chosing her words very carefully. “You have shown me much…consideration since you bought me. Sometimes more consideration than I wanted or needed, but that’s of small matter now. You have accepted our joining and our venturing to the other place, and so far you have not complained. But soon it will be more hazardous. That avalanche was just the beginning, to be sure we were aware that the Bundhi knew of our presence. It was not…when I realized that you had been bruised by the falling rocks, I was very troubled.”

  “Any soldier knows that he can be hurt in battle. A bruise is nothing. I’ve had worse than that during training, let alone in battle.” He swung his arm. “It’s fine now, Surata. Nothing lasting, just a bru
ise. You’re overly worried on my behalf.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said, frowning. “You haven’t seen what can become of those who oppose—”

  “Stop that,” Arkady interrupted her. “You’re frightening yourself. If you must be frightened, let the Bundhi do it himself; you’re doing his work for him.”

  Surata laughed unhappily. “You’re right, Arkady-immai. I know you’re right. But…I’ve been thinking about what happened to my father and uncles, and it does frighten me.”

  “Then think of something else,” he advised. “Why am I telling you this? You’re the one who should be saying this to me. You’re the one with the understanding of what thought and all those other things can do. Have you forgot everything you ever learned?”

  She brought her head up. “Are you accusing me of…” She could not find the right word.

  “I’m not calling you a coward, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said, taking a milder tone with her. “But you are not being sensible about this. You’re succumbing to all the things you know are not right, and you’re excusing yourself because of your memories. All of us have memories, Surata. We must deal with them as best we can.”

  This time she was much chastened. “I…ask your pardon, Arkady-immai,” she whispered.

  “There’s nothing to pardon. You’re spooked, that’s all. It happens to all of us, one time or another.” He changed tone with her again. “The cloak?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, lifting the wadded fabric in her hands. “It goes around the shoulders, doesn’t it?”

  “And ties at the neck and over the heart. There are two long ribbons you use…” He reached out and took them, wishing he could demonstrate the tieing for her.

  “I’ll do it,” she said gently, not a trace of rebuke in her voice. “You just wait a bit, won’t you, while I work it out. When we travel, I will have to fend for myself. I should start now.”