The report from the Tarkus Resident had arrived yesterday. Buried among the usual trade figures, information on the activities of Quezma agents, and requests for more funding, was a small item about the sighting of a prominent member of the Six families. The Resident, having congratulated himself on his vigilance, had arranged for the man to be brought in for questioning - he was officially supposed to be dead. Unfortunately it turned out that he was being protected, possibly by the Terrechar: he had escaped and one of the Resident’s agents had been badly injured. The report concluded with the Resident’s assurance to Theyn that the man would not be allowed to leave Tarkus before his identity had been confirmed and his status investigated.
One glance at the Resident’s rambling comments and Shkosta could piece together easily enough what had really happened.
Having come across the nobleman by accident, the Resident had wanted to win the kudos for investigating his presence: his plan had failed, creating a public incident in the process which was bound to be widely reported, so he had covered himself by inventing the ridiculous Terrechar story. Count Dremsa’s murder was still fresh in everyone’s mind and it would have seemed a readily believable excuse. In itself the man’s mendacity was trivial; he could be dealt with easily. Worse was the fact that the sighting had been pure chance and the follow-up slow and incompetent: how many other spies or infiltrators would slip through such an open net? And worst of all was that Theyn had accepted it all at face value and had not followed up on the sighting.
She almost smiled to herself at the childish way the Terrechar’s name was used to frighten off any deeper enquiry. A Terrechar contract was no light thing. The price for Baron Firrimax’s death had been set just below what it would have cost the other Barons to take Samphe Castle by siege. A staggering sum, but in return they had got certainty, speed and non-involvement. All in all a bargain, but there were few who could afford such bargains. And the Terrechar never hired out as bodyguards. If the agent had truly clashed with the Terrechar he would be dead.
Theyn had caught up and was right on her heels now, careful not to intrude on her thoughts, as she strode down one richly decorated corridor after another, setting the frequent guards crashing to attention.
Of course that was only part of it. By pure accident the target in Tarkus had been a member of the Six Families she had never even heard of. Fordosk of Attegor. She had known nothing about him yesterday, just another name on a list. It now appeared that the man might even be dangerous. So much for her prized sources of information, all the files she had compiled on the Families right down to those with the most distant claim to the throne. She blamed herself first for overconfidence: Theyn second for incompetence. It had been a salutary shock. From now on surveillance on the Families would have to be stepped up.
At first her urgent enquiries about Fordosk had turned up little that was unusual up to his twentieth year and little of anything at all thereafter: it was this blank which caught the princess’ attention. He had apparently been a debauched idler, typical of sons of the Six Families, except perhaps more inventive and daring than most in pursuit of his thrills. However the Attegor Family was powerful, and as the eldest son it was even possible that Fordosk might have become Emperor one day.
As it turned out, the Habbakals had held tight to the throne and Fordosk himself had mysteriously disappeared. Just turned twenty, the young nobleman had travelled to the south coast and vanished. Someone came up with the theory that he had taken ship for the Republic and the old Duke supported the story, refusing to accept the idea that his favourite son might be dead. The rest of the Family were more pessimistic, hinting darkly at a Habbakal-engineered assassination.
Wherever he had gone on that journey south, it was certain that he had never returned to claim his inheritance in the ensuing forty years: his idiot brother was now Duke. However as Shkosta delved deeper into the files, it became clear that Fordosk might well not be dead. There had been an unconfirmed sighting in Tarkus ten years after his disappearance, a more reliable one from Razimir three years later, and others since then from as far away as Graxi and as close as Karkor itself. He was not using his own name and he still dropped out of sight for years at a time, but it seemed likely that it was the same man.
Shkosta had come across the final piece of the puzzle as she continued her intense search late into the night. Confirmation that Fordosk really was alive had finally come just nine months ago from an unexpected direction. The man had a long-standing enterprise in Razimir! Perfectly legal and doing well. The Special Forces Resident in the city during his search for Malefor rebels had turned up this titbit along with the possibility for extracting more, but the Resident’s report had been filed away among the myriad of other ‘low-grade’ messages in the SF headquarters and would have stayed there but for Shkosta’s sudden and incisive interest. So why did she feel uneasy over one errant nobleman, already turning sixty if they had the right man?
Analysing herself, she decided that she was naturally suspicious of anyone who gave up wealth and position for no obvious reason. She was doubly suspicious if the same person went ‘underground’ and spent an apparently secretive life under a series of assumed names. Last and not least, what was the significance of a man who had once been only a stride away from the Leopard Throne returning to the Empire just when its ruler was known to be dying?
Shkosta had taken Theyn’s warning about the succession seriously and in the last two years the Six Families had been the subject of a rigorous secret investigation. Of the ninety five adult Family members who would actually be in line for succession (if the Habbakals ever gave them the chance) none, however carefully probed, had appeared to have any organisation of their own capable of mounting a serious threat to the throne. The Emperor's grandfather had stripped them of the right to maintain more than fifty armed retainers each and there was no sign of this order being breached.
Just eight of them had been found to have contacts with known dissident groups and were on a priority list under constant watch, although none of these had indicated any interest whatsoever in the Prentex's prophesied roles.
She had believed that these measures, constantly kept up to date by use of the Network, were sufficient to cover all the danger areas. She was wrong. Fordosk had slipped past all her systems, a joker in the pack: innocent maybe, but a joker none the less. So now the question was, how many more were there?
She entered her own chambers, ignoring the door guards. She could read their admiration and their devotion to her, their dislike of each other, and much else besides, all without turning her head. She had not lost her skill, but she was growing soft in this featherbed of intrigue. The inaction of her present role made her restless. Nothing she could do about that, but careless she would not be.
“Tell me, colonel, how would you evaluate your Resident in Razimir?”
The question, tossed casually over her shoulder, caught Theyn by surprise. Razimir? Of course, the delegation. Wary, without knowing where the trap was, he replied, “A good enough man, your Highness. Hopple’s been there since Semikarek’s days, knows the city well.”
Shkosta smiled sweetly at him, pausing with her hand on the door to her inner sanctum. “Then why has he only just uncovered that Fordosk of Attegor has had a business there for years under an assumed name? Paid off or inefficient?”
The few moments it took for her to round her table and sit down he used to gather his wits. He was dealing with Shkosta now, not the doddering Emperor, and banalities would not serve. Fordosk had been named in yesterday’s incident in Tarkus. Beyond that Theyn knew nothing about him and he had never seen the Razimir report on the man’s business. He had no option but to admit it. The princess gave him the basic information in a few tense minutes, then repeated her question about the Resident.
No use saying Razimir was a big city, Theyn thought quickly, home to over a million people: Residents had plenty of paid help and Fordosk’s enterprise had turned out to be anything bu
t inconspicuous. He thought briefly of saying that neither he nor Semikarek had made tracing members of the Six Families a high priority, then he recalled his own words at his first meeting with Shkosta, ‘the most dangerous problem we face could be over the succession’.
He sighed. “There’s been no hint of bribery, Shiko.” Familiarity between them was reserved for strict privacy like this. “We run random checks on our Residents all the time. Inefficiency? I wouldn’t have said so till now, but this matter certainly raises a question about it.”
There was no reply. The princess appeared to be looking down at the table, her immobility almost unnatural. Slowly her head lifted until her eyes were level with Theyn’s. It was as if someone had punched him in the solar plexus. All his strength drained away, until it was all he could do to stay upright in his chair.
“You are not a fool, Melim.” The soft voice burned him like a whip. “But arrogance makes you one. Raises a question? Now? This report came in to your headquarters nine months ago. Or are you saying that it’s only the well-known members of the Families your organisation should be interested in?”
He could find no answer and couldn’t have articulated it if he had.
“I will be sending someone of my own to Razimir.” The colonel’s eyes widened slightly at the implications. What sort of organisation did this young woman have? His spies had given him not the least hint of anything like this. “At the start as an observer only. If the need arises, the Resident will be notified, through you of course, Melim.”
The princess’ control had always been exercised through Theyn and she preferred to keep it that way. But she had to have someone in Razimir she could rely on. It was boiling up to trouble in the city and the whole of Malefor would follow. If the Malefor Freedom Party or some religious crank or this Fordosk got in first and rode the wave, it could take her years to rectify. It was no time for unnecessary risks. She would have to contact the Dagun and ask them to send someone to Razimir. It would be interesting to hear their reaction to the false Terrechar report from Tarkus too. Publicity which engendered fear or respect towards the Terrechar was welcome - they were deliberately creating a wave of it themselves in preparation for what was to come. But a false report, and of a failure too, might well trigger one or two quick executions.
“In the meantime I want you to put Fordosk on the priority list. I want to know where he is, where he’s going, who are these people with him. If this man really is Fordosk, he could be dangerous. Don’t lose him and if he crosses our borders, pull him and his fellow travellers in for questioning. I know your people are already stretched, so put his description out as a Quezma agent with a reward attached and use the army to help. Nothing violent, I just want him in custody until we know more about him. And I have another little task for you: find out the truth of what happened in Tarkus."
"You don’t believe it was Terrechar?" Theyn queried.
“Don’t be childish. When did you ever hear of Terrechar protecting somebody? It’s the most obvious fabrication I’ve heard in years. And the Resident said there seemed to be a reward out for Fordosk before he even reached Tarkus. Who set that up and why? There's far too much mystery surrounding our shy Count. Now, Melim.” Suddenly she smiled, relaxed, warm and beautiful, as she touched a graceful hand to her shining hair. Theyn felt weak, a rush of relief mixed with sudden desire sweeping through him. “You said you have something new to propose to me.”
Chapter 15
Among the People of God let the Zeddayah be exalted, for they are His messengers. Hearken to them. Verily their words are the words of God and His secret ways are writ large upon their hearts.
Meditations of Hazza Bayuf - Sarai mystic
The Route to Dendria
The first watcher apppeared on their fourth day out from the city. The huge cliffs, at whose feet they crawled, sometimes ran straight for miles, then they would fall back in a series of great bays bounded by soaring promontories, reminiscent of Tarkus. But these bays were empty, the only signs of life the scrubby bushes the travellers used for their cook-fires.
"The wells are often dry," was G'Shenni's terse reply to their question why none of these places were inhabited. They had camped in the mouth of one of the bays on the third night, and early the next morning Caldar noticed a black dot perched right at the tip of the vertical headland they were about to pass. There was something both bold and menacing about the tiny figure observing their passage through this wilderness.
"Sarai." Idressin said, as he rode up later. "No one else lives in these barren lands and the plateau up there is even harsher than it is down here. All broken rocks and no water. They'll be watching us as a matter of routine, but they're unpredictable, so we'll probably be circling up the wagons every night now as a precaution."
After that they sighted one of the solitary lookouts two or three times each day, atop the thrusting prow of a headland or at the very edge of one of the immense cliff walls which ran along beside the track. The watchers did not try to hide. Nor did they move. Two thousand feet up in the crystal air they were simply there, observing the passage of the long straggling column below them.
Days passed, each one much like the one before, until they began to feel oppressed by the sheer size and ferocity of the landscape, while the tension engendered by the presence of the silent sentinels high above them grew steadily.
Only Idressin seemed completely unaffected. He laughed out loud, when Rasscu mentioned that even the ever cheerful S’Bissi was looking worried. "S’Bissi worries about profit. He knows that when the Sarai do raid travellers, they impose their own form of tax and he’ll have to pay according to the value of his goods. They consider all this their country, so it’s quite legitimate in their eyes for those passing by to be taxed. They don’t normally harm people and they don’t set too high a price; they know they would be the losers if people stopped using this route altogether. Anyway I'm quite sure S’Bissi’s already calculated the cost of paying the Sarai into his prices."
"I heard stories in the campground about the Sarai bandits, torture, rapes, murders,” Rasscu said in a questioning tone.
"There’s only two things you can be sure of with stories, they’ll spread and they’ll get more fanciful at each telling. True, the Sarai have killed people from time to time. For a start they’ve never taken kindly to uninvited visitors to the plateau; those that do find a way up don’t come back.”
"You said it’s all rocks,” Caldar put in. "Why does anyone want to go up there?"
“Gold. Every so often the rumours start going round again that there’s caverns up there lined with the stuff, just for the taking. And apart from the mad treasure-seekers who just can’t resist the temptation, the Empire counts the plateau as inside their borders, so they reckon it’s the Emperor’s gold or ought to be.”
“But we’re still weeks away from the Empire, aren’t we?” Berin queried.
"The plateau stretches back for hundreds of miles, Berin; to the south-west its cliffs look right down on the uplands of Belugor. Too close for comfort for the Imperial authorities.
They see the Sarai as vermin. 'Crows' they call them because of their black flapping robes and any they capture are enslaved or killed. Partly that’s because they’re scared of them too. Legend has it they needed the help of their god Ajeddak to pen the Sarai up on the plateau a long time ago, and they’ve been afraid of them coming down ever since.”
"But this route’s definitely got a bad reputation,” Rasscu persisted. “It’s all they could talk about in the campground when they heard we were going this way."
"Even if it’s just travellers in the caravan falling out with each other, the Sarai are going to be blamed for it. Don’t worry, odds are they won’t bother us.”
"How can you say that?” Berin asked. “They can’t know who’s down here. We're just little dots to them."
"They have their own sources of information, particularly in Tarkus. I'm sure they know very well who’s passing belo
w them."
The conversation did little to lighten Caldar's mood. There was a sense of foreboding pervading the whole caravan. Several of the drivers had travelled this route before. They said they had never been watched from the plateau on previous trips, and coupled to the oft-repeated stories of recent Sarai attacks it made even the most seasoned hands visibly nervous. There was little singing and entertainment to be found around the evening camp-fires, and the perimeter guards were doubled each night.
When it came, the assault was swift and ruthless. The guards were found next morning with their throats cut. Those inside the wagon-circles were awakened by the sudden pound of hooves and the roar of flames as mounted intruders fired one of the tents to drive everyone outside. Black birawis and shimsaks covered them from head to foot and they used a guttural form of Shattun to shout fiercely at the travellers to gather at the open centre of the circle and sit down.
One or two made a run for it, but the men in black were effortlessly skillful in the control of their horses and the fugitives were impaled by their long spears within the first few paces. A scream from outside the circle told of another watchful ring of horsemen beyond the wagons as well, and all moves to flight or opposition melted away as the leader of the raiders shouted in a powerful voice that they would kill all the women and children first at the least sign of resistance.
"Borogoi." Idressin said quietly to the boys, as the frightened throng began to sort itself out and sit down. "The clothes are Sarai, but the horses and spears are pure Prenshi."
This special insult meaning 'horse-shit-eaters' was reserved for the Borogoi. The leader began to shout again.
"We Sarai make you pay for come through our land. Every man with wagon here, stand up."
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