by Bell, Hilari
The man he was looking at shrank from his frown, and Jiaan hastily softened his expression. The man’s robe was even more ragged than the buildings.
“You, man. I need to find the house of Warlord Siatt. Can you tell me where?” His Kadeshi was rough, but all Farsalan soldiers spoke a bit of it—especially any who had worked for High Commander Merahb. And he understood it better than he spoke it, which might be useful.
The man was still backing away, and Jiaan didn’t think it was his accent. He pulled out his purse and the jingle of coin froze the man in his tracks.
“It’s not far,” he said, his voice barely loud enough for Jiaan to hear him. “Just take that road around the side of the hill, and you’ll see it.”
Jiaan smiled and tossed him a coin. Ordinarily such a small service would only call for a brass foal, but he’d offered a copper stallion instead. For a moment, seeing the man’s eyes widen, he wished he’d given him a silver falcon, or even a gold eagle. But Jiaan had a whole army to feed, clothe, and shelter. There were no eagles in his purse, and very few falcons.
Kicking Rakesh into motion he hoped, wryly, that Warlord Siatt wasn’t expecting to be bribed.
As Rakesh carried him around the broad slope of the hill, Jiaan wondered what a warlord’s manor would look like in this land of shoddy buildings. But the reality, perched on another hill directly in front of him, left him breathless.
It wasn’t the high walls surrounding it. Jiaan knew that, unlike Farsalan deghans, the warlords fought among themselves as often as they fought outsiders. He had expected something defensible, but defensible was an understatement; storming this towering fortress struck Jiaan as pure suicide.
But what amazed him was the manor, whose towers he glimpsed beyond the walls, glowing even in the dim light. It seemed to be made of polished marble in dozens of different colors, and the builders had laid patterns into the tower walls. One was layered dark and light, like the goal post in a flags-and-lances match. Another had a pattern of diamonds spiraling up the side, and on another, light stone fountained up the darker background like leaping water. Each tower flew its own banner of bright, streaming silk, but the tallest tower seemed to be roofed in . . . No, it had to be polished brass, despite the way even the diffuse sunlight made it gleam.
Jiaan set Rakesh trotting up the twisting road that led up the hill to the . . . palace was the only word. This was no simple manor house, like the high commander’s. At every bend he realized how vulnerable an army on this road would be—all the defenders would have to do was roll down a few rocks. Archery fire from those walls would be pure murder.
As he drew near, the walls and the thick, iron-plated gate looked even more defensible than they had from below. Evidently the sentries were alert too, for the gate was already opening as Jiaan approached. He rode down the echoing tunnel through the wall, very aware of the gratings overhead.
Siatt’s offer of safe conduct was evidently sincere, for he came out into the courtyard unscathed. A man waited to greet him, clad in the good but sober robe of a Kadeshi upper servant. One servant, and a dozen armed warriors.
“Lord Deghan Jiaan,” said the servant in good Farsalan. “Warlord Siatt is pleased that your journey has come to a safe end.”
Not all deghans were lords, and Jiaan wasn’t even a deghan, but saying any of that wasn’t a proper reply to the traditional Kadeshi greeting. “All journeys end safe, in Warlord Siatt’s house,” said Jiaan formally. He couldn’t help adding, “Please, call me Commander Jiaan.” He wasn’t really comfortable with that either, though he’d begun to get used to “young commander,” which was the title the army had settled on. But if he wanted the warlord to pay any attention to him he had to have some rank, and it was better than “Lord Deghan.”
“Commander Jiaan,” the older man repeated, accepting the correction with polished grace. “Will you care to refresh yourself before your audience with Warlord Siatt?”
Given no other alternative, Jiaan took that as an order despite the courteous tone. In truth the chance to wash, to change into the good clothes he’d purchased in a town near the border, was welcome—though Jiaan wasn’t accustomed to either the presence of a servant who the older man had summoned to assist him, or washing in rose-scented water. But after seeing the silk draperies—expensive, Farsalan silk—and the carved, inlaid wood, the porcelain vase, so brilliantly glazed and so delicate, Jiaan knew that even his new tunic wasn’t up to the surroundings. He was a little surprised that the wash basin was made of plain bronze—but if that was intended as some kind of subtle insult, Jiaan didn’t care.
When he was dressed, he told the servant he was ready to see the warlord, and the man nodded and departed in the same silence he’d practiced so far. Mute? Or too discreet to gossip with strangers?
Jiaan’s father believed that you should learn everything you could about an enemy. Jiaan had thought he knew a lot about the Kadeshi, but now he realized he hadn’t learned nearly enough.
The superior servant returned—and if Jiaan’s tunic wasn’t up to his standards, his face was too well disciplined to show it.
He led Jiaan toward the warlord’s rooms. Jiaan could tell when they grew near, for the furnishings grew richer and the carpets grew deeper with each corridor. The thunder of the approaching storm rumbled distantly, softened by the thick walls. The door the servant finally stopped outside was plated with gold. He opened the door, stepped inside and intoned, “Most glorious warlord, savior of your people, vision of the god’s grace, supreme warrior, mighty leader in battle—Commander Jiaan comes to beseech your aid.”
Because Jiaan was struggling not to laugh, the magnificent tapestries, the thick carpets, even the enormous, gold-plated throne failed to have the effect they were probably intended to.
The plump figure, at least three inches shorter than he was, who descended from the low dais to grip Jiaan’s shoulders didn’t intimidate him either, for all the wealth the rustling silk robe implied.
“Welcome, welcome! It is a great honor to greet the mighty warrior who resists the Hrum—and with so little!”
The fact that the words were fluent Farsalan was a relief, but the eyes in the plump face sparkled with malice. And the hands that gripped Jiaan’s shoulders weren’t the least bit soft. Kadeshi warlords had to fight their neighbors on a regular basis, and had fought Farsala’s deghans to a bloody draw. Underestimating this man would be a bad idea.
“It’s true we have few resources,” said Jiaan. “For few survived the Hrum’s first assault. But those who survive are determined. And if we should fail, despite our determination, I can promise that the Hrum will leave you with no more than they did us.”
“Straight to the matter!” Siatt released him, to Jiaan’s relief, though the man’s smile was almost more cloying. “A warrior’s approach. But surely you have time to dine before we speak of such grim subjects.”
It was the Kadeshi tradition to do so, Jiaan reminded himself, summoning up a smile. When he’d first learned of it, he’d thought it sounded hospitable—civilized. But as one course yielded to another, the attentive servant filling and refilling his goblet with wine as strong as the vintage was good, Jiaan began to wonder if Kadeshi custom was about hospitality, or about softening up the enemy. He’d been hungry when he sat down on the cushions by the low table, but by the end of the meal he was only nibbling from each dish—and taking very small sips of wine.
The thunder of the summer storm was barely audible in this civilized chamber. Jiaan remembered the villagers’ tattered houses. How well would they stand up to the lashing wind and driving rain that he couldn’t even hear?
Finally the servants carried out the last of the dishes. Jiaan praised the meal and thanked his host. He felt overstuffed and sleepy, but at least his head wasn’t spinning. Unfortunately, Siatt didn’t appear to be drunk either.
He noticed Jiaan’s scrutiny and smiled. “Ah, the impetuosity of youth! You wish to speak of the matter that brought you.”
“If I may,” said Jiaan, trying to sound old and sophisticated, instead of young and impatient. “My first officer is in charge in my absence, but I don’t wish to leave my command too long.”
“Your command.” Siatt’s voice seemed to caress the words. “You seem young to command an army. However, that is no doubt the custom in your land, and probably superior to our own.”
You know it’s not, you toad. But perhaps there were things he didn’t know. Jiaan lowered his eyes modestly. “I inherited command from my father.” It was more true than not, when he thought about it. “And I have subordinates who are more experienced than I, and who advise me. And of course, Sorahb is in charge of the resistance as a whole.”
He watched through lowered lashes as Siatt sat up straighter. “I have heard rumors of this Sorahb. I thought he was a myth.”
“That’s what he wants the Hrum to think.”
Jiaan could almost see the thoughts racing behind Siatt’s eyes. If there was an adult in charge, a deghan, then he’d have to consider the offer seriously, no matter who presented it. By all means, warlord. Underestimate me. Please.
“I see,” said Siatt slowly. “A clever ploy. But Sorahb hasn’t the might to drive the Hrum from your country himself?”
“No,” Jiaan admitted, since there was no way around that part of it. “The army is growing, and they’ve already fought one successful battle against the Hrum, but they still aren’t sufficiently experienced. We need a real—an experienced army to assist us.”
Siatt’s eyes gleamed at the slip. “So if we give you a ‘real army,’ my fellow warlords and I, what favor might we expect in return?”
Jiaan took a deep breath. “The favor of our assistance when the Hrum attack you.”
Siatt blinked in honest surprise. “That’s all? From a land as rich as Farsala, Lord Deghan, that seems a very . . . stingy offer.”
“From a land as rich as Farsala was, perhaps,” said Jiaan. “But all our wealth has vanished into the coffers of the empire. They’ve captured the deghans’ manors, the gahn’s palace, the treasury. Do you think they didn’t take the money? If we defeat them, my understanding is that they return their loot, along with the slaves. But even if that happens, very little”—none—“of that wealth would be mine. You would doubtless have the gratitude of the child gahn, but I can’t make promises in his name, or his advisors’. And anyway . . .” How do you phrase “pay in advance” politely? “The Kadeshi are well known for their wisdom in not risking their warriors’ lives on promises which might, after all, prove empty.”
“True, that is our custom. So why, I ask once more, should we come to the aid of those who were our enemies—and may be again? And please, don’t speak to me of a possible Hrum invasion, sometime in the future. As you’ve said, we don’t fight for promises—or threats.”
Jiaan’s head began to ache. “But you have to know that the Hrum will attack you next. You’re not stu—you’re wise enough to know that they won’t just look at your border and abandon a policy of conquest that has lasted—and succeeded—for centuries.”
“Perhaps not. But let me ask you a question, Commander Jiaan. Do you think the Hrum could take this fortress?”
“By assault? Probably not. Certainly not easily or quickly. But unless your wells are deeper than any I’ve ever heard of, they’ll simply surround you and wait till your cisterns run dry. And even if your cisterns are deeper than I think, eventually they’ll be able to starve you out. No one’s stockpile lasts forever.”
Consternation flickered across Siatt’s face. He had expected Jiaan to look at his impregnable fortress and see no further. And Jiaan might have done just that, if it hadn’t been for his father’s teaching.
“Even if you could hold out for over a year,” Jiaan pressed on, “one or two fortresses aren’t enough to keep the Hrum from making their conquest official. Unless one of your major towns is as well fortified as this palace”—which according to his father they weren’t, since the warlords didn’t build walls to protect anyone’s wealth except their own—“then no matter how many years you resist, when you finally give up, the Hrum will be waiting to take you. It’s the land itself they want, not the palaces.”
For a moment he saw real fear in Siatt’s face. That was something the warlords found incomprehensible, that anyone would find their filthy cities and miserable villages of value, and feel that their mighty fortresses . . . didn’t count.
Jiaan smiled grimly. “When you come down to it, you’re in a worse position to resist the Hrum than we were.”
“Then it’s a good thing wealth is portable, isn’t it?” said Siatt with a pleasant smile.
“As long as your fellow warlords, or the bandits, or the government of the land you flee to doesn’t take it from you,” Jiaan countered. “Either way, you’re taking a big risk. You’d . . .”
You’d be better off, have the better chance, fighting with us. It was true, and he’d driven Siatt into a corner where he could probably force the man to see it if he continued to push, but suddenly Jiaan couldn’t say the words. He didn’t want this man as an ally.
“Since the risk is so great,” said Siatt, “I think I must wait and study the matter until the wisest choice becomes clear. Perhaps if your army has some further success, we would be willing to join you—even for a promise.”
Jiaan gazed at the plump, smiling face, and a chill ran down his spine. He meant that if the Farsalans were already winning, the Kadeshi would send troops. And after they’d won? After the Hrum were gone, leaving the Farsalan army exhausted, the Kadeshi would be fresh, almost unblooded, and already within their borders.
“You do understand,” said Jiaan, “that since you offer no commitment now, you wouldn’t be allowed to enter Farsala without Sorahb’s full and formal consent. Any Kadeshi force that crossed our borders without invitation would, I fear, be regarded just as they always have been.”
“Of course, of course. You could hardly do otherwise! And may I say, your Commander Sorahb chose his ambassador for this mission more wisely than I had first thought.”
He sounded almost sincere, and with another man, Jiaan might have been flattered. But Siatt didn’t look like a man who’d been outmaneuvered. And why should he? If the Farsalans defeated the Hrum, their exhausted, battered troops would probably find themselves at war with the Kadeshi on their eastern border before the last Hrum troops had marched out in the west.
Jiaan rubbed his aching forehead again. Worry about that tomorrow. We haven’t even figured out how to beat the Hrum yet.
“It seems we understand each other,” he told his host. “And there is no more—wait, I do have one thing to ask. Do your weapon-smiths know anything about how the Hrum’s watersteel is made?”
He knew they didn’t have the secret—if they did, the Kadeshi would have those superior swords themselves. But they might know something, and at this point Jiaan would welcome the smallest hint.
“Not how they make it, of course,” said Siatt. “But I believe my smith has made some study of the subject. I’ll give him instructions to speak to you before you leave.”
THE WEAPON-SMITH LIVED in the village, which surprised Jiaan. It looked better in the morning sunlight than it had under cloudy skies, but not much.
The smith, lean for all the muscle in his arms, studied the scrap of paper on which Siatt had written his request. His expressionless face had a bad burn scar on the left side, it looked as if it had barely missed his eye. Most smiths carried burn scars—it was a hazard of the trade—but Jiaan had seldom seen one that severe.
“I don’t know how much I can tell you,” said the smith. “If I knew the secret of watersteel, I wouldn’t be here. Sorry.”
He handed the paper back to Jiaan politely, but something in his movements told Jiaan that he wanted to cast it to the ground and stamp on it instead. Jiaan’s hand twitched toward his purse, but then he hesitated. Most Kadeshi weapon-smiths lived in their warlords’ palaces. This man h
ad chosen to live in a village, and make hoes and pot hangers in the time he could spare from making swords. He wouldn’t be open to bribery.
“Please,” said Jiaan in his stumbling Kadeshi. “I know that you don’t know the secret, but my people fight these men, who wield these swords—they die on them. I truly need all the knowledge you can give.”
The scarred face remained inscrutable a moment longer, then the smith sighed. “Come inside.”
Jiaan followed him into the small house behind the smithy—just two rooms, but made of stone, not flammable wood. Though the furnishings were worn, the place was scrupulously clean. Jiaan sat at a bench by the table, and watched the smith make tea. He suspected he’d find more ease in this poor man’s tea than in the great feast Siatt had offered him.
The man set a thick pewter mug in front of Jiaan, and seated himself before he spoke again. “Like I said, I don’t know the secret. But I saw a bit of watersteel once—just a hilt, with the blade snapped off. The carter who owned it, he charged smiths money just to examine it for a short time. I mended some tack for him.”
“Only a hilt?” Jiaan’s disappointment must have showed, for the man smiled.
“It was better than a whole blade, young sir, for broken like it was, I could see it was made of hundreds of layers of dark and light steel. Very thin. It took some time, but eventually I realized that they must have beaten several bars together, and then folded them. I got all excited about it.”
Jiaan was beginning to feel excited himself. “Folded them?” he repeated, hoping he had the Kadeshi word right. “I know that the dark steel is better—”
“It’s not better,” said the smith, “just harder. And that makes it brittle. Don’t look so hopeful—I got some dark steel and tried folding it with the lighter steel myself. The blade took a fine edge but it was too brittle—it chipped and broke. You couldn’t use it to butcher a big-boned animal, much less fight a man in armor who also has a sword. So I’m sorry for your soldiers, but I can’t help you.”