But Diilbok goaded his black ahead of the column and shouted a command: "Forward! Attack the bandits at once!"
He spurred his steed so violently that the animal nearly bowled over the two riders blocking his path— Danaer and Yistar. Stupefied by his behavior and fighting for control of their mounts, they did not counter his orders. Obeying the nobleman, the column galloped after Diilbok, heading into the square. Branra had drawn aside, keeping masterful control of his excited horse. As Yistar and the Troop Leaders regained their senses, he smiled slightly and asked, "Do we follow him, or shall we wait a while and enter the fray after he has been disposed of?"
"And after he gets my soldiers killed, too!" Yistar thundered. "No hope that he shall be. killed, to judge by his reputation!"
"True," Branra said with a sigh, though he was still smiling, as if all this were a game. "Never has he been harmed. Pity. The gods favor those strong in drink . . ."
Yistar grimaced at the impiety. "We must move, my lord, and quickly!"
The screams and the din of smashing wood and pottery nearly deafened them as they rode into the Square of the Clarique Trader. Almost at once Danaer was forced to dodge a barrage of cobblestones, missiles pried up from the street and flung wildly by the besieged merchants. In his mantle, riding a roan, Danaer was a target for them as well as for the attackers, who would see his uniform and deem him their enemy. It was not a new problem for Danaer.
He avoided more stones, then rode toward the rioter closest to him. Two merchants flailed at the man with sticks and tent poles, their wide sleeves flapping. The horseman who harassed them was unusually inept at handling weapon and horse, which made Danaer wonder. A clumsy warrior?
"Harshaa, Azsed!" he challenged in the tongue of the plains people. The masked figure gave no sign he had heard the soldier, and Danaer shouted more loudly.
Still there was no reaction. Rushing in upon the man, Danaer seized the rioter's boot and upended the poorly seated horseman into the waiting arms of the merchants. As the traders fell on him vengefully, the man shrieked in terror, and Danaer's senses wrenched with astonishment.
A scream? From a Destre warrior? Destre-Y was not Markuand, and there was no magic here such as stilled the tongues of those white-clad invaders against pain of wound or death. But a Destre warrior did not cry out in midst of battle, save to strike fear into his enemy. Never would he reveal his agony and give the foe heart by that sound.
Deeply troubled, Danaer looked about, seeking prey. He saw Branra in the thickest of the fighting, busy cutting down rebels. The young nobleman had cast aside his helmet, as if it were an encumbrance. He used his sword with skill and relish, befitting his fame.
Then Danaer noticed an ambusher to Branra's rear. Reflexively, he snatched sling from belt and let the stone fly with an accuracy he had learned in childhood.
La! In the eye! The attacker screeched and clutched his face and toppled from his horse, sprawUng on blood-slippery pavement. Branra turned and took in what had occurred, then searched the square for his unknown ally. His gaze met Danaer's as the scout reloaded his sling. The Lieutenant grinned his gratitude like a common soldier ere he moved to engage another opponent.
In glaring contrast. Prince Diilbok struck no one, though, like Branra, he was amid the worst of the battle. Diilbok keened defiance at his would-be attackers, but none seemed able to harm him. All manner of weapons were in use—lance and rock and dagger and swords taken from soldiers who had fallen. Blade and spear and stone dropped harmlessly to either side while the prince rode among them, unhurt.
A glamour of some magician might surround him; or perhaps it was what Branra had said—the good fortune of the sot. For with all his display, he struck the rioters no more than they him.
Contemptuous, Danaer turned his back on the shameful scene. Despite the soldiers, the rioters seemed in no mood to break off the assault. Angry shouts and cries of the wounded rose all around, and many sounds of pain came from the masked riders. Danaer's doubts were reborn. He cut down one of the rioters, and again there was a scream. Danaer sheathed his sword and leaned far from the saddle, scooping up a lance some soldier had dropped. The rioters also used the lance, but awkwardly, and Danaer set to grim work with a will to teach them how to fight with this Destre tool.
A man fell, and there was fear in his eyes and a loud, anguished plea for mercy as he went down. Danaer had again called the Azsed challenge, and again his enemy had given no answer.
This riddle must be solved, this elusive quarry run to ground. He was careful in selecting his next opponent. There! The man's height and weight was near Danaer's own, and the fellow was at least competent with lance, if not adept. A fair challenge this would be—by every tribal law.
The rioter was menacing a shopkeeper and his wife, about to ride them down. Danaer threw aside his lance and gathered himself, springing onto the brigand's back, bearing them off their horses and down to the street. He made certain the rioter landed underneath him, taking the brunt of the fall.
Danaer recovered his breath as the merchant and his woman ran away to hide. For the moment, Danaer and the rioter were alone in a pocket of stillness, as he had wished. The rioter was gasping and rubbing his bruised head and chest, regaining his wits at last. Danaer kicked the man over on his back and drew his sword. With one stroke he cut away the mantle dust mask concealing the rider's identity. Such a face might well be a tribesman's, or that of any man of Krantiii; it was ordinary, telling him Uttle.
Danaer pressed the sword against that dirty throat and barked the challenge, words unintelligible to all but a Destre sworn to the goddess during ritual at Argan's sacred fire altar. "Harshaa! Speak, yaen! Speak of her fall to rise again in flames! Ain ae will spare thee!"
The rioter shuddered, staring at the sword in fear and hatred.
Danaer was suddenly aware of a repugnant odor which offended even amid the general stink of the city. Laidil root. To eat the accursed spice was an unthinkable thing to one sworn to Argan. No longer could Danaer beUeve this cowering dog was a Destre.
The goddess herself filled his being, commanding him to seek out answers before the fatal blow.
"Call out, yaen, your clan, your tribe—call!" Danaer bent close, and fear won over hate in the rioter's countenance. The man understood nothing. Danaer's words were as alien to him as the Markuand language would be.
"Let me up . . . let me go . . ."
"Call, yaen, and I shall gift the goddess for your soul and chant you to Keth's portals, save your name to eternity!"
"I have money, see? Much gold? It is yours." The man fumbled in his shirt—for a pouch of coins, or for a dagger?
Danaer cared little which, his probing at an end. He ran the sword home ruthlessly. This time there was no scream of pain, for the slashed throat was voiceless, the blade wet with blood.
In times past, at Nyald, Danaer had killed Destre-Y in honorable combat under Yistar's command. He had felt regret, though oath bade him act. Now there was no trace of pity in him. This lump of carrion had never been a Destre-Y, never made vow to Argan's flame. This was a cowardly thief in Destre clothes, no more.
Were all the rioters imposters? He caught up the reins of his horse and walked over to another body. As Danaer examined the corpse, he snorted in derision. More scent of laidil root, and the man did not
even wear a faith-ring. His boots were those of a plowboy, not a warrior.
The battle was dying away in a few last, flurrying encounters. Groans faded and citizens were creeping back into the square to reclaim their stalls and wares. Danaer swung up on his roan and loped to where Yistar and Branra were dispatching the last of their opponents. Yistar, as Danaer had seen many a time before, laid about him with officer's sword in workmanlike fashion, caring only that his target went down. Branra's enthusiasm shone in his face, and his combat was a joyous art. He seemed disappointed when his antagonist died.
The Captain ordered Danaer, "Get Shaartre and take tally. Let us see what we hav
e from this."
The Troop Leaders shepherded and bulUed and helped the wounded, gradually reassembling the column. Danaer was angered to see much needless slaughter, for the ranks were broken. Many of their dead had fallen during the first moments of that blind, senseless rush in Prince Diilbok's wake. Once the shock was over, veterans had used old training, and the newer men had sometimes discovered their ability to kill, often to their dismay. One of Danaer's youngest troop-men, a youth named Rorluk, had saved the Ufe of his comrade Xashe, then had been sickened when he saw what his lance had done. With some effort, Danaer and Xashe got the young man back on his feet and led him, still retching and sick, to his horse and back to the units.
Shaartre was leading several horses laden with bodies as Danaer rejoined him. They made an assessment and turned to Yistar. "Six dead, fourteen wounded— three of the wounded unable to ride; we are rigging litters, Captain."
Branra whistled and shook his head, commiserating with Yistar. The Lieutenant was splattered with much blood, but there was no wound on him. "That is a very heavy toll for such a brief encounter."
"Lucky it was not more." Yistar directed a glare at Prince Diilbok. That worthy slouched in the saddle and cleaned his sword. Danaer wondered why that
was necessary; certainly Diilbok had never struck any man who could defend hunself! Danaer remembered the strange way nothing could touch the Prince, even in the midst of lances and knives. He put the thought aside as Yistar added, "At least we took down a-many of those cursed Destre-Y . . ."
Danaer nudged his roan forward and interrupted with, "Your favor, Captain."
"Yes?" Yistar eyed him with interest, knowing his scout's tone from long association in their campaigns.
"These rioters were not Destre-Y."
"What?" The Captain arched his shaggy eyebrows. "How can you say this?"
Danaer was feehng curious stares from his comrades and the citizens on every side. What demon had made him open his mouth at such a time? The Azsed tongue of faith was not a thing to reveal in the presence of an lit. Yistar might have guessed such a secret language existed, but Danaer was bound by oath to keep silence on the matter. "Of how I know. Captain, I may not say. But I swear on my honor that it is so."
"Ridiculous!" Prince Diilbok, red-faced and puffing, exclaimed. "I told you that this man was a traitor, but you would not heed me. No doubt the murderous scoundrel had a part in planning this riot. Now he tries to mislead us with these insane stories."
"Captain, on my oath—" Danaer began.
"Silence! You devil worshipper!" Diilbok came close, his wine-strong breath making the scout recoil. "Give me your sword at once, you cur! You are my prisoner. I will have you executed on the spot, here at the site of your treachery!"
For a heartbeat, Danaer gathered himself to fight clear and flee to the Zsed, seeking sanctuary among the plains people, his own. But who were his own? And how many comrades would he have to kill? Shaartre? The men of his unit? Yistar, who had given Danaer his Hfe ten times over in the Kakyein Wars and the southern campaigns?
Danaer let his hand rest on his sword hilt, studying Yistar, prudence ruling him. But Yistar was transfixed,
staring dumbly at Prince Diilbok, disbelieving what he heard and saw.
"Remove those badges and that helmet!" Diilbok demanded. "You befoul them!"
Branra said, "And have you already conducted the Troop Leader's trial, cousin?" His voice was deceptively soft, though there was steel under the words. "You would be judge and executioner in one, I see. But consider: we have no evidence against the man. You had best save your accusations for a surer target."
Prince Diilbok sputtered, incoherent with rage. Branra went on amiably, "I submit that we may hold Troop Leader Danaer for questioning, if you insist. We will brmg this situation before his garrison's commandant. General Nurdanth. The King's articles are clear in such matters. Surely you remember that small detail, cousin. Search your mind. I feel it will return to you, in time."
For a while, Diilbok continued to rant and wave his arms. But under Branra's serenity, the prince subsided finally into furious glowering at Danaer and his fellow ofl&cer. Branra was unbothered by that, nodding to Danaer. "I owe you my life. Troop Leader. If I may repay you with a bit of justice amid insanity, well enough."
Then he turned to Yistar and said most pleasantly, "Have we else to do here, Captain, or do we go back to the fort?"
Yistar stayed clear of any conflict between the high-bom officers. Though he outranked Branra in badges, Yistar was ever conscious of his humble origins. Now he seized on Branra's suggestion. "Ai, and at once. Since you have taken my Troop Leader's case into your hands, will you also take him into your custody?"
"WilUngly," Branra said. "But I do not think he will need restraint. The man is a Destre, and has sworn to serve you. Fortunate we are that he keeps his honor, for he has been left his weapons." Again Branra grinned at Diilbok.
The fop puffed out his chest and cried, "I demand that... rights ... the articles ..."
"Of course." Branra wedged his black in between
Diilbok's and Danaer's horses, nose to tail with Danaer's roan. "Ai, we will play this wager fairly, will we not, warrior? I require your sword, and that sling you wielded to save me. Ah! And your boot knife and belt blade."
Branra was no stranger to Destre arms. He had forgotten nothing. It seemed less shame to surrender them all to Branra. The ofiScer ran a thumb along the well-worn boot knife, saying with admiration, "I learned some time ago that a Destre is ever dangerous, particularly so long as he has this, ready to strike."
Yistar ordered that the bodies of the rioters and their horses be brought along as spoils. There was new confusion, and then the column untangled itself. It moved very slowly now, burdened with Utters for the wounded and bodies tied on horses. No longer scouting, Danaer was forced to ride beside Lieutenant Branra, directly behind Diilbok and Yistar. Shaartre led the troops, and Danaer could feel his old friend's sympathetic and puzzled stare burning into his back.
How had he come to this? Bogotana's deviltry—or some evil wizard? Had it been a magical trap, well laid to thrust him into this cage and make him bind himself with his own honest and ill-advised words?
Argan, do not let me die with dishonor!
How was he to convince General Nurdanth that he spoke the truth? It were less abomination to spit on the altar than to reveal the goddess's rituals. Yet he could not expect the General to believe him unless he spoke reasons.
The dilemma tormented him as they left Siank and wound up the foothills toward the fort.
Far better to have fallen in battle. Stripped of weapons, forced to ride bareheaded, he was Branra's prisoner. It needed only chains to complete his black shame.
A sudden horror came upon him. Would they hang him, like a common cutpurse or thiever of woolbacks? Would no one call to Argan for his soul? He would wander the earth below forever, never reaching the goddess or new life. Would Lira Nalu speak in his favor to the General? The pretty httle Sarh wizard had
acted kindly toward him. It might be she would not scorn him...
Yet she was a sorkra, and had not some wizardry had a part in all the things that had befallen him since he had come to Siank?
As they entered the fort, he lifted his head, hiding his heart behind a warrior's unrevealing expression. He had taken oath, and a Destre who broke oath was less than dust. K he must die, it was Argan's will. All was in the hands of the goddess now—and in the judgment of General Nurdanth.
VI
Treachery among the Iit
The stone cell was stifling and humid and proof against tool or weapon. Little matter, for Branra had pulled Danaer's fangs. Danaer smiled ruefully. To think that such a courtier would be so familiar with Destre-Y. Bloody Branra had confiscated all those weapons with an easy air, as he had disarmed many another Destre warrior.
Danaer's momentary amusement was buried in hurt. It was not merely the waste of soldiery in the riot or D
iUbok's accusations. There was Shaartre's shaken attitude when Danaer had been taken away to this prison. And worse—^Lira Nalu had witnessed this thing, for the sorkra had passed him and Branra in the hall of headquarters as the officer was conveying him to the cell. She had known what his empty scabbard and missing helmet signified, and her distress was obvious. Once she had helped him with her wizardry. But then she had known that he rode into peril and had prepared for it. If sorcery lay behind this shame of Danaer's, she had not been forewarned, and now it was too late for her countering white magic.
Branra had bolted the door and left him alone what seemed a very long time. It had given him space to think, not always a good thing. There was no pallet or cushion or bucket. The only air came through a tiny barred slit in the rocky ceiling. Rats had scurried in the straw, but kept hidden, wary of Danaer's boots. He knew that by now he presented a woeful appearance —shorn of weapons and insignia, sweaty, his beard stubble uncut, his uniform stained from the battle.
Then there was a muffled thump of footsteps, a bolt was pulled, and the door creaked open. Branra stood before him, gesturing. "Come with me. Troop Leader."
The cooler air of the corridor refreshed Danaer a bit. He came to full wakefulness as he followed the shorter man through the wandering passageways of the fortress. The officer had come alone, without soldiers, a concession Danaer appreciated. The fewer men who saw his condition, the less shame. As they came abreast a junction in the halls, they met Prince Diilbok's mistress.
The woman was angered, her color very high. Her costly gown was emerald-green, and like all her garments, cut low as a common hussy's. As always, she dripped gems and gold. Branra and Danaer stepped aside to let Chorii pass, and she paused, eyeing them intently. She began to flutter her lashes and flirt her head, a seductive smile aimed at Branra. It was a palace game Branra would not play. He treated her as he treated her man, summing his derision with a bow that was too deep to be convincing. Chorii was not fooled, and she flounced her skirts, rushing past him, deliberately bumping the nobleman's arm.
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