Quintillian frowned. He was sure he’d heard something then amid the general din, but as he concentrated there was nothing to be heard. He sighed and relaxed once more, but then there it was again, insistent and nagging at the edge of his mind.
This time, he could hear it continuing as a tiny thread in the aural tapestry of Ual-Aahbor.
Drums!
A rhythmic beat was being maintained somewhere in the distance, but even as he tried to concentrate on that sound alone, he realized it was getting louder. Whoever it was, they were coming to the settlement. Quintillian perked up with interest. None of the other clans had come or gone with such ceremony.
‘Can you hear that?’ Asander muttered.
‘Yes. Getting closer, too.’
The noise suddenly increased to become the dominant sound in the general hubbub. Despite their view of the outside world being obscured by the high palisade, Quintillian surmised that the drummers – for they were clearly numerous – had just crested the hill and begun the descent into the basin.
Suddenly, the nomad work escort were moving the line. Quintillian and Asander fell into step as the column of slaves were shuffled forward and to the side, further clearing space at the centre. By chance of positioning, they would be among the first to witness the new arrivals, whoever they were.
The drumming, heavy and rhythmic, continued to increase in volume and was soon joined by the slow step of many horses and men and the creak of wooden wheels. Quintillian found himself almost twitching with anticipation.
It seemed ages, though couldn’t in truth have been much more than a quarter of an hour, before the nomads near the gate were urged back out of the way and the source of the sounds put in their appearance.
With pomp that would not have been out of place at an imperial procession, the drummers moved through the great, heavy timber gate. Each rode a horse with a red-tasselled caparison, and each wore identical clothing, something Quintillian had not seen thus far among the nomads. The musicians each had a large, heavy drum to their left side, anchored to the saddle, and beat it in time with their horses’ steps. Of course, few humans could rival the nomads for their equestrian skills, so not a single hoof was out of step. Quintillian decided to count them too late, and had lost track of how many had entered the settlement before the last put in an appearance, but he’d have put it at around 50, riding in pairs.
There was a gap of perhaps three horse-lengths after the drummers, then came warriors – presumably the best and the bravest, for they rode with the gait and poise of heroes who know their worth. Each of them wore different armour and clothing, but all were a cut above the average nomad’s gear, the armour being of the quality and style that an imperial officer would be happy to own. Each had a short, strangely recurved bow over their shoulder. They rode in pairs through the gate and this time, Quintillian counted 32.
The next figure was truly impressive. A lone horseman, he wore silk in blues and browns, with a single engraved steel breastplate his only concession to armour. His face was broad and flat like all the nomads, but with a slightly different look. His eyes were a little more angular, and his hair a glossy black, shaved back from the forehead to behind the ears, where the rest was gathered in a top knot.
He was big. Quintillian hadn’t noticed at first, but now he realized that was because of a lack of comparison. His horse was also large, and the man must have stood at almost 7 feet tall when dismounted. The bow over his saddle horn was black and yellow and of clearly unsurpassed quality, and the sword slung at his side was quite simply the longest blade Quintillian had ever seen. He doubted anyone smaller than the rider could manage to handle it.
Asander whistled quietly through his teeth, unable to speak without landing himself in trouble. He’d clearly formed the same opinions as Quintillian.
Here was a truly powerful man, the prince noted. He’d wondered what could ever bring the clans together, and here was a ready answer: the strength of one man. It boded ill for the west, or perhaps for this Jade Emperor in the east. Or possibly both. The horse clans were said to be numberless, roaming the endless steppe right to the roof of the world. And yet despite their skill with bows and horses, their belligerent nature and the sheer number of them, they had never been considered more than a vague threat to border settlements or merchants because they never worked together. Any conflict with a clan of nomads was just that: a clan. It was not in their nature to work together. On that all the historians had agreed, and everything Quintillian had observed about their nature in the time he had been here had reinforced that opinion. They may currently be gathered together, but getting them to do anything more complex than simply exist in the same place should be impossible.
Yet somehow they were gathering like an army. The fractious, internecine-warring clans who were incapable of concerted action were breaking the mould. It was a shudder-inducing thought. Suddenly the threat the northern barbarian tribes posed to the empire seemed a paltry thing. This new development presented a very real and very dangerous possibility.
The next horseman, following close behind, he immediately assumed to be some sort of advisor or counsellor. He was older, perhaps nearing 50 summers, and his black hair was shot through with grey. His moustaches and beard were approaching white in colour, and his eyes were also more angular than seemed the norm. He wore no armour and bore no weapons, and his silk robe was a dark red with little ornament.
Then the old man’s head turned and his eyes played across the scene, including the slaves, and Quintillian found himself instantly reassessing the situation. The huge warrior was clearly important, but his eyes were hard and stony – a warrior’s gaze. This man’s eyes were like deep wells, reaching into a subterranean sea of dark wisdom. His scrutiny, even in the brief moment it passed Quintillian, was horrifyingly shrewd. While the prince would hate to find himself in a ring of watchers facing off against that huge warrior, the possibility seemed a blessing when compared to the chance of pitting his wits against this old man.
Here was the power in Ual-Aahbor, not the muscle and steel of the man in front. Here was a mind and a will that could take a thousand arguing clans and forge them into an army.
Here was a man who could conquer the world.
Quintillian shivered.
‘Shit.’
He hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud until the nomad who’d earlier patted him on the head hurried over to him and smacked him painfully on the shoulder with his stick, hissing something at him, and referring to him as Ba’atu.
The column of new arrivals stopped at a raised hand from the old man. Behind him came a wagon full of even older men in rich clothes and then another group of mounted warriors, but they all stopped dead. The slave guard realized he’d attracted the attention of the most important people in Ual-Aahbor and turned, ashen-faced, bowing deeply to the old man. The huge warrior turned to look at the guard, one eyebrow lifting curiously.
The older man pursed his lips and regarded both the guard with the stick and Quintillian. Then he opened his mouth and spoke. The prince wasn’t sure what he’d expected from the master of Ual-Aahbor – possibly a reedy or hoarse tone – but he certainly wasn’t anticipating the smooth, urbane voice that emerged, like silk flowing over a blade. He spoke the guttural tongue of the horse lords, but his velvety tone cancelled out the harshness Quintillian associated with the language. He was fascinated by this man, and it occurred to him that the fact might be mutual, for the old man was questioning the guard and using that same title: Ba’atu.
Quintillian stood silent, listening to the exchange. Asander could hopefully translate later on.
Then, suddenly, in that silky voice, the old man addressed Quintillian directly.
‘This man tells me that you are a nobleman. Possibly even a prince. What do you have to say for yourself?’
Quintillian blinked. The man spoke the imperial tongue with absolute precision and a very slight accent of the eastern provinces. For a moment he floundere
d. If he told the truth, then he could be placing himself in grave peril – worse than simply being worked to death. A prince of the imperial family would be a valuable hostage, after all. But then Asander had already revealed damning information during the duel at the forest, which had led to this Ba’atu title being associated with him. He’d used his real name and referred to him as a marshal. The empire only had four marshals and anyone who was remotely familiar with the west in the current generation would put marshal and Quintillian together and come up with just one inescapable conclusion. Plus, he was fairly certain that this man was clever enough to piece almost anything together given even the most rudimentary facts. Honesty, it seemed, was the only feasible option.
‘I have the honour of being Marshal Quintillian, commander of the Third Army, prince and brother of the emperor, Lord of Munda. In rather reduced circumstances currently, due to a twist of fate.’
There was a heavy silence for a moment, then the huge warrior muttered something in his own tongue, to which the old man replied with a smile. Then he turned back to Quintillian.
‘An imperial marshal. I am impressed. And rather saddened to find you in such a situation, despite the clear advantage at which it places me. I would speak with you when I am settled in my palace.’ He gestured at the guard, and spoke once more in their indecipherable tongue. The man bowed again and the old man smiled and kicked his steed into action, urging the procession onward.
‘That was dangerous,’ Asander whispered, once the column was moving. The guard glared at him for speaking, but clearly felt nervous about disciplining him after the previous incident.
‘Drawing attention to myself or giving my real identity?’
‘Both. You’ll be the centre of attention now.’
‘That might be good, Asander. I’ve been wracking my brains trying to think of a way to break out, but leaving that slave compound seems impossible. Perhaps this change in circumstances will give me the opportunity I’m looking for.’
‘Not me, though,’ sighed Asander.
‘I’ll make sure to bring you with me. This monkey with his stick might not be amenable to persuasion, but I suspect I can convince the old man that I need you.’
‘I hope so.’
The guard finally decided that enough was enough and jammed his stick between the two of them, pushing Asander away. Another of the slave detail gave the command to march and the column began to file towards the gate, but the man with the stick held Quintillian back and gestured to the compound. It appeared there would be no log-cutting for the prince today.
He had an appointment to keep.
Chapter VI
Of Clans and Overlords
The palace wasn’t what Quintillian had expected. Of course, with no frame of reference, he wasn’t at all sure what he expected, but this definitely wasn’t it. He had seen enough of the inside of the nomads’ great circular tents now to form an opinion of their decor. It involved a lot of rugs, both on the ground and hanging on walls. Everything seemed to be made of horse. Even the rugs, he suspected, were woven by hand from horse tails. The horse clans were a people who had virtually nothing, so they wasted no part of what they did have. Their only concessions to outside goods seemed to be armour and weapons and the silk that came from the east. It was all dyed with basic hues acquired from plants, and yet somehow contrived to be drab even with a mix of colours.
Not so the palace.
In the large lobby where he’d been escorted by the guard with the stick and made to wait, he’d been surprised to see a painting some 20 feet long stretching along a wall. Strolling over, assuming he would be allowed, he examined it. It had been painted by a master on a single long sheet of quality paper. Impressive. No manufacturer in the empire could make paper that fine, and certainly not in long continuous strips. Most writing was still done on vellum. The painting seemed to be a story and told of a battle between two nations that looked very similar – similar to the old man and the huge warrior in particular. Neither were horse clans. Both armies were huge and involved a number of infantry.
The battle raged across a walled city that, if it were real, would probably rival Velutio for its impressive defences. It seemed the besieging army were the heroes of the piece, and yet the tale told of a defeat and the ignominious destruction of the army.
Quintillian rocked back on his heels, feeling the plushness of the fine blue carpet beneath.
‘It is my grandfather.’
He turned in surprise. The huge, powerful warrior had entered the lobby with impressive stealth for one so large, and was standing with his arms folded not far from Quintillian.
‘Which one?’
‘The one having his head removed before the walls of the city he failed to take.’
Quintillian nodded and cleared his throat. ‘Isn’t it unusual to commemorate a failure in such a manner?’
The big man stepped across and stood next to Quintillian, which he found to be rather disturbing, since his head was not quite at the man’s shoulder. ‘My father had the painting commissioned as a reminder. A warning to push him ever onward, for to pause is to fail and to fail is to die.’
‘The… lord… of Ual-Aahbor is your father?’
The big man nodded. ‘He is the Khan. The overlord of the clans. And he wishes to see you. Come.’
The warrior turned and strode off through the palace. As Quintillian fell in alongside him, the huge man glanced sidelong at him.
‘You are clever. And dangerous. Your eyes remind me of my father’s.’
‘I shall try to take that as a compliment.’
‘You should know that I have already made my feelings known. That you should be executed immediately. The council of elders believe that you are too important to waste, and my father’s ideas are an enigma as always, but I? I see only trouble from you. I would kill you myself, were it not for my father staying my hand… for now.’
‘But then how would we have such delightful conversations?’ Quintillian smiled.
The warrior grunted, and moments later they emerged into a wide corridor lined with coloured paper lamps that glowed with fascinating images of dragons and monsters. At the end of the vestibule were twin doors with gold handles, they were covered with red leather picked out in gold patterns. Two guards stood at the door, well-armed and clearly very competent. At a gesture from the big warrior, the doors were swung open and Quintillian entered the Khan’s throne room.
This large chamber was lit with similar paper lanterns and heated by braziers that contained some heady spice that gave the entire room a pleasant aroma. The old man sat on a carved wooden chair, draped with colourful materials. In the corner, a young man with sightless, staring white eyes picked out a beautiful melody on some sort of strange harp. The old men who had arrived in the cart were seated on low cushions around a firepit.
‘Ah, good,’ the Khan spoke. ‘The prince.’
Quintillian bowed his head. This Khan was the equivalent of his brother, or the God-King of Pelasia, and the rules of etiquette were clear.
‘My advisors will not be taking part in this meeting, though they will remain in the room. None of them speak your tongue. In fact, only my son and I have a good grasp of it, barring a few clansmen who have spent time in your borderlands. Translation will be difficult for them and it is not appropriate for the great Khan or the champion warrior of the clans to demean themselves and sink to the level of interpreter.’
Quintillian paused for a moment to make sure the old man was not about to continue, then smiled. ‘I have a friend in the slave camp who is competent in both tongues. Perhaps he could fill in the role?’
The Khan chewed his lip for a moment. ‘Yes. The next time we speak – if there is a next time – you may bring him. I wish to ask you a few questions.’
Quintillian smiled cautiously. ‘You will be aware that I am not willing to give out information that would imperil my people.’
The Khan laughed. ‘I do not seek military informatio
n, young prince. Be assured that anything I wish to know of the empire’s defences I will find out readily enough in due course. No, I wish to know about your world.’
The prince remained silent and the Khan leaned forward, his chin resting on his palm. ‘I am very familiar with the lands of the Jade Emperor, and with the steppe of my nomad brothers, but I have never seen your empire. In the libraries of Jiong-Xhu are texts written by eastern travellers who have made contact with the empire in the export of silk. They say that the empire’s lands are universally fertile. That any crop will grow there and grow well. They say your emperors have built palaces of silver and gold. They are almost certainly exaggerated, fantastical tales. But most tales begin with a grain of truth. I wish to know what the empire is like. To live in, I mean.’
Quintillian stretched and folded his arms. ‘I will tell you of my empire, but first tell me why you wish to know.’
‘Is it not obvious?’ the old man frowned. ‘I intend to own it.’
And there it was. The confirmation that Quintillian needed. This Khan had no designs on the Jade Emperor’s lands. In fact, it seemed likely that he was from there, originally. He felt a jolt of dread as there could now be no doubt that the weight of the innumerable horse clans and that growing collection of siege engines were meant for the west. He had to warn his brother… unless, perhaps, the Khan could be persuaded away from such a course of action? He was a superbly intelligent man, after all.
‘I have brought the clans together with a dream,’ the Khan said in a dream-like voice. ‘A dream of conquest. The riders know your empire to be easy pickings, for they have raided across your borders for centuries. But now they will come in force, and will take your empire for their own.’
Quintillian shook his head. ‘The clans do not need our lands. I have seen how they live. They would never adjust to such a life.’
Insurgency (Tales of the Empire Book 4) Page 8