“The Oath of Galinus,” she said. It was difficult to speak. “The Physician’s Oath. To preserve life, if it can be done.”
Ishak nodded once, and then leaned back in his chair, as if exhausted by the effort to communicate after so long. Ammar ibn Khairan was still holding his hand. Now he let it go. “I would need time to think, more time than we have, before I would presume to offer any reply to that,” he said soberly. “If my stars and your moons allow, I would be honored to meet with you again, Ser Ishak. May I write to you?”
Ishak nodded his head. After a moment ibn Khairan turned back to Jehane.
“I believe I did say I had two reasons for coming,” he murmured. “Or had you forgotten?” She had, actually. He saw that, and smiled again. “One was a warning of danger, the other was to bring you something.”
He walked past her, back to the window. He swung up on the sill and reached out and around the side to the ledge. Without stepping down again he turned and offered something exquisite to Jehane.
“Oh dear,” she said. “Oh dear.”
It was, of course, her urine flask. Her father’s flask.
“You did leave in rather a hurry from ibn Musa’s,” ibn Khairan said mildly, “and so did Velaz and Husari. I thought you might want the flask, and perhaps make better use of it than the Muwardis when they arrived.”
Jehane swallowed and bit her lip. If they had found this . . .
She stepped forward and took the flask from his hand. Their fingers touched. “Thank you,” she said.
And remained motionless, astonished, as he leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. The scent of his perfume briefly surrounded her. One of his hands came up and lightly touched her hair.
“Courier’s fee,” he said easily, leaning back again. “Ragosa is a good thought. But do mention Valledo to ibn Musa—he may do better with King Ramiro.”
Jehane felt the rush of color to her face already beginning to recede. What followed, predictably, was something near to anger. Her father and mother, Velaz, Ser Rezzoni—everyone who knew her well—had always warned her about her pride.
She took a step forward and, standing on tiptoe, kissed Ammar ibn Khairan in her turn. She could feel his sharply intaken breath of surprise. That was better: he had been much, much too casual before.
“Doctor’s fee,” she said sweetly, stepping back. “We tend to charge more than couriers.”
“I will fall out of the window,” he said, but only after a moment.
“Don’t. It’s a long way down. You haven’t said, but it seems fairly obvious you have your own plan of vengeance to pursue in Cartada. Falling from a window would be a poor way to begin.” She was gratified to see that he hadn’t been prepared for that either.
He paused a second time. “We shall meet again, I dare hope.”
“That would be interesting,” Jehane said calmly, though her heart was beating very fast. He smiled. A moment later she watched him climb down the rough wall to the courtyard. He went through an archway towards the gates without looking back.
She would have thought she’d won that last exchange, but the smile he’d offered, just before turning to climb down, made her less certain, in the end.
“Care, Jehaa, care,” her father said, from behind her, echoing her own thoughts.
Feeling frightened again, by many things, Jehane went back to his chair and knelt before it. She put her head in his lap. And after a moment she felt his hands begin to stroke her hair. That had not happened for a long time.
They were like that when Velaz came for her, having already packed for the road—for both of them. He had arrived, of course, at his own decision on this matter.
Some time later, when Jehane was gone, and Velaz, and Husari ibn Musa, the silk merchant who had become, however improbably, a declared conspirator against the Lion of Cartada, strange sounds could be heard emanating from the study of Ishak ben Yonannon, the physician.
His wife Eliane stood in the corridor outside his closed door and listened as her husband, silent as death for four long years, practised articulating the letters of the alphabet, then struggled with simple words, like a child, learning what he could say and what he could not. It was fully dark outside by then; their daughter, their only child, was somewhere beyond the walls of civilization and safety, where women almost never went, in the wilderness of the wide world. Eliane held a tall, burning candle, and by its light someone watching could have seen a taut anguish to her still-beautiful face as she listened.
She stood like that a long time before she knocked and entered the room. The shutters were still folded back and the window was open, as Jehane had left them. At the end of a day of death, with the sounds of grief still raw beyond the gates of the Quarter, the stars were serene as ever in the darkening sky, the moons would rise soon, the white one first tonight, and then the blue, and the night breeze would still ease and cool the scorched summer earth where men and women breathed and walked. And spoke.
“Eyyia?” said her husband, and Eliane bet Danel heard the mangling of her name as music.
“You sound like a marsh frog,” she said, moving to stand before his chair.
By the flickering light she saw him smile.
“Where have you been?” she asked. “My dear. I’ve needed you so much.”
“Eyyia,” he tried again, and stood up. His eyes were black hollows. They would always be hollows.
He opened his arms and she moved into the space they made in the world, and laying her head against his chest she permitted herself the almost unimaginable luxury of grief.
At approximately the same time, their daughter was just outside the city walls negotiating with a number of whores for the purchase of three mules.
Jehane had known, in fact, of several hidden exits in the city walls. Some of them were too tenuous for a man of Husari’s girth, but there was a place in the Quarter itself, at the northwestern end, where a tree hid a key to a low passage through the stone of the city wall. It was, in the event, a near thing, but Husari was able to squeeze through with help from Velaz.
As they came out and stood up on the grassy space before the river a woman’s voice—a familiar voice, in fact—said cheerfully in the darkness, “Be welcome, pilgrims. May I lead you to a Garden of Delights such as Ashar only offers to the Dead?”
“He doesn’t offer it at all to the Kindath,” Jehane replied. “Tonight you could almost tempt me, Jacinto.”
“Jehane? Doctor?” The woman, scented and gaudily bejewelled, stepped closer. “Forgive me! I didn’t recognize you. Who called for you tonight?”
“No one, actually. Tonight I need your help. The wadjis may be after me, and the Muwardis.”
“Plague rot them all!” the woman named Jacinto said. “Haven’t they had enough blood for one day?” Jehane’s eyes were accustomed to the night by now, and she could make out the slender figure in front of her, clad only in the thinnest, most revealing wisps of cloth. “What do you need?” Jacinto asked. She was fourteen years old, Jehane knew.
“Three mules, and your silence.”
“You’ll have them. Come, I’ll bring you to Nunaya.”
She had expected that. If anyone exerted any sort of control over this community of women and boys outside the walls it was Nunaya.
Nunaya was not someone who wasted time, or words. Men in a hurry knew this, too, or they learned it soon enough. A client who came to visit her was likely to be back inside Fezana’s walls within a very short span of time, relieved of certain urges and a sum of money.
The purchase of the mules was not a difficult transaction. For several years now Jehane—the only woman doctor in Fezana—had been the trusted physician of the whores of the city. First in their district inside the eastern wall and then out here to the north, after they had been pushed by the wadjis beyond the city gates and into one of the straggling suburbs by the river.
That episode had been but one in a series of irregular, recurring outbursts of pious outrage that p
unctuated the dealings between the city and those who traded in physical love. The women fully expected to be back inside the walls within a year—and probably back outside them again a year or two after that.
Given, however, that the women one could buy, and a fair number of boys as well, were now mostly to be found outside the walls, it was not surprising that hidden routes of exit and entry were in existence. No city that had citizens—legitimate or otherwise—dwelling beyond its fortifications could ever be completely sealed.
Jehane knew a good many of the whores by now, and had, on more than one occasion, slipped out to join them for an evening of food and drink and laughter. Out of courtesy to the doctor who delivered their children or healed their bodies of afflictions or wounds, clients were not welcome at such times. Jehane found these women—and the wise, bitter boys—better company than almost anyone she knew in the city, within the Kindath Quarter or outside it. She wondered, at times, what that suggested about herself.
It was far from a serene world out here among the dilapidated houses that straggled beside the moat and river, and as often as not Jehane had been urgently summoned to deal with a knife wound inflicted by one woman on another. But although the three religions were all present here, it was obvious to her that when quarrels arose it had nothing to do with whether sun or moons or stars were worshipped. And the wadjis who had forced them out here were the common enemy. Jehane knew she would not be betrayed by these people.
Nunaya sold them three mules without so much as a question in her heavy-lidded, heavily accentuated eyes. This was not a place where personal questions were asked. Everyone had their secrets, and their wounds.
Jehane mounted up on one of the mules, Velaz and Husari took the others. A lady was supposed to ride sidesaddle, but Jehane had always found that silly and awkward. Doctors were allowed to be eccentric. She rode as the men did.
It was summer, the flow of the river was lazy and slow. Moving across, holding her mule on a tight rein, Jehane felt a heavy drifting object bump them. She shivered, knowing what it was. The mule pulled away hard and she almost fell, controlling it.
They came up out of the water and started north towards the trees. Jehane looked back just once. Lanterns burned behind them in watchtowers along the walls and in the castle and the tall houses of Fezana. Candles lit by men and women sheltered behind those walls from the dangers of the dark.
There were headless bodies in the castle moat and the river. One hundred and thirty-nine of them.
The one hundred and fortieth man was beside her now, riding in what had to be acute discomfort but uttering no sound of complaint.
“Look ahead,” Velaz said quietly. It was very dark now all around them under the stars.
Jehane looked where he was pointing and saw the red glow of a fire in the distance. Her heart thumped hard. An unshielded campfire on the grasslands could mean many different things, obviously, but Jehane had no way of deciding what. She was in an alien world now, on this exposed plain at night, with an aging servant and a plump merchant. Everything she knew and understood lay behind her. Even the ragged suburb of whores next to the city walls seemed a secure, safe place suddenly.
“I think I know what that light must be,” said Husari after a moment. His voice was calm, the steady sureness of his manner a continuing surprise. “In fact, I’m certain of it,” he said. “Let us go there.”
Jehane, weary for the moment of thinking, having got them out safely and mounted, was content to follow his lead. It did cross her mind that this adventure, this shared pursuit of vengeance, might end rather sooner than any of them had anticipated. She let her mule follow Husari’s towards the fire burning on the plain.
And so it was that the three of them rode—not long after, just as the white moon was rising—straight into the encampment of Rodrigo Belmonte, the Captain of Valledo, and the fifty men he had brought with him to collect the summer parias, and Jehane came to realize that a very long day and night were not yet done.
Four
The small-farmers of Orvilla, twelve of them, had come to the city together with their laden mules and they left Fezana together when the market closed at midday. One or two might have been inclined to stay and gawk at the soldiers strolling arrogantly about the town, but that would have meant travelling back to the village without the protection of the larger group. In unsettled country so near to the no-man’s-land, and in unsettled times, the pleasures of loitering in the city—or, in the case of some of the men, visiting an interesting suburb just outside the northern walls—could not outweigh the real need for the security of numbers.
Well before the sundown prayers they had all been safely back in Orvilla with the goods they had obtained at the market in exchange for their weekly produce. As a consequence, none of them had any knowledge of what happened in Fezana that day. They would learn of it later; by then it would matter rather less. They would have a catastrophe of their own to deal with.
The raiders from the north—even ignorant villagers could recognize Jaddite horsemen—swept down upon Orvilla at precisely the moment the blue moon rose to join the white one in the summer sky. It was too precisely calculated not to be a deliberate timing, though to what purpose no one could imagine, after. Perhaps a whim. There was nothing whimsical about what happened when the horsemen—at least fifty of them—broke through or leaped over the wooden fence that encircled the houses and outbuildings of the village. Some twenty families lived in Orvilla. There were a handful of old swords, a few rusting spears. A number of mules. One ox. Three horses. Aram ibn Dunash, whose house was by the water mill on the stream, had a bow that had been his father’s.
He was the first man to die, trying to nock an arrow with shaking hands as a screaming rider bore down upon him. The horseman’s pike took Aram in the chest and carried him into the wall of his own home. His wife, unwisely, screamed from inside. The horseman, hearing that, leaped from his mount and strode into the tiny house. He was already unbuckling his belt as he ducked through the low door.
A number of houses were quickly fired, and the communal barn. There was straw in the barn and in midsummer it was dry. The structure went up in flames with a roar. The fire must have been visible as far away as Fezana.
Ziri ibn Aram, who liked to sleep on the roof of the barn in summer, leaped down just in time. The barn was on the far side of the village from the mill and the stream. He was spared seeing his father die. Nor had he observed the horseman striding into the home where his pregnant mother and sisters were. Ziri was fourteen years old. He would have tried to kill the man with his hands. He would have died, of course. As it was, he landed awkwardly at the feet of a laughing Jaddite who was using the flat of his sword to round up all those not killed in the first moments of the attack. There weren’t very many of them, Ziri realized, looking desperately around for his family amid the smoke. Perhaps twenty people, in all, seemed to be still alive, from a village of more than twice that number. It was difficult to tell amid the flames. Orvilla was being consumed in an inferno of fire.
For the raiders, it was a disappointing exercise in some ways. There was, predictably, no one worth ransoming, not even a country wadji, who might have fetched a price. Even the brief flurry of combat had been laughable. The pathetically armed farmers had offered nothing in the way of opposition or training for battle. There were women of course, but one didn’t have to ride this far in the heat of summer to find peasant women for sport. Only when one man suggested spread-eagling the surviving men—the women were being taken back north, of course—did the prospect of a diversion belatedly emerge. This was, after all, Al-Rassan. The half-naked wretches herded together like cattle or sheep were infidels. This raid could almost be seen as an act of piety.
“He’s right!” another man shouted. “Spread the bastards on their own beams, then spread their women another way!” There was laughter.
With some speed and even a measure of efficiency amid the chaos of fire the raiders began gathering and
constructing wooden beams. The night had begun to show promise of entertainment. They had plenty of nails. Meant for shoeing any horses they took on the raid, they would do as well for hammering men to wood.
They had just selected the first of the peasants for nailing—a blank-faced boy who would doubtless have grown up to kill innocent men and women north of the tagra lands—when someone shrieked a grievously tardy warning.
A whirlwind of men on horses thundered in among them, twisting between the fires, carrying swords and using them. Most of the raiders had dismounted by then, many had laid down their weapons to prepare the diagonal beams for nailing the Asharites. They were easy prey. As easy as the villagers had been for them.
The raiders were men of breeding though, not lice-ridden outlaw brigands. They knew how these things were done, even in Al-Rassan. Peasants were one thing—on both sides of the no-man’s-land—but men of means and status were another. All over the hamlet of Orvilla, Jaddites began throwing up their hands in submission and loudly voicing the well-known cry: “Ransom! Ransom!”
Those who were killed in the first sweep of the new horsemen must have died in astonished disbelief. This was not supposed to happen. If, before they were dispatched, they realized who had come, that astonishment would likely have been redoubled, but these are not things one can know, with any certainty, of the dead.
* * *
Alvar hadn’t given the matter any real thought, but he had certainly never imagined that the first man he killed in Al-Rassan would be from Valledo. The man wasn’t even on his horse at the time. In a way, that didn’t feel right, but Laín Nunez’s instructions had been precise: kill them until you hear the order to stop. Every man was fair game except the stocky, black-haired one who would be leading them. He was to be left for the Captain.
The Captain was in a terrifying state. He had been from the moment the three riders from Fezana came into the camp with their story. The fat merchant—Abenmuza, he called himself—had told them what the king of Cartada had ordered done in Fezana that day. Searching for clues as to how to react, Alvar had looked to his leaders. If Laín Nunez had seemed indifferent to the bloody tale, almost as if he’d expected such foul deeds here in Al-Rassan, Ser Rodrigo’s expression told a different story. He’d said nothing though, when the merchant finished, save to ask the doctor—her name was Jehane—if she had ever served with a military company.
The Lions of Al-Rassan Page 8