The Lions of Al-Rassan

by Guy Gavriel Kay

  She looked up at him, waiting. He knew what she was thinking. He always wanted the same thing when he spoke to her like that. Well, she wasn’t the only person here who could offer the unexpected. And this new feeling was strong.

  “I would like to pray,” said the king of Valledo. “After what we have just learned, I think I would like to pray. Will you both come with me?”

  They went to the royal chapel together, the king and his queen and their constable. The palace cleric was there, having just arrived from the audience chamber in great dismay. He was as astonished as might have been expected at the sight of the king, which was extremely so. He took his place hastily at the altar before the disk.

  Each of them signified the symbol of the god’s sun with their right hand over their heart and then sank down upon their knees on the stone of the floor. The light in the royal chapel was muted. There were windows but they were old, and smaller, and rain was falling upon them.

  They prayed in that simple, unadorned space to the one god and the life-giving light of his sun, their faces turned to where an emblem of that sun was set upon the wall behind the altar stone. They prayed for strength and mercy, for purity of heart and mortal body, for the fulfillment of Jad’s bright visions, and for access, at the end of their own days among the fields of earth, to Paradise.

  Part IV

  Ten

  Nino di Carrera, young, handsome and adept, the most favored courtier of King Bermudo of Jaloña and concurrently the latest of the furtive lovers of Bermudo’s demanding queen, Fruela, was in a condition of anxious perplexity.

  In fact, he hadn’t the least idea what to do.

  Confusion made him angry. Anger was compounded by the increasing embarrassment of what was presently taking place. Nino swept off his iron helmet and shook out his yellow mane of hair, the envy and desire of most of the women at Bermudo’s court in Eschalou. His breath and that of the two scouts and all of their horses made white puffs in the frigid early-morning air.

  Behind him his company had come to a halt in this high valley ringed with hills. They were well trained, his own men. The horses had been turned outward and the mules with their chests of gold from Fibaz were in the center of the formation. Six chests. A year’s parias from an infidel city in Al-Rassan. The first-ever such tribute payment to Jaloña. A promise of wealth, of power, and of much more to come. The horse thieves of Valledo were not the only ones who could whip Asharites to heel like the mongrels they were. And he, Nino di Carrera, had been entrusted with claiming this first treasure and bringing it back to Eschalou before the winter snows. The king had promised him much upon his return; the queen . . . the queen had already given him a reward, the night before he left.

  My golden one, she’d called him, lying in her bed after their frenzy. A phrase more apt than ever now. He was bringing back gold, six chests of it, to the greater glory of Jad and Jaloña—and of Count Nino di Carrera, who was soaring like a golden falcon now. And who knew how high that might be before all was done and spoken before the god?

  But all that—that shining, lofty future—was dependent on whether he could get these six chests safely home and, more to the immediate point, whether he could silence the woman’s voice that kept echoing down upon them in this supernaturally resonant highland valley he wished they had never entered.

  “Nino, Nino, Nino! Oh, my darling! It is I, Fruela, your queen! Come to me, my love!”

  The plangent summons, high and clear, rang like a bell, filling the valley with sound over and over again. Nino di Carrera was, among other things, aware that his color had risen: a lifelong affliction that came with fair skin. It wasn’t—of course it wasn’t!—Queen Fruela’s voice they were hearing, but it was a woman, fluent in Esperañan, and her tone was urgent with desire.

  “Come, Nino! Take me. Take me here on the hills! Make me yours!”

  It was not, in any conceivable way, useful for a rising figure at King Bermudo’s court to have this sort of request publicly uttered. By anyone. Anywhere. And the words were very public here. They were soaring all about them, echoing endlessly. Someone was amusing themselves at Nino di Carrera’s expense. Someone was going to pay for that.

  He was careful not to glance back at his company, but as the woman’s voice, ripe with longing, continued to offer explicit variations on the same theme, Nino heard—unmistakably—ripples of suppressed laughter behind him.

  “Oh, my rampant stallion, I must have you! Make me yield to your mastery, my love!”

  Sound carried absurdly well in this place. It was unnatural, that was what it was! And not only did the words carry, they echoed, so that each yearning proclamation of his name, each vividly proposed activity, resonated as if sung by a choir in chapel.

  The two outriders were ashen-faced, refusing to meet his eyes. No trace of amusement there. They wouldn’t have dared, in any event, but the tidings they had brought precluded levity. The woman wailing with desire was an offense, even a mortal one; armed men waiting in ambush ahead were something else.

  Reckless as his appearance and youth might suggest him to be, Nino di Carrera was a careful commander of a good company, and his outriders, in particular, were excellent. The odds were, in fact, that few companies would have received this advance warning. Most leaders would have felt blithely secure in the presence of almost a hundred mounted men. Nino had been too conscious of how important this parias mission was, however: to Jaloña, to himself. He’d had outriders ahead and behind, and on both flanks until the hills forced those men back in. The pair up front had spotted the carefully laid ambush at the northern exit from this valley.

  “Nino! I burn for you! Oh, my love, I am a woman before I am a queen!”

  It was almost impossible to concentrate with that voice filling the valley bowl. But concentration had become vital now: whoever had laid this trap had to know exactly how many men the Jaddites had. Which meant that they weren’t fazed by the numbers. Which meant serious trouble. They couldn’t be from Fibaz: that would be absurd, to give them the gold and then attack them for it. And King Badir of Ragosa, who controlled the small, wealthy city of Fibaz, had authorized this parias payment himself, however grudgingly. Why release it from behind defended walls, then attack in open country? Why agree to pay in the first place, if you felt secure enough to attack?

  None of it made any sense. And therefore, obviously, the ambush ahead had been laid by outlaws. Nino was pleased he could still think clearly enough—the woman on the hills was now intimating that her clothing was being removed in anticipation of his presence—to sort this through.

  There were still problems, though; what was happening still didn’t seem conceivable. It was almost impossible to imagine any outlaw band large enough and well-equipped enough to try to waylay a hundred trained Horsemen of Jad.

  Something occurred to Nino di Carrera then. He narrowed his eyes. He scratched his jaw. Unless, unless . . .

  “I throb, I yearn, I die. Oh, Nino, come to me with the short sword of your loins!”

  The short sword?

  One of the outriders coughed abruptly and turned his head sharply away. Unmistakable sounds could now be heard from behind, where the company had halted.

  That did it. That was enough.

  “Edrique! To me! Now!” Di Carrera barked the command without looking back. Immediately he heard a horse cantering up.

  “My lord?” His burly, competent second-in-command, unusually ruddy-faced, appeared at his side.

  “I want that woman silenced. Take five men.”

  Edrique’s expression was carefully neutral. “Of course, my lord. At once.”

  “My stallion, come! Let me ride you to Paradise!”

  Edrique’s turn to cough, averting his crimson features.

  “When you are sufficiently recovered,” said Nino icily, “go about your business. You might be interested to know there is an ambush laid at the neck of this valley.”

  That sobered the man quickly enough.

 
; “You think the woman is connected with—”

  “How in Jad’s name would I know?” Nino snapped. “Deal with her, whoever she is, and get back, quickly. Bring her with you. I want her alive. In the meantime, we’re going to double back south and loop around this valley, however far it takes us out of our way. I hate this place!” He said it with more feeling than he’d intended. “I won’t ride into a narrow space where the enemy knows the ground.”

  Edrique nodded and clapped spurs to his horse. They heard him rattling off names to accompany him. Nino remained motionless a moment, thinking as best he could with a feverish woman crying his name so that it rang through the valley.

  He’d had an important thought, a moment ago. It was gone now.

  But doubling back was the right decision, he was sure of it, much as it gnawed at him to retreat from Asharite scum. If these outlaws were confident enough to have set a trap, it made no sense to ride into it, however strong his company might be. Pride had to be swallowed here. For the moment. Revenge, as his people said, was a wine to be slowly savored.

  He heard horses approaching. The outriders looked quickly past him. Nino turned. The two men he had assigned to cover their rear were galloping up. They pulled their horses rearing to a halt before him.

  “My lord! There is a company of men behind us! They have closed the south end of this valley!”

  “My rampant one, my own king! Take me! I burn for you!”

  “What is that accursed woman doing?” Nino snarled.

  He fought to control himself. He had to think, to be decisive, not angry, not distracted. He looked at the outriders for a blank moment, then turned back north to gaze towards the end of the valley. There was a darkness there, where the hills came together in a long neck and the sunlight died. An ambush ahead, and men now closing the space behind. They would be pincered here if they waited. If the enemy was in strength. But how could they be in strength? It made no sense!

  “How many back there?” he snapped over his shoulder to the second pair of scouts.

  “Hard to say, my lord. A first group of twenty-five or so. There seemed to be others behind them.”

  “On foot?”

  “Of course, my lord. Outlaws would not have—”

  “If I want opinions I will ask!”

  “Yes, my lord!”

  “Ask of me anything, oh my true king! I am your slave. I am naked, awaiting your mastery! Command me to your will!”

  Cursing, Nino pushed a hand roughly through his hair. They were bottled up here! It was unbelievable. How could there be so many bandits in this place? He saw Edrique, with his five men, beginning to mount the slope to the east, after the wailing woman. They would only be able to take the horses partway, then they’d have to go on foot. She’d see them coming, all the way.

  He made his decision. It was time for a leader’s decisiveness.

  “Edrique!” he roared. The captain turned his horse. “Get back here!”

  He waited, four outriders anxious-faced beside him, for his second-in-command. Edrique picked his way back down then galloped up.

  “Forget her!” Nino rasped. “We’re going north. There are men behind us now. If there are outlaws at each end we push forward. They will have balanced their forces. No point going back now. I have changed my mind. I will not retreat before Asharite bandits.”

  Edrique smiled grimly. “Indeed no, my lord. We shall teach them a lesson they will never forget.” He wheeled back to the company, barking commands.

  Nino clapped his helmet firmly on his head. Edrique was good, no question about it. His calm, sure manner gave confidence and support to his leader. The men would see that, and respond to it. It was a fine company he had, superbly mounted, every man of them proud to have been chosen for this mission. Whoever these Asharite scavengers might be, they would have cause to regret their presumption today.

  For this provocation, Nino decided, it would be necessary to burn them. Right here in the valley. Let the screaming echo. A message. A warning. Future companies coming south for the parias would thank him for it.

  “Nino, my shining one, it is your own Fruela! I am dying for you!”

  The woman. The woman would have to wait. If she was burning and dying, well, there would be a flame for her as well, soon enough, and for whoever had put her up to this humiliating charade.

  And so, focused in anger, did Nino di Carrera banish confusion and doubt. He drew his sword. His company had already wheeled into position behind him. He looked back, saw Edrique nod crisply, his own blade uplifted.

  “To Jaloña’s glory!” cried Nino then. “Ride now! Ride, in the holy name of Jad!”

  They started north, moving quickly, but in tight formation, the mules with their gold still safely in the center of the company. They traversed the valley, shouting in battle fever now, in anticipation. There was no fear. They knew what they were and could do. They rode through bright sunlight over frosted grass and came to the shadows where the hills closed in. They thundered into the dark defile, screaming the god’s name, one hundred brave, trained Horsemen of Jad.

  Idar ibn Tarif, who had command of the forty men on the western side of the gorge, had been swearing without surcease and with considerable inventiveness since the Jaddite advance scouts had been spotted above them on the slopes. They had been shot at and briefly pursued, to no avail.

  They had been discovered! Their trap was exposed. The long hunt was over. Who would ever have imagined a Jaddite commander would be so timorous as to send scouts! The man had a hundred Horsemen! He was supposed to be arrogant, reckless. In Ashar’s star-bright name, what was he doing being so cautious?

  Across the narrow, sharply angled canyon at the north end of the valley his brother and father were still waiting, oblivious to the disaster that had just taken place, readying their archers for a feathered volley of death against unsuspecting men. Idar, sick at heart, had been about to slip across the shadowy ground to tell them about the scouts when he heard the woman’s voice begin, up on the eastern ridges of the Emin ha’Nazar—the echoing valley where the stinking, dog-faced Horsemen had halted.

  On this side of the defile beyond the valley the high voice could be clearly heard. Idar was far from fluent in Esperañan, but he knew enough to be suddenly arrested in his purpose. Wondering—and even amused in spite of the catastrophe that had befallen them—he decided to await events.

  The Jaddites were going to double back. It was evident to anyone with half a mind. If they had spotted the ambush they would draw all the obvious conclusions. They were swine and unbelievers, but they knew how to wage war. They would circle back out of the Emin ha’Nazar and take the longer way around to the west.

  And there was no other place of entrapment between here and the tagra lands that would allow eighty unevenly equipped men—a mix of bowmen, cut-throats, some riders, he and his brother and their notorious father—to have any hope of defeating so many soldiers. Gold was worth a great deal of risk, and so was glory, but neither, in Idar’s view, justified certain death. He despised the Jaddites, but he was not so foolish as to underestimate how they could fight. And his father had based his long career never giving battle save on ground of his own choosing.

  It was over then, this uncharacteristic chance they had taken, so far north, so late in the year. Well, it had always been that: a gamble. They would wait for the Jaddites to clear the valley and head west. Then they would start back south themselves and begin the long journey home. If the season had not been so close to the winter rains and mud, they might have been able to take their time and find some solace in raiding through Ragosan lands along the way.

  Solace, Idar thought glumly, was unlikely to be found before they got back to their own stone walls. He wanted a drink right now, actually, but his father would forbid that. Not for religious reasons of course, but as a commander on a raid. A rule of forty years, that one. Idar would have balked at the old man’s strictures save for two things: he loved him, and he feared him m
ore than anyone alive.

  “Look!” whispered one of the archers beside him. “In the name of Ashar’s Paradise, look!”

  Idar looked. He caught his breath. They were coming. The god had driven the Jaddites mad, or perhaps the woman’s voice had done so. Who knew what made men do such things as this? What Idar did know was that he and his brother and father and their men were about to be in a battle such as they hadn’t known in years. Their ambush had been uncovered, and the Horsemen were still coming.

  The Jaddites approached the defile, one hundred riders, with six mules laboring in their midst. They were riding too fast. They would be blind, Idar knew, the moment they entered the shadows where the steep slopes hid the sun. They were making a terrible mistake. It was time to make them pay for that.

  His was one of the first arrows. He launched another, and a third, then he started running and sliding down the slope to where Jaddites and their horses were screaming now in the pits that had been dug, hurled upon each other in a mangling of limbs, falling on the sharp spears planted in the cold ground for killing.

  Fast as he moved, Idar saw that his father was ahead of him.

  Jehane had been affronted at first by Rodrigo’s suggestion, then amused, and finally inspired to inventiveness. In the midst of the exercise she discovered that it was unexpectedly stimulating to be crying aloud in feverish, explicit desire for the whole of the valley below them to hear.

  The two men beside her were nearly convulsed in silent hilarity as she offered increasingly flamboyant variations on the theme of her anguished physical yearning—as Queen Fruela of Jaloña—for the golden-haired count who had come to claim the parias from Fibaz. She had to concede that it was partly her pleasure at their helpless mirth, their unstinting approval of her performance, that led her on to wilder flights of suggestive fantasy.

  They were high on the eastern slopes of the hills that ringed the valley bowl of Emin ha’Nazar, the well-known Place of Many Voices. Well-known, that is, save to the Jaddites who had entered the valley this morning. Even Rodrigo hadn’t heard of the place before today, but ibn Khairan had not only known of it, he had anticipated that this might be the place where a trap would be laid for the gold of Fibaz.