Akassa lowered her hands. “Why have you come here? To gloat over me? Your victory is complete.”
“Go to the kitchen,” said Kyra. “Ask Tarshana for some warm water to wash yourself.”
“Why?” A mocking tone entered Akassa’s voice. “Can’t stand to see me like this, can you?” She laughed, a thin, high sound that made Kyra want to shut her ears.
“No Markswoman of mine is going to a ceremony looking like one of Kali’s demons,” said Kyra. “You clean up or you clear out. Choose.”
Akassa’s mouth snapped shut. For a moment, her eyes burned with hope and Kyra caught a glimpse of the proud young woman she’d been.
Then the hope died and Akassa’s head dropped. “I failed my first mark,” she whispered.
“I almost failed mine too,” said Kyra. “Tell me what happened.”
Akassa did not respond. The torchlight danced about her face, not illuminating it so much as throwing it in shadow. Let her take her time. She would speak eventually. Kyra leaned against the wall and counted the seconds. Thank the Goddess for Elena’s new concoction; it had dulled the pain, or she would have collapsed by now. Talk to me, thought Kyra. Trust me.
At last, Akassa stirred. “I couldn’t do it. It didn’t feel right. She begged me to put her out of her misery. Instead, I walked away. The Ashkin elders were shocked.”
“Your first mark was a woman of the Ashkin clan?”
“Yes. In the village of Thuskjal, just beyond the hills of Gonur. The woman had been convicted of suffocating her own baby. She confessed as much to the village council. She said she didn’t know what came over her. The baby was only three months old.” Akassa began to cry—dry, hacking sobs that brought no relief.
Kyra leaned the torch against the wall and knelt beside her. She clasped Akassa’s shoulders. “Listen to me. If it didn’t feel right, then maybe it wasn’t right. What was it that stopped you? Doubt of her guilt?”
“Oh, she killed the baby all right,” said Akassa. “But it was a madness that possessed her and then passed. She was full of remorse and grief. She wanted to die. Perhaps that is why I could not bring myself to do it.” She wiped her face with a sleeve. “I thought Tamsyn would stab me.”
Kyra could well imagine Tamsyn’s reaction to Akassa’s failure. “What became of the woman?” she asked.
“Tamsyn sent Selene to execute her.” The bitterness in Akassa’s voice was palpable. “All that I accomplished was to prolong the woman’s miserable life by one day.”
Kyra exhaled.
She did not disagree with Akassa that something felt wrong about this mark. There had to be another way for people like that, people who were sick of mind and didn’t know what they were doing. It was a dilemma; the Orders were bound to execute those who took an innocent life, but maybe there were some cases where execution was not the right answer. Perhaps Navroz could even have healed this woman. She would have to talk to Eldest about it.
The gong boomed, a distant reminder that somewhere below them, classes were in progress.
“It’s Felda’s class,” said Kyra, making her voice brisk, “and you know how she hates it when students are late. You don’t want to be doing derivations during mealtime, do you? Hurry and get cleaned up. Your penance is over.”
Akassa’s face became ashen. “No, please. I can’t face them. Elena’s the only one who hasn’t treated me like an outcast.”
“If I can face them, then so can you,” said Kyra. “If anyone says anything, tell them you’ve been ordered back to your classes by the Mahimata of Kali.”
“It’s true then,” said Akassa in wonder. “You will have the ceremony tonight.”
“Yes,” said Kyra. There is always a choice, Elena had said. But there wasn’t, not for this. “Will you attend?”
“By my blade I will.” Akassa paused and said softly, “Mother.”
Chapter 5
Igiziyar
Water. No mirage this time. The stone walls of the communal well gleamed in the sun where someone had spilled water from a bucket. Rustan slid off Basil’s back, his head pounding. He staggered toward the well and pushed his way to the head of the line.
“Hey,” shouted someone. “Wait your turn like everyone else.”
Rustan hauled up the bucket and took a few swallows before someone snatched it from his hands. He wiped his mouth and straightened up, holding the metal arch of the well for support. He had drunk enough—not too much, not too fast. At least he wasn’t going to black out now.
A burly man stood scowling beside him, fists balled up. “Who do you think you are, pushing me like that?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Rustan, his voice hoarse. “It has been several days since I drank real water. My caravan was attacked by bandits and I lost my goods.” He hated the lie and the necessity of it. But he wouldn’t use the Mental Arts, not unless he had no other choice.
The man relaxed his stance. “That’s terrible luck. I’m a trader myself and if I lost my goods—well, no point going back home empty-handed, is there?”
“No,” agreed Rustan. “Which is why I may stay here for a bit. I still have some coin. Can you direct me to a decent guesthouse?”
“You can stay at the Khan Kerawan in eastern Igiziyar,” said the man. “You can’t miss it; it’s the biggest building in town. Eighty rooms, but I reckon they might be full seeing as how we’ve been flooded with refugees. And it’s market week.”
“Refugees?” Rustan frowned.
“They’re pouring out of the Thar Desert like flies. Some took the Jhelmil door before it was overrun by outlaws, but I think others have crossed the mountains on foot to get to safety.” He shook his head. “Those poor people. I’ve heard terrible stories. A devil-king is loose in the Thar, killing men, women, even children. What are the Orders doing, I’d like to know.”
Rustan’s stomach clenched. Just a few days’ travel from Khur and already the looming war seemed closer, much more real than it had in the Maji-khan’s tent.
“You’ll see some of them at the Khan Kerawan,” the man continued. “I think Nursat, the proprietor, has opened his doors to them, no questions asked.”
“That’s very kind of him,” said Rustan. “How much does he normally charge, do you know?”
“Just one silver sitari and six bronze hikkis a day. That includes two meals, a pallet to sleep on, plus water and shelter for your animals,” said the man. “Best deal in Igiziyar, although kumiss, candles, and fodder are extra. So is washing.”
Rustan bowed. “Thank you, my friend. I wish you good trading.”
He returned to his camel, managing to stay upright. No one gave him a second look. Good. A Marksman without his katari was no Marksman at all. A spasm of pain racked his chest at the thought of his blade; he leaned his head against Basil until it passed.
The Khan Kerawan was a sprawling, two-story affair wrapped around an open courtyard that was packed with people and animals: camels, goats, horses, sheep. Traders laughed, shouted, talked, and argued. A woman drew water from a well in the middle of the courtyard. In one corner, beneath a large and colorful awning, food was being served. The spicy aroma made Rustan’s mouth water. A line of people waited their turn, carrying plates and bowls of all shapes and sizes. Some of them certainly looked the part of refugees: thin and travel-worn and weary-eyed. A few had bundles on their backs; others clutched the hands of little children as if they would never let go.
A small, scruffy boy lounged near the gate; he took Basil in hand, grinning when Rustan tossed him a bronze coin. Another boy ran up to escort him inside.
Rustan followed his guide across the noisy and crowded courtyard to a small room at the other end. A tall, dark-skinned man in a white robe rose from behind a desk piled with heaps of ink-scrawled papers and bowed in greeting.
“Welcome to Khan Kerawan. I am Nursat. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like room and board for two nights, please,” said Rustan. He placed three silver coins on the pro
prietor’s desk.
Nursat stroked his beard. “Unfortunately, all our rooms are taken this week. You may have heard of the refugees from the Thar Desert. Some of them are five to a room meant for two. Some are sleeping in the open or in animal stalls.”
“Please,” said Rustan, unable to keep the exhaustion from his voice. “I have traveled for many days without food or fresh water. Two nights of rest, and I will be on my way.”
“And what way is that?” asked Nursat. “It’s dangerous traveling on your own in these times. Perhaps I can find you some company.”
“I don’t need company,” said Rustan, reluctantly lacing his voice with a hint of the Inner Speech. “I just need a room.” He didn’t want to use the Inner Speech any more than necessary, but it wouldn’t do to have people getting curious about him.
Nursat’s eyes glazed. “Yes, of course. I do keep one or two rooms empty for emergencies. Follow me.”
He led Rustan through a door behind his desk and up a flight of rickety stairs to the second floor. A gallery lined with doors ran the length of the building on all four sides. Nursat unlocked one of these, ushered Rustan into a tiny room, and told him to come down for a meal when he had rested and washed. Rustan thanked him and bolted the door after Nursat departed.
Turning slowly, he took stock of the room. It was more than adequate for his needs; there was a bunk, a washbasin, even a window that looked out onto the gallery and let in some light.
He drank from a pitcher, long and deep, before collapsing on the bunk. The sun still burned behind his eyelids, as if he had never left the desert. As if the desert was in him. It was an odd sensation, like being displaced in space and time. As if he were not really there at all.
At last he slept, dreaming he’d left his katari in the desert. He stumbled up and down shifting sand dunes, pausing now and then to dig frantically with his hands, but he could not find it. Once something glinted in the sun, and he ran toward it with renewed hope and energy. He dropped to his knees and dug with desperation, but it was not his blade he found—it was a skull. A human skull, bleached in the sun. Smooth and familiar to the touch, it belonged to someone he knew.
Rustan jerked awake, heart racing. It took several minutes for the vision to dissipate. He rose from the bunk and rubbed his eyes. Hours had passed, and it was dusk. He felt dirty and disoriented. His limbs ached, and the image of the skull lingered at the back of his mind. Whose had it been? Not Kyra’s. His own, perhaps. Dying in the Empty Place would be an easy way to go. The coward’s way.
He washed the worst of the sand from his hair and face and changed into a clean brown robe—an unmarked robe, without the symbol of Khur, as befit his state of exile. He hung his mother’s scabbard around his neck, concealed beneath the robe, and went down for a meal.
The Khan Kerawan was even more crowded at night than it had been during the day. Perhaps it appeared that way because almost everyone had moved indoors; the evening meal was being served in a long room just off the courtyard. A small fire blazed in one corner, and several little tables had been drawn close to it. At one table, a group of men were playing dice. At another, two oldsters frowned over a battered chessboard. Outside, a group of people gathered around a larger fire.
A servingman showed Rustan to a table in a far corner where a couple had just finished their meal and gave it a halfhearted swipe with a bit of rag.
“You’re in luck,” said a familiar voice behind him. “It’s mutton tonight.”
Rustan turned to see his host, Nursat. “I don’t eat meat,” he said, smiling.
Nursat’s eyebrows shot up. “Kumiss?” he asked.
“No thanks,” said Rustan. He nodded to the servingman. “Tea will be fine.”
The servingman left and Nursat wandered away to speak with a group of merchants. But Rustan could sense the sharpness of the man’s curiosity, and it made him uneasy. So what if he didn’t want meat or spirits? It didn’t mean he belonged to an Order of Peace.
Then the servingman brought him a plate of food, and he forgot all about his unease. There was a vegetable stew from which the meat clearly had been removed just for him, and thick pieces of bread with goat cheese and onions. He ate with relish, dipping the bread in the stew, enjoying the flavor and feel of real food in his mouth.
A day of rest, and he would continue south to the mountains. Tomorrow he would visit the market and provision himself. He would also have to arrange for Basil to be cared for by a local herder; his camel could not follow where he was going.
“Your tea.” Nursat’s voice interrupted his thoughts. He grinned and held out a pot. “I like to serve my special cardamom tea to special guests. And something tells me you are not an ordinary traveler.” He poured a cup out for Rustan. “Are you going to Kunlun Shan?”
Rustan almost dropped his cup. He fixed Nursat with a piercing stare. He wasn’t as strong in the Mental Arts as some of the other Marksmen; without his own blade, his powers were even weaker. But he could make the man talk, if he chose.
Nursat dropped his eyes, visibly unnerved by the pressure of Rustan’s gaze, and backed away, nearly colliding with a serving-woman behind him.
Rustan resumed his meal, but his appetite was gone. How had his host guessed his true destination? He would have to find out before he left Igiziyar.
* * *
The next morning, Rustan went in search of a camel herder to look after Basil for the next few months. He found a tall, white-turbaned man who looked competent enough, and parted with twenty silver sitaris—almost enough to buy a new camel in these parts. The man’s eyes widened as he counted the coins, but he asked no questions. Rustan gave Basil’s neck an affectionate pat, and then the man bowed and led his camel away. Rustan watched them go, tightness in his chest. I will come back for you, he thought to Basil. I promise.
He wandered through the maze of alleyways in the heart of Igiziyar, glad of the anonymity afforded by the noise and bustle. The town was a hive of activity, lying as it did within sight of the Kunlun Shan Range, along the southern trade route between the lands east and west of the desert. Rustan had taken care to conceal his mother’s katari and veil the lower part of his face, but he doubted whether in the hubbub anyone would have noticed even an unsheathed blade.
At last he arrived at the market on the outer edge of town, where camel caravans stretched as far as the eye could see. White-robed traders hurried to and fro, arguing with their drivers, and bargaining with locals for fodder and water rights. Hundreds of men and women clad in all the colors of the rainbow sat beneath a vast canopy, their wares displayed in front of them. Everything imaginable was being sold, from goats and donkeys to spices and sandalwood.
The sellers were a diverse lot: fresh-faced young girls with fragrant bunches of dried herbs, scowling grandmothers with strips of worked leather, bare-chested men polishing knives that glinted in the sun, and old men squatting beside open sacks of grain. Merchants from the east displayed red and green bolts of silk, and traders from beyond the Kunlun Shan Range sat behind clumps of scoured yellow wool. The sellers cracked jokes with their customers and argued over rates, chasing away little boys trying to make off with a sweet bun or a hot kebab. Rustan bought dates, dried cheese, nuts, and raisins, and stuffed them into his knapsack. He bought naans too, unable to resist the aroma of the freshly baked flatbread. Satisfied with his purchases, he returned to the guesthouse to rest. At dawn he would leave Igiziyar and continue his journey to the mountains.
At dinner that night a brawl broke out in the Khan Kerawan.
A beefy man who had drunk far too much kumiss began to rant at one of the Thar refugees who had ventured inside to get food for the rest of her family. “Go back to where you came from!” he shouted. “We don’t want your kind here.” He kicked over a couple of tables for emphasis, scattering the diners.
Rustan’s hands itched to grab the bigot by the neck and plunge his red, puffy face into a bucket of cold water. But Nursat turned out to be surprisingly go
od at this sort of thing himself. He made short work of the beefy man, tossing him out of the room with an injunction never to darken his door again. A couple of Nursat’s friends followed to make sure the man left the premises and did not bother the refugees huddled around the fire in the courtyard.
“You have powerful muscles,” said Rustan, as Nursat passed his table.
Nursat smiled. “I’ve been throwing out drunks for the last thirty years. It’s fine exercise.”
“Thirty years?” said Rustan in surprise. “I wouldn’t have thought you were much over forty yourself.”
“Forty-five,” said Nursat. “The guesthouse belonged to my father before me, and I’ve worked here since I was a boy.” He looked over to where the servingmen and -women were setting the tables to rights and the diners were drifting back to their chairs.
“You must have seen a lot of people pass through on their way to Kunlun Shan,” said Rustan.
Nursat narrowed his eyes. “I had better get back to work,” he said, and started to move away, remembering, perhaps, how Rustan had reacted to his first mention of the mountain range.
“Why don’t you sit down with me for a minute and share my tea?” said Rustan, a touch of the Inner Speech in his voice. “Do you good to rest a bit before getting back to work.”
Nursat obeyed, looking a little surprised at himself.
Rustan beckoned a servingwoman and obtained a clean cup for Nursat. “Tell me about the people who go to Kunlun Shan,” he said, pouring out the tea.
Nursat accepted the cup and took a sip. “Not much to tell,” he said. “There used to be at least two or three a year, when I was a boy. Then they became fewer and fewer. It is now over twenty years since I have seen a seeker pass through Igiziyar.”
“A seeker?” Rustan frowned.
“Everyone who journeys to the mountains is searching for something,” said Nursat. “My granduncle went to Kunlun Shan, looking for the secret way up the mountains to the Sahirus. He never came back. He must have died, like the rest of them. Villagers find bodies on the slopes sometimes, frozen stiff as boards, or washed down with the summer melt into the valley of the Green Jade River. Sometimes the bodies are mutilated or missing limbs. We don’t know why.”
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