Shattered Pillars (19 page)

“If the Khagan’s rule can be said to metaphysically shelter the Qersnyk lands…” Ashra winced. “Well, that’s in disarray. Has there been trouble in your royal family?”

The silence that greeted her—and Anil-la’s frustrated scowl—must have been answer enough, because she hastened to change the subject. “Have you considered killing the spawn when the infection is new?”

“More than considered it.” Hong-la came to her, his spine curling like a fern as he brought his face closer to her level. “But the patients died of gangrene and poisoned blood, from the creatures rotting inside them. We have a simple that can help—a mold—but it’s better packed in wounds than consumed, and even having the patients inhale the spores was insufficient.”

Ashra’s jaw worked. Tsering has no wizardly powers, but she had enough common empathy that she could almost taste the vileness spilling across the back of her tongue.

“There’s an Aezin brew,” Ashra said, “a kind of millet beer—you know beer?—that is good against some fevers, though not all. But wound-fever and childbed-fever, these it can cure, if given in a timely manner and in sufficient quantity. Would you agree that the fever of a rot in the lungs is likely to be of a similar origin to wound-fever?”

Tsering saw Hong-la’s head bob before she realized her own chin was nodding as well. Something filled her up—a startled ache inside her ribs, a peculiar lightheadedness as if from hunger. It was long seconds before she realized that what she felt was elation. It was
hope,
a sensation gone unfamiliar with disuse.

“If given to children, it stains the teeth.” Ashra smiled self-consciously, revealing those odd bands of brown and yellow once again.

“Something like that,” said Hong-la, “it would require a mother, wouldn’t it? A culture from which to brew?”

Ashra reached into the keyhole collar of her tunic and hooked a thong, silk-soft by the way it folded. By contrast, the leather pouch she drew up was stiff and stained, an age-glossy, worn-shiny, unlovely thing. “I carried a mother from my father’s house when I was given in marriage,” she said. “But there was no brewing in the harem, and long before I was stolen from my first husband by Qersnyk tribesmen, it had died. My second husband traded this for me in Song; it can be had in certain markets along the Celadon Highway if you know what you are asking for and how to name it. We will need a brewery, of course—”

“And time,” Tsering-la said, feeling the inevitability of it like a lead blade in her chest.

Ashra’s forced smile flickered into something sadder and more honest. “It will take more than fourteen days.”

*   *   *

While Hong-la went to speak to Yongten-la about requisitioning a brewery and making arrangements with the palace for the refugees to stay, Tsering took Ashra to seek housing and a meal. They both ignored the reality that soon—too soon—she would be joining the patients in the vast tent wards sprawling below the Citadel.

For now, Tsering brought her to the temporary kitchens servicing the makeshift hospital, where volunteers greasy with exhaustion set bowls of soup and tea before them. The broth was thin, the noodles more salty than flavorful, but at the long tables and on the benches all around, heads were bowed over bowls. Wizards, novices, and volunteers ate not with the reverential contemplation tradition demanded, but with the determination of men stoking coal furnaces on a brutal winter night.

After a few sips of her soup, Ashra turned, pushed her cloud of hair behind her shoulder, and said, “I am looking for my son, who may have come this way.”

Tsering’s hands stilled on her tea bowl as she thought of the brown skin and broad features of the Qersnyk man she and Samarkar-la had rescued from the road near Qeshqer.

“He fought in the battle of Qarash, and so I had feared him dead. We rode out through the battlefield when we fled the city—” Ashra covered her eyes with her hand, as she had not when contemplating her own mutilation and death. “There were so many dead. The refugees of the city—the train wound past the horizon in both directions. Everyone fled, though I have heard that some are returning, that Qori … that the new Khan will rebuild, and reopen trade.”

“We miss the trade,” Tsering admitted. “But then, it seems likely that the lack of caravans is at least slowing the spread of plague.”

Ashra snorted. “‘Even a hard frost helps the hunter.’ As we traveled, in any case, I heard through the gossip of the refugee train that a Qersnyk warrior of Aezin descent had been seen with the Tsareg. I rode up the train to investigate and learned it was true, and that the warrior was my son Temur. And that he had gone on ahead to seek his woman, who had been stolen from him by the blood ghosts.”

Certain now, Tsering said, “He seeks her still.”

“He was here!”

“Here and left. In the company of one of our own, the Wizard Samarkar. And a Cho-tse warrior, and the breeding wife of the emperor’s brother who had been condemned for treason. Which was the reason they fled in such a hurry … that, and Temur believed he had discovered a hint on where to find or perhaps avenge his woman. Edene, he called her.”

“She is Tsareg Altantsetseg’s descendant.” Now Ashra drank her soup with better appetite, her eyes on Tsering’s face. “The Tsareg clan have not held a Khanate in generations, but they have given wives to nearly all of them. There would be rewards, if Edene lives.”

“I cannot tell you that,” Tsering said. “But I can tell you that Temur was alive when he left here, and in strong company, and in good health as well—much better health, in fact, than when he arrived.”

Ashra set her empty bowl aside. “Tell me all.”

10

The twins walked into Qarash out of the dust of a fading summer. They had sent the rukh away while still well out of sight and as they approached they were treated to a lingering review of the war-trammeled steppe.

The bodies of horses and men had not been burned or buried, but only dragged into heaps from which the reek of decomposition still rolled. There were paths to walk on by way of which one was not treading on the dead, though spilled blood blackened the dry earth between stems of green-gold straw. Insects and scavengers had done such work as they were able, as had the slow deliquescence of putrefaction, so the white bones showed through hide like swags of bronze-black leather, but even so it might be years beneath the Eternal Sky before the clean bones were bleached and scattered.

The twins promised themselves: for the Nameless, for the world—though it was a cleansing to be much desired, the Eternal Sky would not endure long enough to see the wind blow sweet across this steppe again. That would happen beneath a Rahazeen sun, with more men piled among these bones until it was made so.

A half day’s march brought them to the former outskirts of the Qersnyk trade capital, and the company of others—travelers, herdsmen, men and women raking up the ashes of white-houses once sacked and burned and raising the felt walls of new white-houses on the earth already scraped for floors. The white-houses clustered around the breached walls of Qarash, and some enterprising subjects of the would-be Khagan had prised broken stones from the mud matrix of those and carried them off for shelters and fireplaces. Wagonloads of new stones stood here and there, guarded by Qersnyk warriors whose helms were surmounted by the three-tiered horsehair falls that were the crest of Qori Buqa. Stonemasons who obviously came from far east and west of the Qersnyk lands were raising scaffoldings at the gaps. Piles of burned timbers and other scrap scattered the countryside.

The twins entered the city before the improvised gates were closed for nightfall. The wrong-colored sun setting in the west never ceased to be unsettling, but the twins turned their back on it and joined the crowds of people moving through the comfortable avenues of the Khagan’s city.

Coming through the westernmost gate, they saw stone houses under repair or demolition, turf and slate roofs replacing tents stretched against the weather. Reconstruction was clearly piecemeal, but it was also clearly well under way. Qori Buqa was consolidating his position.

Other than the stonemasons, there were few foreigners; the twins drew some attention. As darkness fell and the lantern bearers came out to stand on street corners, crying their escort services, Saadet and Shahruz chose to melt into the darkness, leaving the bustle of more traveled thoroughfares behind.

They came up on the palace by the postern gate—though they had no intention of using it—and streets less populated. Though fire-scarred, these walls were more intact—and just as heavily patrolled and guarded as those surrounding the city proper.

It was acceptable. There were shadowy corners, and Shahruz knew how to set a rope and climb, though the twins were still coming to terms with Saadet’s untrained and womanish muscles. Many physical accomplishments were easier with a man’s strength behind them, but what Saadet lacked in power the twins made up for in determination. And at least this body was lighter than that of Shahruz had been.

The wall was surmounted despite the physical strain, the patrols circumvented with ease. It could have been a challenge—perhaps, once, years ago, it would have been. Now, while it was an occasion for mindfulness and care, the twins achieved Qori Buqa Khan’s chamber without misadventure. There was no ledge outside the narrow window. Shahruz tried to hide his exasperation behind chivalry as he crouched on the roof and placed knots along their silken climbing rope for Saadet, but Saadet knew him too well to be fooled. When the twins lowered themselves before the window, they could glimpse the shoulders of two Qersnyk tribesmen standing stolidly within, the visible right hand of one clutching a bannered spear. The more secure manner in which to guard would have been by facing out.

“Excuse me,” said Shahruz in the Qersnyk tongue. “I am here to speak to the Khagan.”

They turned reflexively, well-enough practiced that they did not foul one another when they thrust with their spears. The twins twisted on the rope, one foot to the wall, and grasped one spear below the horsetail tassel. A straight yank would have pulled the guard into the window frame, though probably not through it, as the aperture was narrow. But the twins gave it a twist instead, slamming the guard’s hand against the wall. With a cry, he released the spear haft.

The twins choked up and reversed it, holding the other guard at bay with the point.

“I’m carrying a pair of pistols,” Shahruz said, companionably. “If I’d wanted to kill you, I’d have just shot you. Now. The Khagan is expecting me. Please be so kind as to tell him I’ve arrived.”

“Step inside,” said the guard who was still armed, while the other stood dumbfounded. “Hand over your weapons. Have a seat. I’m sure we can come to some sort of an arrangement.”

*   *   *

Re Qori Buqa was a broad man, stocky, fair-skinned for a Qersnyk, with a drooping moustache, drooping eyes, and leathery, acne-scarred cheeks that bespoke an entirely predictable life in the wind and sun and winter. He arrived with reasonable haste—his arrogance was not the sort that demanded he act with rudeness—and as the twins rose in respect, the Khan cleared the guards from his chamber. A servant beside him brought
airag
—fermented mare’s milk—in a pitcher and fragile-seeming cups from Song. She set the tray on the floor on its folding legs and was then also directed out the door.

“Sit,” the Khan said unceremoniously. “Drink. Tell me who you come from.”

“Al-Sepehr sent me,” the twins answered, pleased that, whatever else, Qori Buqa would not give away that information to one who did not already know it. They seated themselves again on a threadbare pillow, pushing the empty sheath at their belt aside. These might be the Khan’s chambers, but the stone floors were bare other than a few carpets and cushions, the hangings on the bed smoke-stained. If this was the best of the salvaged furnishings, the sack of Qarash had been complete.

The Khan seated himself. He poured thick, sour-scented fluid into the cups and passed one to the twins. Saadet loosened her veil to slide the cup beneath it, so she could drink without revealing her features. The beverage was pungent, sour-silky, and refreshing.

The Khan watched the twins in amusement. The twins were unmoved by his regard. “So. The Rahazeen train girls as assassins now?”

“We serve the Scholar-God in whatever manner our gifts permit.”

The corners of his moustache lifted. “Your hands are very clean.”

The twins glanced down at their untattooed hands. “As you have so astutely noted, I am a woman.”

“But maybe not a girl like
other
Uthman girls?” His eyebrows arched. It might have been a leer. It might as well have been teasing. Qersnyk girls ran wild, rode ponies like hoydens, whored as they pleased until they married. These barbarians thought a big belly on a bride to be was a point of pride to groom and girl alike.

When the twins did not respond, Qori Buqa shrugged and asked, “All right, Rahazeen warrior. What news do you bring me from my honored ally?”

“Our agent in Tsarepheth continues to work to weaken the Rasan empire, setting brother against brother.” The twins folded their hands together. Saadet felt the sting of the pistol against her palm as if she had just fired into Prince Songtsan’s head. What she said was not precisely a lie: that the empress thought she worked for the benefit of herself and her husband did not change the eventual outcome of her choices. “When you have dispensed with the last rebels against your rightful authority, Khagan, Rasa will be yours to conquer—a rightful vengeance for the massacre at Qeshqer. Their empire will flounder in political chaos. Your hand will hold the reins of lands even the Great Khagan could not master.”

He knew it was flattery. His level look told her so. But she also saw the flicker of his mouth as he smoothed away a smile. “That is fine news indeed. And what of the caliphate?”

“Our agents are at work there too. Soon my master’s men will depose Uthman Caliph; soon my master will bring his own army to support yours. And then who can stand before two great empires united, from the oceans beyond Song to the vast erg that bounds Messaline?”