The Devil's Armour (Gollancz S.F.) (64 page)

‘Come,’ he said, then led the three of them down the street, Lorn in the lead, Garthel and blind Bezarak close behind.

The shrana house was very near. Not very different from the buildings around it, the place had an arched doorway but no door, only a heavy curtain of beads. The smell of sweet smoke lingered on the threshold, while bearded men sat at tables just outside under the shade of an eave, tossing dice and playing cards. The stranger went to the curtains and parted them, bidding Lorn and his companions to enter. It was dark within the shrana house. Lorn’s eyes struggled to adjust. He could see other dark-skinned men about the place, some at tables, many others sitting on woven blankets across the floor. Gold oil lamps lit the chamber with feeble flames. Strange but pleasant music rose from the flutelike instrument of a man in the corner. There were no women in the shrana house; even the servants were male. And all of them wore clothes like their guide. Lorn could not spot a northerner among them.

‘Are we allowed in here?’ he asked.

‘You are welcome in this place,’ the man replied.

‘But it’s so crowded,’ Lorn remarked. ‘How can we talk privately here?’

‘Do not worry,’ said the man, then directed them toward
one of the empty tables at the far end of the tavern. Stubby legs held the table only inches off the floor. There were no chairs around it, only small square pillows. ‘Sit,’ the man directed, then watched as Lorn and the others took places around the table. It took a moment for Garthel to lower his stiff body, though Bezarak sat with remarkable ease. When Lorn had taken a place he looked up at the stranger.

‘All right, now can we talk?’

‘Soon,’ said the man. ‘I will have the servers bring you drink.’

‘We’re not thirsty,’ said Lorn angrily, but it was too late. Already the man had exited into the crowd. Lorn looked around suspiciously. ‘Be wary,’ he told the others. ‘Coming here might have been a mistake.’

Garthel and young Bezarak both nodded, but could really do nothing to protect themselves. If it were a trap, it had already been sprung. A moment later a man appeared and set tiny white cups down on their table, along with a steaming urn of inky liquid. Seeing they were foreigners, the server smiled and tried to explain things.

‘Shrana,’ he said.

Garthel pointed at the urn. ‘Shrana? This?’

The servant nodded, then began to pour each of them some of the pungent drink.

‘Beer?’ Lorn asked the man hopefully.

But the servant shook his head. ‘Shrana.’

Lorn sighed and picked up his cup. ‘Shrana.’ He took a sip of the hot drink and was shocked by its peppery taste. ‘Fate alive, that’s foul,’ he gasped. ‘Don’t drink it.’

But Bezarak was already drinking, and seemingly enjoying it. ‘Hot,’ he commented. ‘But good!’

‘Good?’ Lorn pushed his cup toward the young man. ‘Then have mine.’

They sat like that for a long while, drinking or just taking in the sights of the shrana house. To Lorn’s relief, none of the other patrons had taken great interest in them. Most simply went about relaxing, drinking shrana or smoking
tobacco out of water pipes. Finally, the man who had led them here reappeared. This time, though, he was not alone. Another man of Ganjor accompanied him to their table, this one oddly dressed in a combination of desert clothes and northern garb. He was dark-skinned and dark-eyed, and not at all young, but there was virtue in his face that put Lorn at ease.

‘These are the men, Kamag,’ said the man whom they’d first met. ‘The Seekers.’

Kamag – if that was his name – sat down at the table between Lorn and Garthel. The other man sat, too. As they made themselves comfortable, the one in northern dress snapped his fingers in the air, instantly summoning back the servant. After some quick words in Ganjeese the servant brought two more cups. Kamag shooed him away before he could pour, doing the honour himself.

‘You do not like our shrana,’ he said to Lorn, grinning.

‘If I were a maggot, perhaps I could drink it,’ said Lorn impatiently.

‘That is a shame. I own this place, you see.’ Kamag took a sip from his cup, sighed as if it were the most delicious stuff in the world, then looked at Lorn seriously. ‘My name is Kamag,’ he said flatly. ‘This man is named Dahj. You are?’

‘In a very ill mood,’ said Lorn.

‘And confused,’ Garthel added. ‘Why have you brought us here?’

‘As Dahj said, to help you,’ said Kamag. ‘You are looking for Mount Believer. That makes you trouble to some. We want to protect you.’

Lorn’s patience was all but depleted. ‘Protect us from what?’

‘From a man named Prince Aztar. Have you heard of him?’

Lorn shook his head.

‘Believe me, if you cross the desert now you will.’ Kamag leaned in closer, keeping his tone measured. ‘Prince Aztar is the ruler of the desert. At least that’s what he claims. And he
cares very little for northerners like you. If he finds you trying to reach Jador, he will kill you.’

‘We’re not afraid,’ said Lorn. ‘We’ve already faced worse than this dog Aztar.’

‘I doubt that, my friend,’ said Kamag. ‘If we thought you were enough to best Aztar, we would let you try. Aztar has an army, ever growing. And you have . . . what?’ He looked at Dahj.

‘There are thirty of them, maybe less,’ Dahj replied.

‘Thirty.’ There was mockery in Kamag’s voice. ‘Not enough to best an army, I don’t think.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Lorn protested. ‘You’re Ganjeese – why are you telling this to us?’

‘Yes, we’re Ganjeese,’ said Dahj. ‘But Aztar is not. He is Voruni.’

‘I don’t know what that means,’ said Lorn.

‘The Voruni are tribesmen of the desert,’ explained Kamag. ‘They live in the desert, make their home there. They are not part of our city. And they hate northerners, and people like me who do not hate northerners.’

‘Ah,’ said Lorn, understanding at last. ‘They think you are traitors.’

Kamag nodded. ‘To them we are infidels, no better than you. Because we do business with the northern lands, because we count your people among our friends, we are all in danger from Aztar and his army.’

‘I still don’t understand,’ said Bezarak. ‘Why are you helping us? You don’t even know us.’

‘Because we have been asked to help you,’ said Kamag. He leaned back. ‘And that is all you need to know.’

‘You are mistaken,’ said Lorn. ‘We want some answers.’

‘I cannot tell you more than I have already,’ Kamag insisted. ‘We can only warn you and offer you shelter until you are ready to head back north.’

Bezarak’s brows shot up. ‘Head back? We’re not heading back north. We’re going to Mount Believer. Right, Lorn?’

Lorn remained steely as he looked at Kamag. ‘That’s
right.’ Neither Ganjeese man seemed to notice the use of his name, and Lorn no longer really cared. ‘We’ve come too far to turn back now. We’re going on, just as soon as we’ve rested.’

‘You have not heard me,’ said Kamag, his ire rising. ‘You cannot cross the Desert of Tears. Aztar and his men will kill you before you ever reach Jador.’

‘Who are you protecting really?’ asked Lorn. ‘Who really wants to keep us here?’

Kamag was tight-lipped. ‘That does not matter.’

‘Yet you expect us to trust you.’

‘For your own good, yes.’ The owner of the shrana house looked around, then lowered his voice. ‘There is another, someone you must never know, someone who wants to protect you.’

‘To protect all the Seekers,’ Dahj clarified. ‘But we cannot tell you who this person is. To do so would jeopardise her.’

‘A woman?’ Lorn nodded, impressed. ‘This mysterious benefactor – you work for her?’

‘Not directly, no,’ said Kamag. ‘We work together to keep the Seekers safe, so they are not slaughtered by Aztar, and so Aztar’s ideas do not take hold in our city. We are not all alike, we Ganjeese. We are not all like Aztar.’

Dahj added quickly, ‘Aztar is a dangerous man, and if he gains importance here our way of life will end. All of us – me, Kamag, and the woman – do not wish such change here, or to see people like you suffer at his hand.’ He looked at each of the northerners, his eyes imploring. ‘Friends, you must not cross the desert. To do so – especially now – would be your doom.’

‘At least wait before trying,’ urged Kamag. ‘Now is an extremely unsafe time.’

‘Why?’ asked Garthel.

Kamag thought before answering, and Lorn could tell he was hiding something. ‘Because Aztar’s presence in the area is strong now. He has been in Ganjor recently. He still has
men here. If you do not keep out of sight, you may be in peril.’

The news further confused Lorn. For a reason he could not explain, he trusted the two strangers. There was sincerity in their faces. Garthel looked at him, wondering what they should do. Bezarak sat silently with a frown on his face.

‘We cannot wait more than a day,’ said Lorn at last. ‘We must get to Mount Believer. Too much depends on it. But we will think on what you have told us.’

Kamag’s disapproval was obvious. ‘That is a mistake,’ he warned. ‘Please, reconsider. Here you are safe, but if you attempt to cross the desert—’

‘I have heard you,’ Lorn interrupted. ‘As I said, I will consider what you’ve told us.’

The innkeeper sighed. ‘You are a very stubborn man, Liirian.’

‘I’m not Liirian,’ said Lorn suddenly. ‘I’m a Norvan, and Norvans do not frighten easily. Should this Aztar try and harm us, he will find that out for himself.’

‘He will skin you alive while you beg for your life,’ countered Kamag, ‘but if that is your insistence I cannot stop you. Have at least a care, though. There are rooms for you here. You and your companions will be safe here until you leave.’

Garthel looked questioningly at Lorn. ‘Should we?’

The difficult decision sat heavy on Lorn. Did he trust these strangers, or believe their story of a mysterious patron? Not completely, he realised, but he knew his people were bone-tired, and if there was another place in Ganjor offering them rooms he didn’t know of it.

‘All right,’ he concluded. ‘We’ll stay, but only for a night or two. And in the morning I want more answers, Kamag. If I don’t get them, we’re leaving.’

‘If you do, it will be your conscience that is tainted, not mine,’ said Kamag. ‘As for answers, I have told you all that I can.’

Lorn got up from the floor. ‘Then perhaps you have things to think over as well.’ He dug into his pocket and pulled out some of the coins he’d taken from Duke Erlik. ‘Here,’ he said, tossing them on the table. ‘We’ll pay our own way tonight. You have room for so many of us?’

‘Yes, but you’ll have to share,’ said Kamag. He took the coins, giving half to Dahj. ‘Bring your people, and whatever animals and supplies you have. They are not safe on the street.’

Kamag was good to his word. By the time Lorn and the Believers returned to the shrana house, the dark man had rooms arranged for them all. They were not luxurious chambers, but they were clean and comfortable, and the travellers appreciated them. After many days sleeping under the sky, the beds and sheets were greeted like long-lost family. There were four rooms, all of about the same size, and these were divided equally among the group, without much thought to separating the men from the women. That was a concern that had vanished a long time ago. The only worry now was that each of them had room enough to sleep and food enough to fill their stomachs. Luckily, there was an abundance of fresh food and good drink, and Lorn and his people ate until their bellies threatened to burst. And while they ate, they talked about Kamag and Dahj and the good fortune of encountering them, though none of them still knew for certain why they risked themselves so much to help others.

By nightfall, though, it no longer seemed to matter. They were pleased to be safe and sheltered, at least for a while, and only Lorn continued wondering about their predicament. He had not been honest with his comrades – he was afraid of this prince called Aztar. Not for himself, because he knew he was a survivor, but for Poppy and Eiriann and all the others. He had led this far, and he was proud of that, but was he leading them to doom now?

As he lay awake on a cot in a room he shared with six
others, Lorn pondered the dark possibilities. Of all of them, only he could really fight, and if they did encounter Aztar’s army they would have no chance at all. But what if Aztar was a myth, a concoction meant to keep them here? Such a theory made no real sense, but then none of it made sense to him. Lorn fretted, unable to sleep.

Finally, long after midnight, he gave up tossing and turning and decided to go for a walk. The night air would do him good and clear his head, so he rose from his bed and as quietly as possible left the chamber without waking any of his roommates. Unsure of the time, he got clues from the silence in the shrana house and guessed it was very late indeed – or very early. The stone steps leading upstairs were empty, and from the landing looking down he could see or hear no one. Supposing it was all right to go downstairs, he descended the old steps and found himself once again in the tavern. This time, though, the place was deserted, and no one came through the beaded curtain. Even the fire in the round hearth had been extinguished, the only light coming from two gold lamps over a far table. Surprisingly, there were figures at that table, sitting on the floor as Lorn had done hours before over cups of shrana.