The Huntsman's Amulet (31 page)

Chapter 45

The Desert Kingdoms

K
irek was not what
Soren had expected. To his mind, Shandahar was a desert filled with oases and nomadic tribes but that couldn’t have been farther from the truth. The city was a mass of white buildings surrounded by a lush, verdant river plain. It was a large port, one of five along the Shandahari coast, each of which sat on the delta of the river that bore the same name as the city. Each river cut through the desert, a blue and green swathe in a sea of yellow sand.

The
Typhon
arrived in the circular harbour of Kirek six days after leaving Point Vermeil and the fight against the
Bayda’s Tear
, just as Varrisher had predicted. The harbour was massive and allowed vessels larger than the
Typhon
to make fast to the octagonal quayside that projected into the centre of the harbour.

The ship dropped its sails before entering the harbour and coasted through the mouth under its own momentum. A pilot boat was waiting with a thick tow cable that was hauled on board. The cable disappeared into a building on the quay.

As they were being towed in, Soren watched small boats make their way in and out of the harbour, powered by triangular sails and helmed by bronze skinned Shandahari.

Flocks of birds swirled about in the hot air, screeching and occasionally diving down to the water to retrieve one of the scraps thrown overboard by the passing boats. As they were drawn ever further into the harbour, the noise level grew. The sounds of sailors and dockworkers filled the air, shouting, laughing, cursing and hauling goods about the place.

Soren had encountered Shandahari before in Ostenheim. Like all the peoples of the Middle Sea, they were a race of maritime traders, famed for their fine, vividly coloured fabrics. Their ships regularly called at Ostenheim and Soren, who had spent much time watching the hustle and bustle of life around the docks in his youth, had always enjoyed experiencing the different cultures and exotic merchandise that passed through.

The hot weather was tempered by a cooling sea breeze creating a pleasant climate that was not nearly so humid and sticky as the Spice Isles. Gone also were the fragrant and exotic smells. Kirek smelt much like any other city that Soren had visited, albeit hotter. Between the colours, the weather and the prospect of being on the right path to finding Alessandra, Soren was in the best mood he had experienced for many weeks.

Once the
Typhon
was secured against the quayside, Varrisher was eager to call on the Khagan as soon as possible. Sancho Rui’s head had been floating in a small cask of vinegar and Varrisher wanted to be rid of it nearly as much as he wanted the money. Soren and Varrisher left the ship and walked toward the city, along the causeway that connected the quay to the mainland, dodging the fast moving carts laden with goods destined for markets in both Kirek and in the other direction, to those that were a sea voyage away.

The city was characterised by white, flat-roofed buildings. Occasionally the monotone aspect was broken by ultramarine blue constructions that glistened in the sun as though their surfaces were wet. The streets were narrow and busy, filled with sounds and colours that fascinated Soren. Varrisher had been in Kirek before and led the way toward the Khagan’s palace, seemingly oblivious to the visual feast on display.

Soren followed him as best he could, as his attention was constantly grabbed by the exotic and intriguing new city. They crossed a nondescript bridge over a river that was wide enough to allow two of the long, narrow boats that plied it to pass one another.

There were many small rivers running through the city, and they were crossed by dozens of the plain little bridges. The water flowed quickly, keeping the rivers free from rubbish and filth and keeping the hot city feeling fresh.

They were heading toward a large blue archway straddling the road, one of the blue buildings Soren had noticed when they first arrived. As they approached he could see that it was covered in glazed tiles of ultramarine blue and was decorated with gold and silver reliefs of fantastic looking animals that Soren had never seen before. It was the first time that he had been in a city that had never been part of the Empire. It was the most unique place Soren had seen.

Distracted, he bumped into a man who swore at him in a language that was entirely alien to Soren’s ears. Soren mumbled an apology but the meaning didn’t carry across the language barrier and the man continued with his angry utterances as he made his way on down the road.

They had to stop at the archway, which was guarded by several men in pale blue robes with enamelled armour and helmets. When they saw Varrisher and Soren approaching, they blocked the way and presented their spears.

Their challenge was completely unintelligible to Soren, but he could get the general idea from the context of the situation: ‘Who are you, what do you want, piss off’. Varrisher seemed to get by in Shandahari and remonstrated with them for a few moments, gesturing frequently to the small barrel he held by an attached loop of hempen rope. He moved to open the barrel, which was enough to persuade the guards to let them through.

As they passed under the archway, Soren could see why there were no visible gates attached to it. They would have ruined the aesthetic appeal of the arch and were more than adequately replaced by the enormous metal portcullis that was hidden above them in the centre of the vaulted roof.

The arch led into a large walled compound that was filled with an ornamental garden. Despite Soren’s previous conception of Shandahar being an arid land of deserts, the palace didn’t give any hint that they might be short of water. The courtyard was dominated by two large fountains on either side that created several cascades and waterfalls that disappeared into metal covered drains in the ground. The courtyard was filled with trees and bushes and the sound of the flow of water and the shade of the lush vegetation created a peaceful enclave.

They walked through the garden toward the front of the palace where another guard was waiting. He demanded what Soren assumed was yet another explanation. Varrisher rattled off a few sentences of Shandahari interspersed with gestures to the barrel, which seemed to satisfy the guard. He led them up a flight of white stone steps and into the palace itself.

Professional curiosity drew Soren’s eye to the guard’s weapons and armour as they followed him. Like the men at the gate, he wore robes of pale blue material that had a smooth sheen when the light caught it a certain way. The guard also wore armour made of black enamelled plates that only covered the vital parts of the body, and the forearms and shoulders. Unlike the armour that the men at the arch had worn however, this man’s armour was finely decorated in a neat pattern of muted golden swirls and floral curves. Such decoration would not come cheap, so Soren presumed this man was an officer or a member of a more elite group of warriors. The sword at his waist was slender and had a slight curve, not unlike the Ruripathian sabre.

The Khagan’s throne room was more like a balcony than a room. It was long with a roof but no walls along its sides, merely a stone rail interrupted at regular intervals by stone pillars that supported the roof. Soren peered out at the fine view it gave of the city. The design allowed a breeze to pass through which kept it cool. There were a number of people there, most of whom were clustered at the far end around a dais that contained only one chair, on which a man sat.

The guard gestured for them to wait and went forward to speak with someone in the group at the far end of the room. After a moment he brought the man he had been speaking to back with him.

‘You are Imperials?’ the other man asked, in accentless Imperial that Soren had no difficulty in understanding.

‘Well, yes I suppose so,’ Soren said.

‘I appreciate that the Empire has not existed for a very long time,’ the man said, ‘but in Shandahar we tend to refer to all those from the north as Imperials. No offence is intended and the reference is purely based on your common language.’

‘None taken,’ Soren said, trying to remember the basics of the etiquette classes he had taken whilst a student at the Academy in Ostenheim. It was easy to forget that he was no longer dealing with pirates and shipboard humour. ‘I’m Banneret Soren of Ostia and this is Master Mariner of the Grey Varrisher of Ruripathia.’

The man nodded. ‘I am Esqivel, First Jan of Kirek. I welcome you to the court of my master, His Magnificence the Khagan Raspa tai Kirek. Captain Barema tells me that you bring good news for my master.’

‘We do. One week past we met with the pirate Sancho Rui and defeated him. I bring to your master his head as he requested,’ Varrisher said.

Esqivel smiled. ‘That is excellent news indeed. His Magnificence will be greatly pleased. He will be finished with his current business in a moment and will grant you audience. Until then, might I offer you refreshment? We have a great many foods and drinks here that I understand to be delicacies in the North. Some iced lemon perhaps?’

Esqivel shouted an instruction to a servant who disappeared down a narrow stairwell at the side of the room as soon as his name was called. He reappeared a moment later carrying a tray with two large glasses filled with a solid, pale yellow content and two small silver spoons. He presented the tray to Soren and Varrisher, who each took a glass and a spoon. They were freezing cold to the touch, a sensation that instantly reminded Soren of his time in Ruripathia — and no doubt reminded Varrisher of his homeland.

‘The ice is brought down the river from the mountains as quickly as possible in large blocks packed in cloth and straw. Much is lost in transit, but when it arrives it is stored in a room deep under the palace that remains very, very cold no matter how hot it gets up here. The cook crushes it and mixes it with lemon juice, sugar and spices to produce this, which is a favourite of the Khagan. I think you will enjoy it.’

The Shandahari had something of a reputation for intrigue, the poisoning of rivals being a chief feature of that reputation. The thought was at the forefront of Soren’s mind as he held the glass and looked at Esqivel, who was watching him in anticipation. If the reward for killing Sancho Rui was indeed as large as Varrisher had indicated, then poisoning them would certainly have made sense.

Soren thought it unlikely that the Khagan would have them killed before the identity of the head in the barrel had been confirmed though. He brought the glass up to his mouth and scooped some of the contents in.

The bitter flavour made his mouth tingle, but the edge was softened by a sweet aftertaste of sugar and spice. The ice crystals nipped at his teeth and the back of his throat, which gave him a pain behind his eye, reminding him of his worries about poison. It was so good that Soren would have found it difficult not to eat it all even so.

‘It’s delicious,’ Soren said, as politely as possible. He had never felt comfortable speaking in the formal way necessitated by the requirements of etiquette as he had not been brought up with them; they had been rammed down his throat by a particularly unpleasant professor at the Academy and it was difficult for him to disassociate the two. The result was that he always felt stilted and awkward when presented with a formal situation. At least as a non-native speaker, Esqivel would be less likely to pick up on Soren’s clumsy manners.

Someone at the front of the room caught Esqivel’s attention. He nodded and turned to Soren and Varrisher. ‘His Magnificence will see you now.’