Fall of a Kingdom (The Farsala Trilogy) (5 page)

Soraya tried to stiffen her wobbling knees. She hoped her father’s scheme was a good one; whatever it was, his enemies were ready for it.

“And you, Lady Soraya,” said the gahn. “Do you understand the burden laid upon you?”

“Yes, High One.” Her voice was high and breathless, for all she tried to control it. Then she thought of something to add and spoke more firmly: “I am willing to do this, if it will aid my father’s victory over the foes who threaten our land.”

The gahn winced, very slightly.
Yes,
she thought with savage satisfaction.
Let that remind them who will fight and risk his life and bleed in their
defense.
Sweat ran down her back beneath the linen undershirt. It itched. She’d been too tense to notice it before.

“Then I accept your sacrifice, for the strength of Farsala’s army and for the good of its people.”

The sunlight glittering on her robe vanished, like a sign from the heavens. The crowd roared. Had a cloud passed over the sun? But the gahn was still bathed in light.

Soraya looked up. A blanket! Someone on the roof had pulled a blanket over the grid that had speckled her with light.

“Wait, there’s—”

“Wait!” Her father’s voice overrode hers, drowning it, even in the dome. “I would make one more request.” His eyes flickered to Soraya’s, urgent, commanding. She ground her teeth.

“I would be allowed to accompany my daughter on her final journey, to offer her the comfort of my presence.”

“But what assurance do we have,” said the priest swiftly, “that a father’s love will not overcome your duty to do all that you may in defense of the land?”

A new sense of danger prickled down Soraya’s spine. Not for herself, not anymore. But what was the penalty for a high commander who was caught disobeying the gahn’s orders? Who defied the temple?

She glared up at the blanket.
Lying bastards.
The clean heat of anger burned away her fear.

“I will go also,” said Jandal suddenly. “As witness for Kay Amin that the maid is abandoned as promised.”

Soraya barely listened to the gahn’s reluctant agreement—she was watching the men who mattered. Garshab’s brows jutted in a faint frown. Her father’s face showed no change, but the tension in his shoulders eased. This was part of his plan then, not Garshab’s. She wished, passionately, that she knew more details.

Jandal, whose gazelle stood next to the gahn’s horse, was a powerful ally, but this was a more intricate pattern than any she’d stitched. And embroidery wasn’t Soraya’s best skill either.

“The temple would send a witness too.” The priest barely waited for the gahn to finish speaking.

Jandal glared at him. “You doubt my word, priest?”

“No doubt is implied,” said the gahn soothingly. He sounded far less regal than he should, in front of so large an audience. Was he frightened too? He probably had reason. How many gahns had been cast down by ambitious deghans who could manipulate the deghanate, their house statues moved to the farthest end of the line? “One witness for the temple and one for the deghanate. That is fair.”

Now both her father and Garshab looked satisfied.

“We shall celebrate the assurance of our victory tomorrow,” the gahn went on, “with a day of feasting and a flags-and-lances match. Leopard against Raven!”

The crowd roared again, with complete approval this time. Garshab wasn’t the only one who could manipulate.

“And two days after that the lady Soraya will take her leave of us.” He managed to sound sorrowful, the hypocrite. “But what of you, Lady Soraya? Is there anything in our power to offer you that might make your burden lighter?”

I want to get out of these robes and walk straight into the nearest fountain.
And it wasn’t just the honest sweat of a hot day, or even her own fear, that she wished to rinse away. “No, High One, there is—Wait.” She remembered the maids’ greedy, secretive gazes. “Could my cousin Pari accompany me on the journey?”

Sudaba disapproved of Pari, who talked too freely with commoners. Improper. Unladylike. Most of the younger deghasses were jealous of Soraya’s beauty and her family’s position, but Pari had become a friend.

“That is both modest and fitting; it will be made so,” said the gahn. He did regal better now that he wasn’t afraid. “We offer praise,” he went on, “to the courage and nobility of a true deghass, and to the father who raised such a daughter.”

Soraya lowered her gaze again. She was too angry to lie and too frightened to speak true.

Her father suffered neither temper nor fear. “I thank you for your praise, High One, but it is Soraya alone who deserves it. She is the treasure of my heart.”

And that made it all worthwhile.

T
HE MATCH WAS WELL
into the second round of battle, and Jiaan could barely see the flags-and-lances field through the dust. Most of the mobile, potted forest had been placed at the ends of the field, and a maze of small hills had been constructed, but the center of the field was clear. In spring or midsummer the ground would have been perfect; damp but firm. In winter it would have been a sea of churned mud, but at least an anxious watcher could have seen what was going on. Now, between the dry earth and the dry grass, every pounding hoof raised a puff of dust, and the battle between Commander Merahb and Garshab’s second aide raised so much of the djinn-cursed stuff…There!

A breeze swept the field, and the dust cloud dissipated.

Commander Merahb leaned forward, swinging the heavy wooden sword he used for flags and lances with all the strength of his powerful shoulders and arms. The sword met his opponent’s with a crack that should have broken wooden blades, but both swords held.

The younger man’s seat slid under the force of the blow, and Merahb launched another. But his opponent spun his horse away, so the powerful swing met only air.

A lesser horseman would have been unbalanced, as Garshab’s aide clearly intended, but the high commander just gripped harder with his legs, and even twisted his body to block the blow that looped toward his helm with the lance in his left hand. Most men only hurled the light, blunted lances—it took an expert to use one as a shield. But Commander Merahb was an expert—and so was his horse. Rakesh had been only a foal when the commander had named him after Rostam’s legendary steed, but he’d lived up to the name. Now he spun on his haunches, to give his rider another opening.

Dust rose again, obscuring the white sock on his off hind leg, which contrasted with his dappled chestnut hide. One white foot was thought to be unsightly, unbalancing a horse’s beauty, but the commander swore he’d never have won a match or survived a battle without Rakesh. Jiaan might have believed it, except Rakesh was only five years old and the commander had been winning for over twenty years.

The swords cracked and cracked and cracked. The aide’s bay mare sidestepped again. She was almost as good as Rakesh, Jiaan thought, but not quite, and the dust had risen so high now that it concealed the white blaze on Rakesh’s face. Soon the riders would be invisible. Again.

Never taking his eyes from the duel, Jiaan moved across the open ground between the two sets of stands that served as both the commander’s team’s base camp and his enemies’ goal.

When the great banner passed under the arches that spanned the openings at both ends of the field, the team that carried it earned ten points, and that battle round ended. The banner hadn’t been touched in this round.

In the previous round the banner had been carried by the same lancer the commander now engaged, galloping through the arch not three yards from where Jiaan and the servants stood scowling. But Commander Merahb’s team had fought so well, it had only given Garshab’s team a three-point advantage.

The horses spun again, and the dust rose high.

Soraya, in the seat of honor just below the gahn’s shaded dais, was on her feet and screaming, clutching another girl her age, who stood beside her. Unladylike, and not much like someone who was about to be sacrificed, either. The lady Sudaba, seated several rows away, was too far off to intervene, but her faint scowl promised retribution to come. Jiaan felt a pang of sympathy. Soraya would no doubt be hearing about her behavior after the match but at least she was high enough to see. Could Jiaan climb a few levels on the crowded stand? He shuffled toward it.

When his ankle first encountered a hard bar, Jiaan thought he’d walked into something, but the shove on his shoulder that sent him stumbling to his knees told him otherwise. The lance butt that had tripped him was whisked away.

“Clumsy bastard, isn’t he?”

Jiaan glared up at the sneering faces—far up, for Markhan and Fasal were still mounted. The barrage of hoofbeats from the field had concealed the sound of their approach.

It was Markhan who’d spoken. They were the commander’s aides too, younger than Jiaan was. Second sons set in service to another house, but true born. They’d been fouled out of the match early in the round: Fasal, only fifteen, because he’d been knocked from his horse by a much older and heavier man; Markhan, because he’d lost his sword and then had thrown all three of his lances, the idiot. He’d scored all three points on the man who’d disarmed him, but his opponent was still on the field, and he was here on the sidelines.

Both of them, and their horses, were covered with dust. Jiaan felt a stab of pure envy. “What’s going on?” He scrambled to his feet. “This is the third time today someone’s tripped me or tried to ride over me.”

And that was unusual. The commander’s other aides knew what Jiaan was—no more their equal than the peasant-born foot soldiers and archers, some of whom were probably their own half brothers or cousins. But they usually restricted their resentment to hard words, at least in situations where they might be caught at it. The commander had made it clear that he expected his aides to treat Jiaan with the respect due his military rank, regardless of his birth.

Jiaan had returned late last night. It had taken several days to take the farm family the commander had chosen to their destination, but the commander insisted Jiaan escort them himself. The fewer who knew where the lady Soraya was to be hidden, the better.

From the moment Soraya arrived in the city, the other aides had been jockeying for position like a band of cocks with one hen, but this morning all their animosity seemed to be focused on Jiaan. Why?

The crowd yelled, and Fasal’s and Markhan’s faces swiveled toward the match. Jiaan looked too, but Fasal’s horse was in front of him. He swore under his breath.

The two turned their horses and rode off, ignoring him with the arrogant indifference that deghans seemed to learn with their first steps. Ordinarily, Jiaan accepted it. But this morning he was watching the most hard-fought flags-and-lances match he’d ever seen. He could have ridden, have fought, as well as any of them. But support troops weren’t allowed on the field. Only full-blood deghans could compete.

Half a dozen running strides brought him up to his fellow aides. He grabbed Fasal’s reins just above the bit, bringing his horse to a halt.

“I want to know what’s going on,” he repeated. He tried to sound polite, or at least reasonable, but he didn’t think he succeeded.

“Get your dung-covered, peasant’s hands off my horse.” Fasal spoke through gritted teeth, his face flushed with anger.

Jiaan was so startled, he almost let go.
What in Azura’s name is this about?
But he was half deghan himself, and his rank in the army was equal to theirs. The commander had decreed it. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

Fasal’s horse stamped as his legs tightened, and Jiaan gripped the reins more firmly.

“I said, take your hands off my horse.”

“No,” said Jiaan. Was this what it felt like to have the djinn of rage possess you? No wonder the lady Soraya succumbed so often.

Fasal’s breath hissed. He snatched the short quirt that hung from his saddle, whipped it up, and paused.

Markhan’s grin faded abruptly. Jiaan was just as surprised. Flags-and-lances riders were required to carry a quirt, but to use it on a horse was the mark of an unskilled rider—a shame no one would accept. There was no shame in using it on a servant, but if Fasal left a mark on Jiaan, they were all going to have to explain it to the commander.

Anger warred with uncertainty in Fasal’s dark, young face, but he couldn’t lower the quirt without yielding. Yielding to a half-blood bastard.

Ordinarily, Jiaan would have let go. For all his pride that the commander had advanced him so far beyond the rank to which he had been born, he knew better than to push. The sane, rational part of his mind urged him to yield. It was how he had gotten along as well as he had, all these years, with the commander’s true-born aides. On any other day…

He set his jaw and tightened his grip on the reins.
Hit me. I don’t care.

Fasal’s hand tightened on the quirt. “I’ll say a djinn did it.”

“That’s a babe’s excuse. You wouldn’t dare.”
Would he?

“Problem, boys?” The high commander’s voice was very mild.

All of the aides shied like startled foals. If the horses hadn’t been more sensible, they might have ended on the ground.

Rakesh was so coated in dust, you couldn’t have told what color he was. Sweat tracked through the dirt on the commander’s face, creating mud. He should have looked absurd. He never looked absurd.

He gazed at Fasal, raising one brow in mild inquiry. Fasal paled and lowered the quirt.

Jiaan, not being an idiot, had already released Fasal’s reins, so there was nothing to stop Fasal from riding after Markhan, who had already fled the field. The field…

“What are you doing here, sir?” Jiaan gestured to the match, which was in full, thundering charge.

“Young imp got me off balance,” the commander grumbled. “Knocked me off on my ass. I had two lances left too.” He didn’t sound unduly disgruntled.

“Don’t you care?” Jiaan asked.

“Why should I? That”—the commander gestured to the dusty field—“is just a game. In the match that matters I intend to win. The others hounding you, lad?”

Merahb turned Rakesh toward the wash tent, and Jiaan followed. A squire’s duties still came naturally to him—only a few years ago he’d held that post.

“Yes,” Jiaan admitted. “But I don’t know why.”

“They know there’s something important afoot. After all, I have to choose someone to steal my leopardess off to her lair.”

“Yes,” said Jiaan. “But I figured you’d choose one of the lesser deghans who rides under your banner. An old—um, a reliable man.”

“That’s what I expect everyone to think,” said the commander. “And I’m going to have to find out how those young fools figured out who I decided on. I can’t afford leaks.”

“I understand that, but—” Jiaan stopped in his tracks. Rakesh walked on a few steps before the commander realized his aide no longer accompanied him, and he reined in the horse.

“You want
me
to escort the lady?” Jiaan’s voice was high with astonishment. “Why me?”

The commander frowned. “Attend me, Jiaan.” He spoke as if to a shirking servant, and Jiaan flushed. No one
seemed
to be listening, but…Jiaan hurried to take Rakesh’s reins and lead him, like a proper squire attending his lord.

“I’m choosing you instead of an older man,” the commander continued softly, “because Garshab is working on the older men. Anyone who hasn’t taken his money will be watched. I just wish one of the honorable ones had had the sense to take the money and then come to me. I don’t think any of my aides have been approached. Garshab expects me to choose an experienced man, and he probably realizes that those young hotheads would never take a bribe.”

“But why me?”

“Because I trust you to keep a—”

The crowd roared. The commander clenched his thighs on Rakesh’s barrel and lifted himself in the saddle to see better. “Watch out, you idiot! No! It’s too soon!”

Jiaan only saw the end of it. Gostan, another of the commander’s aides, galloped through the dust cloud at the far end of the field, the game banner clutched in his hand like a lance, despite its weighted base. His sword was gone, but he still had two lances strapped to his saddle; the blue streamers that stabilized their flight and marked him for a member of Merahb’s team rippled out behind his mare’s laboring haunches.

Two lances weren’t enough to save him from two older deghans of Garshab’s faction, who swept down the field and knocked him from the saddle with less than half a dozen blows.

Seizing the banner, Garshab’s men rode toward the grove at the other end of the field—presumably to try something smarter than charging straight into the men Merahb had posted to protect his goal.

“…a level head,” the commander finished grimly. “This is what I’m talking about. They’re playing to impress me instead of playing as a team, to win. If you were out there, you wouldn’t do that.”

Jiaan bit his lip. He wasn’t so certain.

“You’re the steadiest of my aides.” The commander turned Rakesh to the pavilion, where wash water and refreshment awaited him. “The most reliable.”

I’m also your son.
His commander had never said the word.
Do you think I don’t know? That my mother wouldn’t have told me?
But his father knew that he knew. It was why he had lifted Jiaan so high above his normal station.
So why not say it?

“Tomorrow I’m sending every one of my aides off on some errand or other,” the commander continued. “Garshab hasn’t half enough servants to follow you all. I’ll claim I’m sending you to the Sendar border, to pick up a report on the Hrum’s movements. But that report is actually locked in my traveling desk right now, and I’ll give it to you later, so you can return with it after the proper amount of time.” The commander was speaking softer and faster. The pavilion was nearer now. “But your real job will be to join Soraya after we’ve left her and then get her to the refuge you know of,
without being followed.
That’s the important part, lad. They’ll know what we’re doing, but as long as I can keep Soraya hidden, as long as they can’t produce her, along with evidence that I preserved her, they’ll have nothing but smoke and suspicions. And I’ll be in command while we prepare for the Hrum.”