Hawk Quest (82 page)

He appraised the travellers anew, skating over the two women and
finally settling on Vallon. His gaze took in the jewelled pommel of Vallon’s sword and he raised his eyes and gave the merest tilt of his chin. Vallon nodded back. At a terse command the Seljuks formed up around the prisoners. Another command and they were off, two of the horse warriors galloping away over the col to carry the news of their capture ahead.

The Seljuks rode without rest and they were still riding long past dark, their prisoners reeling in the saddle. Snow began to fall. Vallon was beginning to wonder if they intended to ride blind through the night when from somewhere ahead a dog began to bark and a man’s voice hailed them. Somehow the Seljuks had found a nomad camp. The captain ordered the company to dismount. While his men led their horses away, he ushered them into a wool tent. Groggy with cold and exhaustion, they took off their footwear and collapsed around the hearth.

In the background, three generations of nomads hurried about, preparing food. Most of the company were asleep where they sat when the tentholder attended by his family carried in a stew of chickpeas swimming in mutton fat. At Wayland’s bidding, Hero told the Seljuk captain that the falcon hadn’t eaten for two days. One of his men went out and returned carrying a live cockerel by its legs. Wayland wrung its neck and quartered it and took the haggard out of its cage and fed it. The Seljuks paid scrupulous attention, exchanging admiring comments. The mood grew relaxed. The captain told them that his name was Chinua, meaning ‘Wolf’, and that he’d fought at Manzikert and killed many Greeks. He asked his prisoners how they’d reached Anatolia and Hero managed to tell something of their tale, the Seljuks listening with great interest, embellishing the fragments they understood as if it were a story they’d heard at their grandparents’ knee.

Some of the nomads were already astir when Vallon woke and went out into the night. The snow had ceased and a million stars swarmed in the blue-black sky. The air cut like a knife and his feet creaked on the frozen crust. He was halfway through a luxurious piss when a clutch of icy hummocks in front of him buckled like monster hatch-lings and three camels lurched to their feet with plates of snow sliding off their flanks. Snow thatched their eyelashes and small icicles hung from their muzzles.

They were on their way again before dawn, riding up a wide river valley occupied by overwintering nomads. Two more days of this and they breasted a stony rim and saw vanishing over the horizon a milky blue lake rimmed with mineral flats of the purest white.
Tuz Gölü
, Chinua told them. The great Salt Lake. They camped on its eastern shore by an ancient tower and continued south next morning along the remains of a paved road built by the Romans. The lake had no outlet and the rivers that fed it seeped in from the south through a wild tract of reed beds and swamp. They rode on over a flat plain that ended in a sea of shadows beneath a mountain capped with two icy cones. The sun was throwing the slopes into relief when they turned west on a broad highway. They passed other travellers heading in both directions and as the last flush of pink faded on the twin peaks behind them, they clattered through the brick portal of a caravanserai on the Silk Road east of Konya.

They slept in a dormitory with other travellers and were back on the Konya road before dawn. Ten miles further on they left the highway, turning north on the plain along a river lined with poplars. They passed black hair tents and rode through flocks of fat-tailed sheep and shaggy goats guarded by dogs. The crystalline flats of Salt Lake were back in sight when Chinua rose in his saddle and pointed towards a tented city rising from the plain.

‘Suleyman.’

Hero grinned at Vallon. ‘Well, we made it.’

Watching the complex of pavilions and kiosks draw closer, Vallon had the sense of an impending collision. He’d been travelling so long that he’d forgotten that even the longest journey must end.

XLVII

Riders galloped out of the compound and exchanged a flurry of words with Chinua. The captain gave an order and before Wayland realised what was happening, four riders boxed him in. One took his horse’s reins and steered it at a trot down a roadway between the tents. Looking back, he saw that the other Seljuks had separated Syth and
Caitlin from the men. His escort led him to a central arena occupied by half a dozen marquees, some of them linked by tented walkways to a huge golden-yellow pavilion. They passed it and crossed a training ground where a group of horsemen tilting at a dummy broke off to watch him pass. On the other side Wayland’s escort pulled up outside a large felt tent and ordered him to get down.

He dismounted with the caged falcon. One of the soldiers pulled aside the entrance to the yurt and motioned at him to enter. Three men stood at the far end and he saw that the tent was a mews and workshop. The men watched without expression as he approached. The central figure had a wispy moustache and calm, hooded eyes. He could have been any age from fifty to seventy. The other two were much younger. Along one wall was a series of booths, each occupied by a pale falcon on a padded block. Wayland studied them in passing. They weren’t much smaller than the gyr, but they were more rakish in build, softer of feather, with shorter toes.

The hawkmaster noticed his interest. ‘
Saqr
,’ he said.

‘Saker,’ said Wayland. He’d heard falconers speak of them.

At the hawkmaster’s bidding he placed the cage on a table cluttered with hawking paraphernalia. He removed the drape and pulled on his glove.

The two assistants frowned. ‘
Tch!
’

He glanced up. ‘What’s wrong?’

The hawkmaster motioned him to get on with it. The falcon stepped on to his fist as soon as he reached into the cage. He lifted her out and the assistants sucked in their breath. The hawkmaster narrowed his eyes. Then he said something. One of his assistants went to a shelf lined with what looked to Wayland like upside-down leather purses embroidered with gold. The assistant selected two of these objects and offered them to the hawkmaster. Wayland saw that they had drawstrings around the opening and tassels on top. The hawk-master made his choice and approached the falcon. Holding the purse with the mouth uppermost, he raised it towards the falcon’s head. Her feathers tightened, but before she could bate, the hawkmaster popped it over her head in one smooth movement. Another deft move and he’d tightened the brace. Only then did Wayland realise that the purse was a hood. He’d never seen one before or even heard of such a thing. Noticing his surprise, the hawkmaster looked at him enquiringly.
Wayland shook his head and mimed the act of stitching the falcon’s eyelids. The Seljuks shrugged at the infidel’s ignorance.

With the falcon hooded and leashed, the hawkmaster slipped a leather cuff over his right wrist. To Wayland that seemed awkward, but it explained the Seljuks’ disapproval when he’d picked up the falcon with his left hand. The hawkmaster brought his cuffed hand up behind the gyrfalcon’s legs. She stepped back onto it and only a slight tension in her stance showed that she was aware of a different handler. The hawkmaster palped her flight muscles, assessed the amount of flesh on her keel, pinched her thighs. He passed the falcon to each assistant in turn so that they could make their own assessment. The youngest handled her last and when he felt her weight he gave an exaggerated gasp and dropped his fist as though he could hardly support her.

Wayland grinned. ‘She’s a powerful bird, isn’t she?’

The hawkmaster flapped a limp hand and buried his fist in a silk cushion, indicating that the falcon’s muscles were soft and flabby.

He said something and one of his assistants came up behind the falcon holding a silk cloth in both hands. He seized the falcon around her shoulders, lifted her off the fist and held her belly down on the cushion. She struggled for a moment, wailing pathetically, and then she lay still. The hawkmaster fanned out each wing in turn. Wayland winced. All her primaries were broken and jagged, the webbing limed with droppings that had set as hard as mortar. Her train was in the same sorry state. Wayland tried to explain that on such a long journey, with the falcon cooped up in a cage, it had been impossible to keep her in good feather. The hawkmaster responded at some length, mentioning the Emir more than once. From the way he shook his head, Wayland understood that he couldn’t present the falcon to Suleyman in her present deplorable condition.

The assistant lifted her clear of the cushion. The hawkmaster gripped her legs and examined her feet for signs of bumblefoot. The undersides were clear of lesions or inflammation, the dimpled and pleated soles curiously reminiscent of a baby’s palm. Then he opened her beak to check that her mouth was free of frounce or other infections.

One of his assistants had placed a small bronze mortar over a charcoal brazier. While it was heating, he went through pots containing moulted flight feathers, choosing the palest. He brought his selection
to the table and laid out about two score wooden needles of triangular section. Wayland knew that the Seljuks were going to imp the falcon’s broken feathers.

At a word from the hawkmaster, his assistant spread out the falcon’s left wing on a board. The hawkmaster picked up a knife, honed the blade on a leather strop and cut the innermost primary well below the broken shaft. He sorted through the moulted feathers, selected one, compared it with the broken one, rejected it, picked another and did another match. When he was satisfied he cut it to length. The other assistant had melted resin in the mortar. The hawk-master took an imping needle, dipped one end in the resin, inserted it into the replacement feather, dipped the other end and pushed it into the hollow shaft of the primary. He waited a few seconds, then pulled. The grafted section held. The repaired feather corresponded to the primary’s original length and was so carefully matched and aligned that only close examination would have revealed the join.

Feather by feather, the hawkmaster restored the falcon’s left wing. Although she submitted calmly enough, Wayland was worried that such a lengthy operation might overtax her. He himself felt faint and queasy from the heated atmosphere. The hawkmaster noticed him wiping his brow and ordered one of his men to bring him a drink.

The ice-cold liquor was sweet and sour, soothing and refreshing. Wayland handed back the bowl with thanks. The hawkmaster, pausing in his work, mimed the fact that Wayland was tired.

‘Very tired.’

The hawkmaster made it clear that the job would take a long time and that Wayland should get some rest. He wouldn’t take no for an answer and one of his assistants led Wayland to a couch covered with a kilim and gently pushed him down. He sat watching the Seljuks working quietly at the table.

‘Ibrahim,’ said the hawkmaster.

Wayland looked up.

The hawkmaster pointed at himself. ‘Ibrahim.’

‘Wayland.’

‘Wellund.’

Black fog began to cloud his vision. The figures at the table seemed to recede down a tunnel. The next thing he knew, someone was tugging him out of sleep.

It was almost dark in the tent and for a moment he didn’t know where he was. One of the assistants was offering him a hot drink. He remembered the falcon and saw that the table was empty. The hawk-master emerged from the shadows and pointed towards one of the hawk pens. The falcon sat hooded on a block, illuminated by a single lamp. Wayland tottered to his feet and went over. The Seljuks had repaired every single flight feather and coped her talons and beak so that she looked almost as perfect as the day he’d first set eyes on her. As Wayland began to thank the falconers, a wave of emotion swamped him and he wept.

The Seljuks turned away to hide their embarrassment and when he’d regained control the hawkmaster encouraged him to drink. The cup contained a spicy infusion that cleared his head and warmed his stomach. He realised that night had fallen and that he must have slept since noon. One of the assistants brought him a basin and a ewer of hot water. The clothes he’d bought for Lord Vasili’s feast lay clean on his bed and the hawkmaster indicated that he must change into them for his audience with the Emir. They left him to his toilet. The clothes he discarded were so stiff with filth that they stood up on their own. He washed his hands and face and combed his tangled hair. While he was dressing, a Seljuk put his head through the entrance and announced that the Emir had summoned them. The hawkmaster waved him away.

He studied Wayland and decided that he’d pass muster. Then he walked over to the hooded falcon and bent to pick her up. He untied her leash and was reaching out for her when he had a change of mind. Slipping off his glove, he slid it onto Wayland’s hand.

‘Thank you,’ said Wayland. ‘We’ve come a long way together.’

Hero stood with Vallon and Drogo in the Emir’s throne room, a spacious and richly carpeted chamber at the centre of the golden pavilion. A line of guards faced them. More guards stood behind them. A dozen braziers and a hundred oil lamps fogged the atmosphere. Timpani rolled and a trumpet blew. The guards pulled themselves to attention. Out from one of the chamber’s two entrances strode an officer followed by half a dozen officials wearing high pointed hats and silk gowns with dangling sleeves. They took up positions behind the throne. The roll of drums drew nearer.

‘Prostrate yourselves,’ said one of the officials in Arabic.

With his forehead on the carpeted floor, Hero caught a glimpse of the Emir’s entrance. A small spare man with the bandy legs of someone who’d spent most of his life in the saddle. Almond eyes and a thin moustache. Like a lynx.

Suleyman seated himself cross-legged on a cushioned dais under a silk canopy.

‘You may stand,’ said the official.

Hero’s joints creaked as he climbed upright. A retainer held out a tray to the Emir. Suleyman took from it a bulb of raw garlic and began eating it, peeling each clove and dropping the skins into a dish held by another retainer. One of his officials spoke into his ear. He smiled – or seemed to smile. Hero couldn’t fathom what was going on behind those feline eyes.