Mage's Blood (50 page)

For the first week they flew west, then swung northwest towards Dhassa. The waxing moon grew, dimming the stars, and as the plains became more populated, they changed to travelling only at night. Kazim found just as much joy soaring beneath the moon and stars, seeing the dim lights of campfires below and the way the waterways reflected the night sky. Eventually he asked Molmar to teach him how to use the rudder and set the sail. The first time he caught the wind and they began to skim across the sky like an eagle a burning exhilaration filled him.

Molmar chatted amiably, though he refused to tell Kazim how it was that Amteh warriors had the devil-magic of the Rondians. ‘That’s for others to relate, not me, lad.’ If it hadn’t been for his resemblance to Jamil, Kazim could almost have liked him.

Eventually, though, their airborne odyssey came to an end. ‘We are coming to the areas where the Rondian warships are known to patrol,’ Molmar told them, ‘so we must part company, my young friends.’ He set them down in a field just after midnight. He embraced Jamil and offered Kazim his callused hand. Kazim stared at the man for a long moment, then took it, and Molmar’s face broke into a smile. ‘My helmsman,’ he chuckled, then looked more serious. ‘Ahm be with you, Kazim Makani. May he guide your blade true.’ And within minutes the windskiff had disappeared into the night sky.

Thereafter they travelled on foot from village to village, safe-house to safe-house. These were tended by the servants of Amteh scriptualists. Everywhere it seemed they were expected. Haroun spent most of his evenings with the holy men, but returned with snippets of news. Most of the talk was of the shihad, of course: Salim was supposedly negotiating with the mughal; Javon would soon join the shihad; the Rondians were reinforcing and refugees were already fleeing Dhassa in anticipation of disaster. They saw many such people on
the road, weighed down by their belongings, stoically trudging through the dust.

At the end of the month, under a full moon almost as bright as day, they entered Hebusalim in the back of a curtained camel-cart. The Godspeakers in Baranasi had claimed that Hebusalim was besieged, under constant attack, but though Kazim saw no sign of armies or fighting, the inner city walls were strongly manned and there were many ferang guards on the gates.

‘The sultan musters his armies east of the Gotan Heights,’ Jamil told him. ‘No one but insane Rondians makes war in midsummer. The Convocation did not reach agreement in time to mount a winter campaign – after ten years of wrangling we should be grateful they reached agreement at all.’ The Keshi captain’s voice was bleak and cynical.

They did not enter the inner city, but turned into the tangle of streets in the outer city. There were people and noise everywhere, feverish commerce and raucous religion, traders and Godspeakers vying for customers, verbally bludgeoning passers-by with their promises of paradise.

‘They are desperate to squeeze as much from their businesses as they can before they flee the Crusaders,’ Jamil remarked. ‘The markets will be open past midnight – the traders have starving families and opium habits to feed. This city has become a cesspit.’ His voice was only mildly condemnatory.

They passed whiteskin soldiers clad in chainmail and red tabards, drunkenly cursing and shoving their way through the alleys. They looked big and stupid. Jai had his arms around the shivering Keita and Haroun’s head was buried in a scroll, leaving Kazim with only Jamil to talk to.

‘There are rooms awaiting you near the Dom-al’Ahm,’ Jamil said. ‘There is someone you need to meet.’

Kazim looked at him. ‘“No obligations”, remember?’

‘Of course. But if you wish to see your woman, we can help you.’

‘“We”’?’

Jamil just smiled.

Bastard
. ‘Stop toying with me,’ he growled.

Jamil leaned towards him. ‘Look around you, Kazim: this is a Hebb city, under the thumb of drunken whiteskins with less wit than the camel pulling this cart. How did this happen? Because Antonin Meiros and his Ordo Costruo allowed it to happen. Because he refused to do what decency and righteousness demanded and drown the emperor’s legions. He continues to compound this treachery by not reversing that decision, not aiding the shihad. This evil, lecherous creature is rolling in the mountain of gold the emperor paid him for that betrayal.’

Kazim listened with little interest. ‘I’m here for Ramita, nothing else.’

Jamil jabbed a hand finger into Kazim’s arm. ‘It affects you, Kazim Makani, because Antonin Meiros has recently revealed to the world that he has a new wife.’

Kazim felt his whole skin tingle. He met Jamil’s eyes, barely comprehending.

‘He has a new Lakh wife,’ Jamil continued remorselessly, ‘named Ramita Ankesharan.’

Kazim stared. ‘But Meiros – he died years ago – he is just a legend, not a real person—’

‘He is a jadugara who has stolen your woman,’ Jamil replied in a low voice.

Kazim felt his throat constricting: Meiros: the bogeyman of every tale of the Crusades, Shaitan Incarnate himself. ‘My God, Ramita!’ He put his head in his hands. ‘How long have you known?’ he whispered. ‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’

‘Would you have believed me? And if you did, would you have come, or would you have given up and gone home?’ Jamil asked, studying him intently. ‘Now you are here, and know the truth. What will you do about it?’

‘You thought it would scare me.’

‘Does it not? Antonin Meiros is the most powerful mage in all Ahmedhassa.’

He remembered the tale of Ispal and Raz, told to him so many
times: flying magi and firestorms, and Meiros betraying the Hebb after all he’d done for them. Was it even possible to steal Ramita back from such a man? ‘Why do you help me?’ he muttered.

‘Because your enemy is our enemy, Kazim. You have come to win back your woman and we applaud your courage. We stand with you. We will aid you. Accept our help.’

Kazim looked at him levelly. ‘“We”? Who is “we”, Jamil?’

‘
We
are the Amteh – the true Amteh, not the mainstream of the faith, but a select brotherhood, dedicated to ridding this land of the whiteskins. We have acquired Rondian gnosis, though I cannot yet reveal how.
We
have the ear of the Sultan of Kesh.
We
move the Convocation;
we
are the power that guides the shihad. And we want to help you rescue your woman.’ He held out his hand. ‘Only we can aid your quest. Will you accept our aid?’

What choice do I have? I know no one here; I don’t know where she is, or how to get to her. Without help I’m lost. And
Antonin Meiros
has my Ramita
… Slowly, reluctantly, he took the offered hand.

Kazim sat on the dirt of the arena, panting slightly, his back propped against the wall, slurping from a water jug. His clothes were filthy, his face ran with perspiration. A blunted scimitar lay on the ground beside him. Ten yards away, the burly Hebb youth he had been sparring with lay writhing in the dust, clutching the welt across his face and moaning.
Well deserved too, you smart-mouthed little shit
.

Jamil was sitting on the wall, accepting coins from the other warriors with him. He waggled a heavy purse at Kazim, grinning: third bout today, third win – and that was after spending the morning drilling. Jamil told him he was good. He longed to try himself against the Keshi himself, just to see.

Haroun was somewhere with the scriptualists, and Jai was with Keita, of course – he was virtually married to her. He wished Jai joy, but he really thought he should forget her – after all, he could hardly take her back south when all this was over. Ispal Ankesharan would have a fit if his eldest son arrived with some homeless chit.

The arena was well away from the areas where the Rondians were.
White-skins who entered the Southside ended up with knives in their backs, Jamil said, unless they had gold for opium, and then they might just be allowed to live – provided they intended to keep returning.

A newcomer leapt down into the little arena. He was clean, and his kurta and pants were silk, embroidered at the neck and seams. He picked up the fallen youth’s blunted blade and tested its weight. He had well-oiled shoulder-length hair, a beautifully trimmed beard and piercing green eyes. His boots were soft leather, expensive: surely some nobleman’s son – a Hebb, by the look of him, but paler than most. He probably never went out in direct sunlight, to preserve his pretty skin. But he was muscular, lithe and well-balanced. Kazim had seen his sort in Baranasi. Lakh noble families bred them by the score: perfumed pretty-boys, skilled at weaponry and poetry, with the morals of a snake.

The newcomer glanced down at Kazim. ‘You fight well, for a Lakh.’ His voice was odiously melodic.

Kazim stood up. He wasn’t that tired; the three bouts he had already won had been easy. ‘I’m not Lakh, I’m from Kesh. And my opponents were only Hebb, and everyone knows they’re gutless cock-suckers.’ He lifted his blunted blade. ‘You are clearly typical of the breed.’

The young noble smiled mildly. ‘I’ve killed for less than that, boy.’ He prodded the squirming Hebb boy at his feet with his boot. ‘Get up, worm.’ He pulled the boy to his feet, as if to see him off, but instead whirled suddenly and shoved the boy straight at Kazim.

Kazim had been half-expecting something, but not that; he caught the winded youth with his left arm and ducked low as the newcomer stepped in and rained a flurry of blows at Kazim’s head.

Kazim responded by using the semi-conscious youth as a shield, and the wooden blades cracked together time and again until Kazim straightened and flung the Hebb boy back at his opponent. The nobleman caught him, then thrust the hapless youth into the path of Kazim’s next blow. His blade smashed into the Hebb boy’s temple, knocking him unconscious, and the nobleman threw him aside. His
lips parted into a fierce grin and his blade flickered, but Kazim had already darted away. He came back at the man, and the wooden blades clattered together and locked. Kazim moved in and hammered his forehead at the noble’s nose, but somehow it didn’t connect, and again he was pushed away. He circled, a little more wary now. The man was still smiling.

Arrogant prick. I’ll show you!
Kazim leapt into his favourite attack, launching himself forward to land in a one-legged crouch, his blade at high-guard, his left leg lashing out, but his foe danced out of reach and retaliated with a series of powerful blows. Kazim rolled away and came up in time to catch a high thrust and turn it aside. The nobleman laughed joyously and circled to his right. Kazim followed him, turning in a circle.

‘Good, Kazim,’ the nobleman purred. ‘You are a fast learner.’

‘Shut up, cocksucker.’ Damn but the prick was good, leaning away that extra inch necessary to let the key blow of Kazim’s next combination pass by his nose, then almost slamming the tip of his weapon into Kazim’s belly with a counterblow. They whirled apart again, both panting now.

‘Well done, Kazim Makani,’ the nobleman said, circling out of reach and flicking up his blade, ending the duel. ‘I think with more intensive training you’ll be one of our best. We’ll put you into more qualified hands, try you against Rondian straight-swords, too. Jamil will teach you, and I myself, at times.’

‘You,’ Kazim sneered back, ‘what do you think you can teach me?’

The man’s face went still. ‘What indeed,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Well, let’s see—’ His left hand jabbed and suddenly Kazim felt as if he had been caught and tossed by an unseen bull, sending him sprawling into the dirt ten yards back, right against one of the walls. The air slammed out of his lungs in a whoosh, but he regained his feet and somehow managed to parry the nobleman’s blade. Then a boot smashed into his shin and he dropped to the ground again. An unseen fist grasped him, and then he was flying through the air and scraping his face in the gravel.

The nobleman was laughing now, and an emerald gem fell into
view about his neck. A greenish bolt flew at Kazim from the man’s left hand, and as he dropped and rolled he saw it flash over him and burst against the stone wall. Another bolt stabbed towards him, forcing him to dart the other way, but as he came to his feet another unseen blow to the belly slammed him backwards and he struck the wall, slid down it and doubled over in the dirt.

The nobleman pushed the tip of his blade into Kazim’s mouth. ‘Who are you calling “cocksucker” now? Here, suck on this.’

Kazim jerked his mouth away and retched, no longer caring what the man might do to him. He felt terrified, but not so far gone that he would unman himself before this perfumed Shaitan.

To his intense surprise the man chuckled approvingly, then bent down and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘You still have much to learn, boy. The first lesson is this: do not antagonise a mage. My name is Rashid. I am the man Jamil brought you to meet. I can deliver you to your beloved Ramita.’ He smiled as Kazim’s jaw dropped. ‘We should be friends, Kazim, son of Razir Makani. There is much we can do for each other.’ Again he found a hand extended towards him, offering everything and asking nothing.
Yet
.

He took it, and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Rashid clapped his shoulder again. ‘Come, eat with me and I will tell you about your Indran beauty and what she wore to the Ordo Costruo banquet last month.’

Kazim stared, his heart banging inside his suddenly flimsy chest.

Kazim spent the next week training with Jamil. As he had come to suspect, Jamil was also a mage, and he had no compunction about using his powers to win. Kazim finished every session battered and bleeding, and though Jamil would run his fingers over the cuts and welts and ease the pain, Kazim was left totally drained, with barely enough energy to eat. He had no time to see his friends, until Jai sought him out one evening as he was lying on the roof watching the myriad stars. It was colder here at night than in Baranasi, and the skies were clearer. It was Moon-dark, the last week of the month.

‘What is it, brother?’ Kazim asked, seeing Jai was badly unnerved.

‘I saw Huriya today, in the souks,’ Jai started, and Kazim shot up, almost shaking with excitement.