The Bloodprint Page 17

  A pause, then the greeting was echoed back, a note of doubt in the voice of the guard.

  “I bring a message from the Immolan,” Daniyar called. “And a gift.”

  They continued up the rise to the black mouth that broke the purity of the ridge. The pass widened so the women could walk abreast, the snow tamped down by the passage of many boots.

  A hundred feet ahead Talisman guards gathered at the drift mouth of the mine. Against the paleness of the moonlight, Arian saw the telltale bands of blue that had given the Sorrowsong its name. Sar-e-Sang in the language of the people of the Death Run.

  The Blue Mountain.

  Twelve men were gathered at its entrance.

  She and Sinnia kept their heads down, their posture submissive. A sideways glance showed her the crop in Wafa’s hand. A sheen of sweat had broken over his face. He had known men like the guards all his life. Hardened and made cruel by the dictates of the Preacher, the Shin War a breed apart.

  When they were face-to-face with the patrol, Daniyar threw back his hood to disclose the crest at his throat. His body language was easy and confident. The guards responded in kind. Arian watched them from beneath her lashes. Neither she nor Sinnia spoke.

  The Shin War were tall and lean in their musculature, long-haired and bearded, but with a military precision hinted at by a sharp attention to dress. They wore black leather armor, their throats marked by the same crest worn by the Silver Mage. Each guard was armed, his face lined by years of war, his eyes sharp and clear from living at high altitudes, his bearing proud—a sign of the Shin War’s distinction.

  Each one of them had marked out the women and the Hazara boy, but none addressed the issue, engaged in the prolonged courtesies of greeting. They spoke to Daniyar with respect, taking him for one of their own. Daniyar gestured at the women without mentioning the lajward.

  Within the depths of the mine, Arian could hear the repetitive strike of hammer against dull rock. The unmistakable tang of smoke wafted toward them. The treasure they sought lay within the mine, but at no time did the Silver Mage express an interest in its interior.

  He asked after his own kinsmen. The captain of the Talisman patrol, a striking man with discerning gray eyes, glanced over Daniyar’s shoulder. His eyes fell upon the crop in the boy’s hand, taking the measure of the bracelets that bound Arian.

  “Raise your head,” he said to Arian. She obeyed the order at once.

  The captain of the guard strode to Arian, flicking aside her cloak without touching her. A murmur rose from the men behind him, as they took in the sight of the woman in close-fitting clothes. Her dark hair cascaded down her back, covering her arms. To distract the captain from closer examination of her bracelets, she lifted her face into the moonlight.

  A rush of excitement rippled through the patrol.

  The captain was not diverted. He hadn’t moved her cloak aside to examine her beauty, he was testing the bracelets at her wrists. Satisfied, he stepped back to address the Silver Mage.

  “This one shall have my protection. The men can draw lots for the other.” He studied Wafa, his nostrils flaring as he identified the signs of the boy’s Hazara ancestry. “We shall want the boy, as well.”

  “As you wish. You will find him useful in the mines. The women were intended as a gift to your commander.”

  Wafa turned pale. He had no need to feign his terror. It was evident he thought this had been the plan of the Silver Mage all along.

  The captain shrugged in disgust.

  “I am Captain Turan, second in command. Sartor commands here.” He waited to see if the name meant anything to Daniyar. When the Silver Mage was silent, Turan went on to add, “We will not be using the Hazara in the mines.” He avoided the boy’s eyes. “The Commandhan will—ask for the boy. Come, I will take you to the camp. You will tell us of Candour, and how the Shin War fare on the plains, and we will do our best to honor the Immolan’s emissary.”

  He held himself aloof from his men as he spoke, the words sounding forced in his mouth. “There are women in our camp, should you desire their company.”

  The captain was telling the truth. Arian could read as much from Daniyar’s expression. He nodded at Wafa, who raised the crop in a gesture of menace.

  They fell in line behind the Talisman patrol. They were led away from the mine to a large encampment lower down the rise, where a small plateau jutted from the darkness. Fires roared in the center of the camp. Fed by dry furze, they were tended by men who looked less like soldiers and more like peasant farmers. Over a large campfire, a sheep was roasting. Mouse hares and partridges were tended over other fires, the fire pits fed by myricaria shrubs.

  The entire camp was staked on a cold, stony ground, two large black tents to either side, without more adornment than lanterns that gave a sparse light to the darkness. Talisman soldiers were gathered about the fires in great numbers, armed and clad in leather, their pagris fitted to their heads, displaying a uniformity in dress that spoke of military discipline. A surge of anticipation rustled through their ranks at the sight of Arian and Sinnia.

  Wheelbarrows full of stone were dotted about the camp. From their depths Arian discerned the blue gleam of lajward, fractured and discarded, broken bits of stone that would not serve to earn their passage through the Cloud Door.

  The Talisman kept a small herd of livestock at their camp: ayali sheep that were the natural prey of ghost cats, small goat-antelopes known as gorals, and several mules weighed down with supplies and thick pallets of gorse.

  Most of the soldiers lounged near the fire, prodding the hungry men who labored over their supper. But a seasoned patrol maintained watch at the perimeter, horns around their necks, weapons at hand, their light eyes watchful.

  “You will eat well tonight,” Captain Turan told Daniyar. “I’ll wager you haven’t tasted mutton since you crossed into the Death Run.”

  He clapped the Silver Mage on the shoulder. Daniyar was back among his own people, if not his own family. There was an ease and familiarity in the way he spoke to the Shin War that had been absent in his dealings with the Immolan’s men in Candour.

  What lay ahead would not be easy for him.

  And as difficult as these realities were, when they had stolen the lajward, Daniyar would have forfeited his place among his tribe. He would be hunted by the Shin War for his betrayal of their code.

  I brought this to you, Arian thought. But I did not want this for you.

  He didn’t look Arian’s way, engrossed as he was by Turan’s conversation.

  A whisper of voices from one of the tents claimed Arian’s attention, a sound out of place in the camp at the Sorrowsong.

  Sinnia pressed her hand, amazed.

  The voices belonged to women.

  25

  Daniyar expressed his gratitude for Turan’s hospitality in the civilized accents of the Shin War. Questions whirled in his mind, but to mention the women the captain had referred to would be a breach of etiquette. Nor did he think Captain Turan wished to revisit his offer.

  The women couldn’t be family members, or the captain wouldn’t have spoken of them. A man of the Shin War never mentioned the women of another man’s family. He behaved as if they didn’t exist, inquiring after the health of a man’s sons, wishing him the success of an honorable line.

  The women would be captives. But where had they been captured from?

  Arian would have the same questions. She would seek answers before Turan’s men retired to their pleasures for the night. She would see the captives as her charge. Just as she kept her eye on Wafa, the blue-eyed Hazara boy, the boy whose devotion worried Daniyar.

  Would Wafa understand his place in the forthcoming exchange? Would he trust Daniyar’s plan?

  Captain Turan escorted the Silver Mage to a small tent behind the others. When Commandhan Sartor emerged from the tent, he wasn’t the man Daniyar had expected to oversee the Sorrowsong.

  Sartor was neither as tall nor as fit as the men he comman
ded, his heavy frame softened by luxury, his eyes bleary in the mountain air, his movements sluggish.

  He wore the Shin War crest, but there the similarities to his men ended.

  He was drugged, Daniyar thought. Likely from the opiate that grew in the valleys of poppies to the north of the Sorrowsong mines. A sigh from the man confirmed this: his breath had a sickly sweetness.

  Sartor would be a political appointee. Unwilling to leave his comforts in Candour, but commanded to do so by the more powerful members of his family, to reinforce their access to the purest lajward in Khorasan, however unjustly attained.

  Daniyar hadn’t missed the contrast between the well-fed warriors and the laborers who worked the mines and tended the Shin War camp.

  Nor had he missed the absence of the Talisman flag, so far from the reach of the One-Eyed Preacher. The Shin War had accepted the Talisman code, quick to profit from the slave-chains, but they were Shin War first, Talisman second. In the absence of an Immolan, or of the One-Eyed Preacher himself, tribal identity was quick to reassert itself.

  Daniyar exchanged the customary pleasantries with Sartor, his manner relaxed.

  Sartor had lined his eyes with kohl in the manner of many of the men of his tribe, but Daniyar could read the derision of his officers. Sartor was an outsider, unschooled in the hard life of the mountains. Instead of boots or armor, he was clad in plush robes belted at his waist, and soft, velvet-lined shoes. His head was bare of a turban. The cloak he wore over his shoulders was the stunning pelt of a ghost cat.

  His languid gaze drifted from Daniyar to the women who waited behind him.

  Stiffly, Turan explained the gift. Sartor waved it away, his gaze sharpening as it came to dwell on the boy. He had not looked at Arian.

  “Keep the women to use as you please,” he drawled, ignoring Turan’s grimace of distaste. “Make the boy ready and send him to me. I have duties for him.” He made a slight bow to Daniyar. “You will excuse me for the night, Lord Daniyar. My duties as Commandhan of this encampment are tedious and consuming. My men will fête you well.” He tore his eyes from the boy to study the Silver Mage, perhaps sensing his hidden power. “You were sent by the Immolan, you say? Does he plan to honor us with a personal visit?”

  Daniyar feigned a polite smile.

  “He is not so hardy as members of the Shin War. He prefers not to trek through the Death Run, and asks that I report on your progress in his stead.”

  “Of course.” Sartor did not trouble to mask his delight. “He is Hazara?” he asked, pointing to Wafa. His tongue lingered at the corner of his lips. Daniyar nodded. “A blue-eyed Hazara,” Sartor said, with a freshening of his voice. “Now that I have not seen.”

  Standing at his shoulder, Daniyar could sense Captain Turan’s revulsion at the direction of Sartor’s thoughts. But Turan would be unable to do anything for the boy. He had no choice but to accept the dictates of his Commandhan.

  “The Immolan expects to hear of your progress at the mines,” Daniyar said. “The quality of the stone should be much finer than the last shipment he received.”

  With an effort, Sartor returned his attention to the Immolan’s representative.

  “I didn’t realize the Immolan found the previous shipment unsatisfactory. We send the best the quarries have to offer, but you know the labor force is not recruited from the Shin War. They do not share our standards of excellence.” His gaze drifted to Wafa. “We must ensure the Immolan is satisfied. We would not burden him with a personal inspection. Turan.”

  The captain snapped to attention.

  “Make sure the Immolan’s representative is well-served tonight. Fête him well—show him to the pleasure tent.” He bared his teeth in the travesty of a smile. “Find him a virgin, if your men haven’t run amok.” He bowed to Daniyar again. “Does that suit my lord Daniyar?”

  Daniyar dipped his head.

  “The Commandhan honors me. Yet these are not honors the Immolan may share.”

  Sartor’s interest in the Silver Mage sharpened. Here was a man who appeared to understand him, one bound by the same trivialities required of men of state. A man who would report favorably to the Immolan, if his needs were met.

  “Stay with us until you are satisfied. You may inspect the mines yourself, and when you return to Candour, we will send an example of our finest stone with you. You may choose the lajward to present to the Immolan according to your discretion.”

  “I am in your debt, Commandhan. You have understood my needs perfectly. But I fear I’ve no more than a night to spend with you, as the Immolan expects my imminent return.”

  Sartor’s unpalatable smile spread across his face again.

  A man of the Shin War would never conspire against a member of his tribe or seek to end his life with a dagger in the night. But it was satisfactory to Sartor to know that he would not suffer this stranger long, whereas the Immolan’s gift would provide him with gratification for months upon end. What was even his finest piece of lajward measured against that?

  He dismissed Daniyar, unaware of how closely he was watched by both men.

  “Shall we feast?” Turan asked with an effort at courtesy. Something in the man’s eyes bespoke his antipathy for Sartor, as clearly as if he’d declared it.

  Daniyar gestured at the women and Wafa.

  “If you permit me to unchain them, they may eat with us.”

  Women of the Shin War did not eat in the presence of men but these were slaves, and might be subject to different rules.

  Turan refused. But Daniyar sensed this was because he did not wish to expose Arian and Sinnia to the eyes of his men.

  Turan motioned to two of the guards.

  “Take these women to join the others.” He viewed Wafa with stony eyes. “And tell the women to prepare the boy.”

  One of Turan’s adjutants snatched the crop from Wafa’s hands.

  “You shouldn’t have been Hazara,” Turan said to Wafa. “Nor should your eyes have been blue.”

  Wafa’s eyes went wide.

  “Send me to the mines,” he pleaded. “My back is strong, I will work hard.”

  The crop in the adjutant’s hands struck him across the face.

  “Hazara do not speak before Shin War,” the adjutant warned. “You will do as you are told. And when the Commandhan is finished with you, you will find your place in the mines.”

  The boy’s eyes clung to Daniyar’s face, alarmed. He hadn’t foreseen this variant of their plan.

  “I am hungry,” Daniyar said, turning away to the fire. “What delays us?”

  Arian, Sinnia, and the boy were led away to the tent on the far side of the fire.

  Daniyar’s gaze did not follow them.

  “I will eat,” he said. “And then you will show me the lajward.”

  26

  Arian and Sinnia were deposited inside the tent by the rough hands of the soldiers.

  “Make the boy ready for the Commandhan,” one of them barked at the women. “Sartor will call for him soon.”

  When they were gone, Arian’s eyes sought out the women the Talisman had captured at this outpost of the mines. They were women of a kind who hadn’t crossed her path before, women of mixed ancestry, dressed alike in crimson frocks that covered their billowing trousers. They wore thick leather boots on their feet. Their ears, foreheads, and necks were decorated with strings of silver medallions. Their fingers were dressed in rings.

  Some of the women were pale-skinned, others were darker. Their eyes were of all colors, some set in broad faces with distinct eye folds, others with narrower bone structure and wide-set eyes. Their hair, of varying colors, was braided in two plaits beneath embroidered box caps. Long red veils descended from the caps.

  Some of them resembled Wafa. Some resembled women of the Transcasp, others South Khorasan. Their faces spoke of a place at the crossroads of history, a trader’s route, where different peoples had mingled to set down roots.

  Two of the women came forward and took the boy,
their hands firm on his arms. They led him to a washbasin behind a partition. He cast an anxious glance at Arian.

  “It’s all right,” she promised him. “They won’t hurt you.”

  The interior of the tent was bare, save for a stove fed by coals. Thick wool carpets covered the floor from end to end. Drifting panels of cotton created partitions of privacy.

  Arian tried the Common Tongue.

  “My sisters, are you well? Have these soldiers harmed you?”

  None of the women answered. But they did approach Arian and Sinnia in slow, hesitant steps, fascinated by the differences between them.

  Why are they not afraid? Arian wondered. Why have they not been beaten down?

  Sinnia tried the language of the Negus. When she spoke, a murmur of surprise went up from the women.

  Arian repeated her questions in several of the tongues of Khorasan. The women seemed to recognize a word here and there, but not the full sense of her questions.

  Where had these women come from? Who were they?

  As if to answer her, a beautiful girl with sandy braids and golden eyes gestured beyond the flap to the camp outside.

  Arian looked over her shoulder.

  Was the girl pointing to the Talisman or the men they had brought to work in the mines?

  The girl brought her hands and forearms together to form a peak. She pointed to the flap again. Arian lifted the flap just enough so she could see without alerting the guards.

  Daniyar was with the Shin War guards at the largest campsite. A communal meal of rice and mutton was being served to the group.

  But the girl wasn’t pointing to the men.

  She was pointing to the shadows silhouetted against the colorless light of the moon.

  Arian felt a shock of recognition.

  She spoke the words of a language she had thought no more than myth, a tongue that had died out after the wars of the Far Range.

  The faces of the women broke apart into smiles.

  They gathered around Arian and Sinnia.