The Lions of Al-Rassan. Guy Gavriel Kay

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СКАЧАТЬ you chose to accept the stirrup business nonetheless? To say nothing at all?”

      “It was you who did it, Captain. And I want to remain in your company.”

      The Kindath doctor’s amusement was obvious. Ser Rodrigo’s brow darkened. “In Jad’s name, boy, were you humoring me?”

      “Yes, sir,” said Alvar happily.

      The woman he had decided he would love forever threw back her head and laughed aloud. A moment later, the Captain he wanted to serve all his days did exactly the same thing.

      Alvar decided it hadn’t been such a terrible night, after all.

      “Do you see how clever my men are?” Rodrigo said to the doctor as their laughter subsided. “You are quite certain you won’t reconsider and join us?”

      “You tempt me,” the doctor said, still smiling. “I do like clever men.” Her expression changed. “But Esperaña is no place for a Kindath, Ser Rodrigo. You know that as well as I.”

      “It will make no difference with us,” the Captain said. “If you can sew a sword wound and ease a bowel gripe you will be welcome among my company.”

      “I can do both those things, but your company, clever as its men may be, is not the wider world.” There was no amusement in her eyes any more. “Do you remember what your Queen Vasca said of us, when Esperaña was the whole peninsula, before the Asharites came and penned you in the north?”

      “That was more than three hundred years ago, doctor.”

      “I know that. Do you remember?”

      “I do, of course, but—”

      “Do you?” She turned to Alvar. She was angry now. Mutely, he shook his head.

      “She said the Kindath were animals, to be hunted down and burned from the face of the earth.”

      Alvar could think of nothing to say.

      “Jehane,” the Captain said, “I can only repeat, that was three hundred years ago. She is long dead and gone.”

      “Not gone! You dare say that? Where is she?” She glared at Alvar, as if he were to blame for this, somehow. “Where is Queen Vasca’s resting place?”

      Alvar swallowed. “On the Isle,” he whispered. “Vasca’s Isle.”

      “Which is a shrine! A place of pilgrimage, where Jaddites from all three of your kingdoms and countries beyond the mountains come, on their knees, to beg miracles from the spirit of the woman who said that thing. I will make a wager that half this so-clever company have family members who have made that journey to plead for blessed Vasca’s intercession.”

      Alvar kept his mouth firmly shut. So, too, this time, did the Captain.

      “And you would tell me,” Jehane of the Kindath went on bitterly, “that so long as I do my tasks well enough it will not matter what faith I profess in Esperañan lands?”

      For a long time Ser Rodrigo did not answer. Alvar became aware that the merchant, ibn Musa, had come up to join them. He was standing on the other side of the fire listening. All through the camp Alvar could now hear the sounds and see the movements of men preparing themselves for sleep. It was very late.

      At length, the Captain murmured, “We live in a fallen and imperfect world, Jehane bet Ishak. I am a man who kills much of the time, for his livelihood. I will not presume to give you answers. I have a question, though. What, think you, will happen to the Kindath in Al-Rassan if the Muwardis come?”

      “The Muwardis are here. They were in Fezana today. In this camp tonight.”

      “Mercenaries, Jehane. Perhaps five thousand of them in the whole peninsula.”

      Her turn to be silent. The silk merchant came nearer. Alvar saw her glance up at him and then back at the Captain.

      “What are you saying?” she asked.

      Rodrigo crouched down now beside Alvar and plucked some blades of grass before answering.

      “You spoke very bluntly a little while ago about our coming south to take Fezana one day. What do you think Almalik of Cartada and the other kings would do if they saw us coming down through the tagra lands and besieging Asharite cities?”

      Again, the doctor said nothing. Her brow was knitted in thought.

      “It would be the wadjis, first,” said Husari ibn Musa softly. “They would begin it. Not the kings.”

      Rodrigo nodded agreement. “I imagine that is so.”

      “What would they begin?” Alvar asked.

      “The process of summoning the tribes from the Majriti,” said the Captain. He looked gravely at Jehane. “What happens to the Kindath if the city-kings of Al-Rassan are mastered? If Yazir and Ghalib come north across the straits with twenty thousand men? Will the desert warriors fight us and then go quietly home?”

      For a long time she didn’t answer, sitting motionless in thought, and the men around the fire kept silent, waiting for her. Behind her, to the west, Alvar saw the white moon low in the sky, as if resting above the long sweep of the plain. It was a strange moment for him; looking back, after, he would say that he grew older during the course of that long night by Fezana, that the doors and windows of an uncomplicated life were opened and the shadowed complexity of things was first made known to him. Not the answers, of course, just the difficulty of the questions.

      “These are the options, then?” Jehane the physician asked, breaking the stillness. “The Veiled Ones or the Horsemen of Jad? This is what the world holds in store?”

      “We will not see the glory of the Khalifate again,” Husari ibn Musa said softly, a shadow against the sky. “The days of Rahman the Golden and his sons or even ibn Zair amid the fountains of the Al-Fontina are gone.”

      Alvar de Pellino could not have said why this saddened him so much. He had spent his childhood playing games of imagined conquest among the evil Asharites, dreaming of the sack of Silvenes, dreading the swords and short bows of Al-Rassan. Rashid ibn Zair, last of the great khalifs, had put the Esperañan provinces of Valledo and Ruenda to fire and sword in campaign after campaign when Alvar’s father was a boy and then a soldier. But here under the moons and the late night stars the sad, sweet voice of the silk merchant seemed to conjure forth resonances of unimaginable loss.

      “Could Almalik in Cartada be strong enough?” The doctor was looking at the merchant, and even Alvar, who knew nothing of the background to this, could see how hard this particular question was for her.

      Ibn Musa shook his head. “He will not be allowed to be.” He gestured to the chests of gold and the mules that had brought them into the camp. “Even with his mercenaries, which he can scarcely afford, he cannot avoid the payment of the parias. He is no lion, in truth. Only the strongest of the petty-kings. And he already needs the Muwardis to keep him that way.”

      “So what you intend to do, what I hope to do … are simply things that will hasten the end of Al-Rassan?”

      Husari ibn СКАЧАТЬ