The Dark Lord (42 page)

Dahak did not answer. The cold grew. The Queen began to shiver uncontrollably. At last the sorcerer said, "I cannot. But I will
not
reveal myself to the enemy, not yet. It is too dangerous!"

"Why?" Even with such a short utterance, the Queen could hear the hint of a mocking smile in the king's voice. She began to wonder why he'd taken such a long walk, in darkness, with the two of them. She squeezed her eyes shut, expecting some brilliant flare of destruction to light the rolling dunes. "You have been very wary, sorcerer, since we captured Constantinople. Furtive, even."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," Shahr-Baraz said in a musing tone, "you once feared to cross the narrow strait before Constantinople, demanding a bridge of saplings, layered with earth. Yet you later rushed to board a ship, the Queen's ship, to be carried across to Chalcedon—without a single precaution. I know full well you can summon powers and servants to carry you great distances in the blink of an eye—yet you hide in your wagon, surrounded by the army, moving at a snail's pace across the land. Indeed, you have abstained from your usual violence, your usual hunger." Shahr-Baraz paused and now the Queen
knew
he was laughing at the sorcerer. "Who are you hiding from, old snake?"

There was no answer, only a
crack
of frozen cloth as the sorcerer settled on his haunches, squatting on the ground like a common tailor. The Queen did not move—indeed, now she wondered if she
could
move, so cold had her limbs become. After a minute there was a muted, soft muttering. The Queen realized the sorcerer was arguing with himself.

Something touched her shoulder and she started. Shahr-Baraz loomed over her. "You're freezing," he said quietly, mustache white with frost rime. The Queen could see the stars around his head, burning very cold and bright, like a crown. "Here..." He lifted her gently, powerful arms making light work of her thin frame. The Queen felt faint, her head throbbing. The king folded her in his cloak, and she swallowed a gasp, feeling the warmth of his body—hot as a furnace, it seemed—against her frigid hands. Curling herself up, the Queen pressed against his chest. The cloak folded around her.

"You are rash," Dahak said, rising up from the sand. His voice was brittle in the darkness, bottled fury straining against a tight leash. "Endless torments await those who have displeased me... your shell, stripped of will and thought, will serve as well as this living body! I thought you a wiser man, Baraz, a wiser man..."

"Huh." The king lifted his beard at the sorcerer. "I have listened to Khadames and his stories of your plans and plots, your secret fortress in the east, your ever-growing strength. You are strong, but I see you are afraid of
something
. Something you found, something you saw, in the Roman city. I will tell you now, sorcerer, I am
not
afraid. Of you, or what you fear." Shahr-Baraz stopped, waited a beat of his heart, then said, "We must attack or leave. You must choose."

"Sssshhhhh!"
Lightning flickered in a clear sky, the stars rippling. The Queen heard a grinding sound. "We cannot go back." Anger, fear and defeat mixed in the sibilant voice. "We must go forward."

"Then
you
must reveal yourself, for we cannot advance without your strength to break the Roman wall!" The king's voice rose sharply.

"I will not!"
hissed the sorcerer. Around the three figures, the sand was suddenly whipped by a fierce wind, swirling around them. The air blurred, filled with flying grit. "Not yet! I am not ready!"

"Then—" Shahr-Baraz stopped. Cold, frost-streaked fingers pressed against his lips. The Queen turned her head, barely able to draw breath in the chill air. She felt weak too, as if the power rising in the air drained her life out like a leech.

"There is a way," she croaked, rich contralto ruined by the thin atmosphere. "Lord Prince, you could exert your power through another. You need not appear yourself, where men might see. They would see another face, and—being men—draw false theorems from poor evidence."

Dahak paused, eyes narrowing, and the pale radiance surging across his flesh brightened. Shahr-Baraz looked down, a slow smile growing in his face. His mustaches tickled her face and the Queen sneezed. Embarrassed, she wiped her nose.

"Can this be done?" The king sounded pleased.

"Perhaps..." the sorcerer growled, expression turning sour. "The jackal is biddable... I can see through his eyes, move his limbs." A sardonic, foul smile grew on his face. "Oh, sweet Queen, you are filled with excellent advice. Yes—I can move dear Arad like a puppet—pour my will into his shell. He will be the very figure of power! Little Zoë and Odenathus can be at his side..."

"Then," the king said, cutting off the sorcerer with a sharp tone. "We will attack in two days."

Dahak nodded, turning away. The night swallowed him up immediately, shadow on shadow.

The King of Kings climbed another dune, one of an endless succession stretching off to the south. A thin moon crept up the eastern sky, shedding a furtive, distorting light. The Queen was in his arms, carried as easily as a child, head leaning against a broad chest. The strange chill had fallen away and the desert night—cold by any other standard—seemed warm in comparison. The Boar's boots dug into the sand, which spilled away behind him in long trails. Ahead, the lights of the Persian encampments were beginning to sparkle.

"Why did you command our presence, my lord?" The Queen was still weak, but her voice was recovering. Feeling was beginning to creep back into her hands and feet.

Shahr-Baraz looked down, distant firelight glinting in his eyes. "I wanted to speak with you and with the sorcerer, in private, without witness or hungry ears at the door."

The Queen licked her lips. "We are... allies, my lord. You have but to ask."

He nodded. They reached the top of the dune and he paused, rolling his shoulders. "Our other... ally... recently expressed his extreme displeasure with you, my lady. In my hearing."

The Queen tried to muster a laugh, though it came out more a rasping croak. "The lord Khalid does not love me today."

"No," Shahr-Baraz allowed. "This matter is none of my concern, save I am puzzled by your desire to send a troop of
his
horsemen to garrison a town previously held by
your
soldiers. I have not been king for very long, my lady! I would be loath to give up such a rich prize..."

The Queen tried to laugh again, but this time nothing came out. Her thoughts crystallized like the dying air.
Could he guess? But how? He cannot read minds...
For a moment, she couldn't think of anything to say. She was only conscious of the man's powerful arms and the heat of his body.

"I... saw trouble, my lord. There was bad blood between the two men—between Lord Khalid and the Ben-Sarid chieftain, Uri. I heard... rumors... Khalid would use the Ben-Sarid rashly in this campaign. So Uri would be killed by the Romans and Khalid's hands would be clean."

The Boar made a gruff, grunting sound of displeasure. The Queen's heart beat again. "This seemed wasteful and petty," she continued. "So I sent Uri and his men away, with a letter for the garrison commander, directing him to join us on the march in all haste. They are Greeks out of the Decapolis and will rejoice to fight beside their brothers."

Shahr-Baraz began walking again, half-sliding, half-stepping down the further slope of the dune. "The lord Ben-Sarid reached Aelia Capitolina safely, then."

"Yes," the Queen said, closing her eyes. "Later, Lord Khalid expressed his opinion to me. His words were heartfelt, if not temperate. He is not a reticent young man."

"No..." The Boar refrained from laughing, though the Queen could feel a powerful guffaw bubbling in his chest. "No, he is not. I saw the Greeks arrive—a strong garrison to leave in some hill town!"

The Queen made a tiny, shrugging motion. "The city has a large Roman colony. They are restive, needing a firm hand to keep them in line. Uri will do that, I think."

"Good." Shahr-Baraz entered the camp, striding swiftly now across hard-packed earth littered with tiny stones. Guardsmen appeared out of the darkness, saw the King of Kings, then faded away again. It was very late and a rattle of snoring echoed among the tents. The Queen craned her head, looking about.

"I can walk, I think." She could see the tents of the Palmyrene contingent not far away. Shahr-Baraz halted, swinging her gently around to stand upright. She clutched his arm, nails digging into the heavy cloak, then stamped her feet. They were tingling fiercely. "Ow," she muttered.

"Have your slaves warm some water, then plunge your feet in," the King of Kings said, grinning. He held up his massive right hand. The last joint of his ring finger was missing. "I was trapped in ice, once, for just a little too long. Then we rode hard, killing two horses, before we could stop. I was lucky—could have lost my toes, even my leg. Good night."

The Queen watched the Boar stride off, unaffected by the long walk over the dunes, the dreadful cold, the sorcerer's anger, anything at all. She licked her lips, stomach tight.
The king is no fool. He might suspect,
she thought, turning remembered words over in her mind.
He might guess...

Zoë shuffled off through the tents, thin shoulders hunched, thinking furiously.

Thyatis sprang up the gangplank of the
Paris
in three long steps, eager to be aboard the galley. The deck was crowded with oarsmen and sailors stowing their baggage, lowering barrels of water down into the storage space under the walkway between the oars or running fresh rope up into the rigging. The Roman woman had her armor slung over one shoulder in a tight bundle, with the long scabbard of her latest sword jutting lengthwise along her back.

"Where is the captain?" she called to a nearby sailor as she stepped aside, letting Mithridates and Betia come aboard. The African had a long spear over his shoulders, heavy with bundles of clothing, armor and other necessary items. Like Thyatis, he wore only a tunic tied at one shoulder, leaving the other bare. The blond girl slipped onto the ship, the top of her head—now protected by a straw hat—barely touching the underside of Mithridates' extended arm.

The sailor looked up, scowled at the interruption, then jerked his head towards the forward deck. Thyatis, fairly bubbling over with energy, strode off, the force of her passage making the pine-wood decking flex and groan. Mithridates looked down questioningly at Betia, who shrugged.

The
Paris
was sixty feet long, with a fore and after deck, two stepped masts and a shallow hull. The galley was built to maneuver, to land on shallow beaches and run up short-draft estuaries. The cantilevered oar benches were arranged in single-deck fashion, though Thyatis noted—as she reached the after deck and clattered down a flight of steps into the below-deck cabins—there were half again as many rowers as she would have expected.
A Thiran design,
she realized, then laughed softly, seeing a bow carved over the door lintel.
We are among friends, then, and why not? This is the Duchess' ship and her effort...
The hallway under the deck was narrow and short, for the crew and passengers slept on deck under the open sky or a tarpaulin, rather than mewed up below. Thyatis pulled up, seeing the broad shoulders of a man blocking the door into the captain's cabin.

"...are we waiting for?" A voice carried out into the hallway, sharp with a Northern accent around the Latin words. "You're missing good rowing water and a shore breeze!"

"Pardon, friend," Thyatis said, tapping the black-haired man on the shoulder. He turned, revealing a long, pale face dominated by luminous eyes and a glossy beard. Thyatis blinked, catching an odd shape to his jaw, his ears, even the line of his nose. Her fingertips brushed across metal-scale armor over powerful biceps.

"We're waiting," boomed a Greek-accented voice, "for the rest of our passengers."

"Passengers! We're not on a pleasure cruise up the Nile! I've messages for the Caesar Aurelian and..."

Thyatis stepped past the big man in the door, eyes narrowing in interest.

The captain of the
Paris
, a stocky, bald man with arms like tubs of lard and a chest straining against his spotted, stained tunic filled half the tiny cabin. Opposite him, a little taller but much lighter, a wiry Roman with a sharp mustache was waving an ivory message cylinder under the captain's nose. "...I've orders to get to Egypt with all speed. So you can just—"

"We can leave now," Thyatis said, her cold, level tone cutting across the lean man's rising voice. "We are all aboard."

"Who are you?" echoed back, from both the captain and the Roman.

"Thyatis Julia Clodia, an agent of the Imperium and representative of the House De'Orelio," she replied coolly. "Captain Pylos, feel free to leave harbor at the earliest opportunity." At the same time, she nodded to him, flashing her forearm—circled by an archer's wristband—for him to see. The captain nodded in response, relieved to turn things over to a superior officer, then pushed out of the cabin, muttering. A moment later, the ship trembled as he stomped up onto the deck, bull-voice shouting.

"You would be Nicholas," Thyatis continued, nodding to the shorter Roman, "and this would be Vladimir."

"I am," the man said, glowering up at her. "We also serve the Empire. We've been waiting for you, then, and your... baggage."

"My team," she said, suppressing a smile. Nicholas was standing on tiptoe now, which barely managed to bring him to her eye level. For a moment, she considered the man—he was finely muscled, with odd colored eyes, a dancer's waist and thick wrists. One eye was nearly obscured by a fierce, semicircular scar.
A swordsman,
she thought, looking him over.
Very quick, I think, with a temper and a sharp tongue and he's never even thought of working with a woman before...
Thyatis looked around the cabin, saw a table built into the wall and sat. Now they were of a height and Nicholas visibly relaxed. "Have you been apprised of the mission?"