Markswoman Page 13

  Camel’s milk? Kyra inspected the steaming bowl doubtfully. Well, whatever it was, she would have to eat it. She took a tentative spoonful, and another. Why, it wasn’t bad at all. It was actually quite good. It tasted a bit like Tarshana’s wheat porridge, except thicker and chewier. She ate ravenously after that, stopping only to ask for another bowl, much to Shurik’s amusement.

  When she had eaten her fill, he took her around the Khur camp. He began with the camel enclosure, a large roped-in area where around two dozen camels sat, chewing the cud and gazing at their visitors with supreme indifference. A couple of young boys were at work in the enclosure, filling the water trough and cutting squares of feed from compressed bales of grass.

  Kyra wrinkled her nose as the pungent odor of the camels hit her. Shurik chuckled at her expression. “The smell of Khur,” he said. “You’ll soon get used to it. Hey, Jeev, Darius, come and greet our visitor.”

  The two boys scampered up to the fence and bowed low, their dark eyes alight with curiosity. Kyra bowed back, amused and a little uncomfortable. She was clearly a figure of interest here.

  “Jeev and Darius are novices who have yet to earn their kataris,” Shurik told her. “Barkav has great hopes of them. Personally, I think they are destined to be camel-boys forever.”

  By the tone of his voice and the grins on the boys’ faces, Kyra realized this was an oft-repeated joke, and if she were not around, they would have made a suitable retort. As it was, the novices did not say anything, but stared at her until Shurik shooed them away.

  Next, he took her beyond the camp to a grove of tall shrubs. The small patch of greenery looked absurd and out of place in the vast, yellow-brown landscape. “This is where we sometimes meditate,” he said as they walked down a path between thick clusters of stunted trees and dense shrubs. “Or at least, the others meditate and I try my best not to fall asleep.”

  Kyra laughed. “But how does anything grow here?”

  “Sheer willpower,” said Shurik. “We do have a well, of course. Zibalik, the founder of Khur, would not have chosen this spot without knowing there was water underground. The dune gives some shelter against the wind, and we’ve planted windbreaks everywhere. Do you see those plants on the slopes of the dune?”

  They had reached the edge of the grove. Kyra shaded her eyes and looked in the direction he was pointing, at the dune that towered over the camp of Khur. The slopes were crisscrossed with improbable rows of spiky plants and grasses.

  “They may not be much to look at,” said Shurik, “but they don’t need irrigation, and they help stabilize the sand. That dune has not moved more than a few centimeters in the last several years. You can see a crust of soil has already formed on the dune’s surface.”

  “Fascinating,” said Kyra, and she meant it. This place was desolate, but it had a beauty all its own.

  “Must be different from what you’re used to,” said Shurik, a wistful note in his voice.

  “Very,” said Kyra, and left it at that. She allowed him to show her the highlights of the rest of the camp, even though she was dying for a drink and a wash: the stone well, the Maji-khan’s tent, and the open, circular space in the middle where Ishtul was leading a combat class.

  Marksmen stopped fighting to stare at her, the younger ones gaping quite openly, the others more discreet in their curiosity, until a snapped command from Ishtul brought them back to attention.

  Shurik sniggered and steered Kyra away from the class. “They can’t help looking at you,” he said in a loud whisper. “Sorry.”

  “I suppose it’s because I came through the Akal-shin door? That elder said it hasn’t been used in centuries,” Kyra mused.

  “Er, no,” said Shurik, looking a little abashed. “It’s because you’re a girl. I mean, a Markswoman. Most of us haven’t seen one before.” He stopped walking to gaze at her himself, as if he wanted to memorize every detail of her appearance before she vanished as mysteriously as she had arrived.

  But Kyra had had enough of being scrutinized. “I’d like to wash, please,” she said firmly. “Is there a place I can change and rest?”

  “Of course, of course, please follow me. We have a tent reserved for special guests.” Shurik led her to a small tent that stood by itself, not far from the Maji-khan’s tent. Kyra untied the flap and peered inside while he went off to fetch water for her from the well. The tent was quite cozy, with brown camel hair rugs patterned with colorful cotton threads covering most of the floor and walls. At the top was a smoke hole for the stove. She had to stoop to enter, and could barely stand upright inside, but it would do her just fine.

  Shurik returned, bearing a pail of water and clean clothes: a thick brown robe, a hooded camel-wool cloak, and a pair of soft leather boots.

  “Gifts from Khur,” he said, beaming, and with that he left her alone.

  It was a relief to wash away the grime and sand from her skin and put on clean, warm robes, even though they were far too large for her. She transferred the crumpled parchment with the secret codes into a pocket of her new robe, and belted the scabbard to her waist. When she was done, she lay down on the thick rug on the floor of her tent. Perhaps she could sleep for an hour or two before the council meeting. She needed her wits about her to deal with the elders of Khur.

  But as soon as she closed her eyes, the vast emptiness of the third door in the hidden Hub came rushing back, threatening to swallow her. She jerked upright, fighting nausea and fear.

  No. She would not think of that.

  You simply postpone the inevitable.

  Shirin Mam’s voice, distant and amused.

  Kyra groaned. Was it any easier thinking of what the second door had shown her? Or even the first? A little boy had asked for her help and she had refused. And what about that voice she had heard in the Transport Chamber, that high, crazy laugh?

  Perhaps she had imagined it all and the dreams had finally driven her mad. There was always that possibility. But how had she lost two months? She could have sworn she hadn’t been in the Hub more than an hour or so.

  There was no point in trying to sleep. Kyra splashed her face with some of the cold water left in the pail, and settled back to practice the 108 moves Chintil had taught her to focus the mind and build internal strength, until it was time to meet the Khur council.

  * * *

  The Khur council tent was rectangular, enclosing a long, low space that was warmed by the stove in the middle. The walls were covered with woven hangings that depicted lush flowers, grassy fields, and blue lakes. Kyra, sitting cross-legged on a thick rug near the entrance of the tent, guessed they were the handiwork of homesick young Marksmen who yearned for the milder climes of their birth. She had been startled by the steep drop in temperature after sundown and the sharpness of the wind outside. The walls of the tent thrummed, the wind sang its eerie song, and Kyra gathered her cloak more closely around herself. The elders talked on, heedless of the bitter night.

  The cold can freeze the marrow in your bones, Shurik had told her when he came to fetch her for the meeting, and the wind can cut your throat. He had attached himself to her, would have even followed her into the council tent had the elder called Ghasil not grabbed his ear and told him to go round up the camels for the night.

  The Maji-khan sat on a cushion in the middle of the tent—the senior-most position, as befit his status. He was speaking, but not everyone appeared to be listening to him. Rustan—this was the name of the Marksman who had bested her—sat outside the circle of seven elders around Barkav, staring into space. Astinsai, whom everyone referred to as the Old One, watched Kyra out of dark, glittering eyes.

  “We all know that this is the first time in over three hundred years, perhaps more, that the Akal-shin door has opened,” said Barkav. “But what—”

  “Will it open again, do you think?” interrupted one of the elders, a bald, heavyset man.

  “Not for us, Talbish,” said Barkav. “I went to Akal-shin an hour ago. The door still does not respond
to my blade. Perhaps it opens only from inside.” He looked at Kyra. “Or perhaps it will open for you?”

  Kyra shuddered at the thought of entering that Hub again. “I don’t know, Maji-khan. Perhaps it will. But I lost time while traveling and I suspect the doors have shifted.”

  “How convenient,” said Ishtul coldly.

  Barkav frowned. “How so?”

  Ishtul spread his bony hands. “Can you not see this for what it is? A trap. We are a month and a half from the annual clan meeting in Sikandra. Now here is this—this girl—sent to sow disharmony in our Order.”

  Kyra flushed, a flash of anger running through her. “I’m sorry, but you are mistaken. I certainly never planned on coming here.”

  Ishtul leaned toward her. “Then why are you here?” he demanded.

  The question hung in the air, sticky and unanswerable. All eyes were on her. The Maji-khan motioned for her to speak.

  Kyra took a deep breath. There was no point in lying to the elders of Khur, even if she wanted to. They would see through it at once. It was time to tell them what had happened. “You all know that I belong to the Order of Kali,” she said. “What you may not know is that Shirin Mam, our Mahimata, died . . .”

  There were gasps from those gathered around.

  “Died?” echoed the Maji-khan, his composure slipping for the first time.

  “Over eight weeks ago, if I have lost so much time between doors.” She stopped, unable to go on, nausea rising again at the thought of losing time. Where had she been, all this while? And what had happened back home in her absence?

  “This is bad news you bring, Markswoman,” said Barkav gravely, glancing at Rustan.

  “There is more,” said Kyra. “Tamsyn, the Hand of Kali, has been declared the new head of our Order. And I suspect she had something to do with Shirin Mam’s death.”

  The elders recoiled, shock and disbelief on their faces. Barkav’s frown deepened.

  “That is quite an accusation, young one. What makes you think so?” said Ishtul. “Do you have any proof?”

  Kyra knew she couldn’t repeat the things Tamsyn had said to her; the Marksmen would not understand the seriousness of them, because they did not know the Hand of Kali the way she did. Too, there was the matter of her own culpability. Why had she not gone to Shirin Mam and reported her conversation with Tamsyn?

  “I have no proof,” she said quietly, “but there is no one else in our Order who is as powerful—or as power-hungry—as Tamsyn. The other Markswomen are either in her thrall or too afraid to speak against her. But Shirin Mam’s katari has chosen me as its temporary guardian. I listened to the voice of my teacher and it has brought me to you. I could not tell you why.”

  “You have run away,” said Ishtul. There was a contemptuous note in his voice. “Do you expect to find a safe haven with us?”

  “I expect nothing,” said Kyra. “If it is the will of the council, I will leave Khur.”

  “Where will you go, if not through the door?” said another elder, a white-haired old man with ebony skin and a reed-thin frame. “You wouldn’t last two nights in the desert. Of course, we could provide you with an escort to Kashgar or Yartan, and you could make your way from there.”

  “Saninda, the Akal-shin door has opened, and you would simply send away the one who has walked through it?” argued Barkav.

  “What else are we to do?” demanded Ishtul. “She is a defector and if we give her refuge we are subject to retaliation by her Order. That is the law; has everyone forgotten it? I say return this renegade to her Order and let the new Mahimata deal with her.”

  “I am not a renegade.” Kyra couldn’t stop the anger spilling into her voice. “I am a Markswoman. My first duty is to my blade and my blade tells me that Tamsyn is not the true Mahimata of Kali.”

  The elders ignored her outburst. “I think it’s a trap,” said one of the younger ones seated near Barkav, twirling a bushy mustache. “Tamsyn is trying to set us up with this Kyra. She will use this as an excuse to make open war on us.”

  There was a murmur of worried assent from the elders.

  “You are all fools.” Astinsai finally spoke, and everyone went quiet. “It is obvious that the girl is telling the truth. Besides, consider who she is and what is owed to her.”

  Kyra frowned. What was owed to her? The Marksmen owed her nothing; they didn’t even know her. What did the old woman mean?

  Ishtul cleared his throat. “That’s not the point. Even if she is telling the truth, it would be dangerous for us to harbor her.”

  “And it would be churlish to turn her away,” said Barkav. “I think she should come with us to the annual clan meeting at Sikandra Fort. Envoys from all the Orders and clans will be there. She can explain herself to them.”

  “A woman?” said the mustache-twirler who had spoken before, amazement creeping into his voice. “You will take a woman to represent us at the annual clan meeting?”

  “No, Ghasil, not to represent us,” said Barkav. “Only to accompany us.”

  “Tamsyn will be there,” Ishtul pointed out. “Don’t you think our position will be a bit, shall we say, difficult?”

  “Not at all,” said Kyra, speaking without thinking. “That will be perfect. For I am going to challenge her to a katari duel. If all the clans are present, she will have no choice but to accept.” Kyra was not certain at what point this had become her plan, but she knew in that moment it was the best path—the only path, if she wished to return to her Order.

  “You? Katari duel with Tamsyn?” exclaimed Saninda. The elders regarded her with incredulous faces. “How long have you harbored a death wish, young one?”

  Ishtul laughed, his thin shoulders shaking with mirth. “Tamsyn’s blade is famed throughout Asiana. And you—are you not still an apprentice? Do you think she will let you die an easy death?”

  Kyra spoke calmly, although her heart was racing. “I am a Markswoman. The manner of my death is written already, and so it does not concern me. If I defeat Tamsyn, the Order of Kali will be free forever from her power. If I die, as you think I will, it will be an honorable death. Either way, the Order of Khur will suffer no retribution.”

  Astinsai cackled. “Brave words, from one so young.”

  “Are you certain this is the correct choice to make?” said Barkav. “A month is little time to prepare yourself for a duel.”

  “I know,” said Kyra. “But I think I must. There is no other way that I can see.” No other way for me to go back home. The enormity of it began to sink into her and she strove to look composed, as if challenging the Hand of Kali to single combat was something she’d thought long and hard about.

  “You could make a public apology,” said Barkav. “As you point out, if you do it in front of the entire clan assembly, she will have no choice but to accept. At the very least, it will ensure your safety. After all, you have no evidence of wrongdoing. Perhaps you are mistaken about her.”

  “I am not mistaken, Maji-khan,” said Kyra, putting as much conviction as she could muster into her voice. “Tamsyn had something to do with Shirin Mam’s death, and I will challenge her to a duel. As long as she’s the Mahimata of Kali, no one’s safety is ensured.”

  Barkav stroked his beard. “So be it. Rustan will help you train for the duel. He’s one of our best in combat.”

  Rustan started at the mention of his name. “What’s that? What do you want me to do?”

  “You will give her lessons,” said Barkav. “Start tomorrow morning with the Shokuhara and Alemik schools of bare-handed defense, and work your way toward the thirty-six known styles of katari duel. After that, we shall see.” He got to his feet, looming over the rest of them, signifying that the council meeting was at an end. The elders rose, talking in low voices among themselves as they filed out of the tent.

  But Rustan continued to sit, his mouth twisted as if he had eaten a bitter lemon.

  “You want me to teach her how to katari duel?” he said to Barkav. “Why? What have I
done to deserve this, Father?”

  Kyra shot Rustan a furious glance. “I don’t need anyone to teach me how to katari duel, Maji-khan, especially not him.”

  Barkav gazed at both of them out of calm eyes that were the color of a leaden sky. He didn’t say a word, but after a moment, Rustan lowered his head. Kyra’s cheeks burned. She wished with all her heart that she had not spoken. To her relief, Barkav gave a curt gesture of dismissal. Kyra almost tripped and fell in her hurry to leave.

  Chapter 15

  A Price to Pay

  The wind had fallen silent. Kyra stood outside her tent, drinking in the stark splendor of the scene. A silver moon rode high in the sky, dimming the stars and bathing the sands with its phosphorescent light.

  “Beautiful, is it not?” a voice rasped behind Kyra. It was Astinsai. In the moonlight her tiny, wizened form and hooded face took on an almost inhuman cast.

  Kyra shivered. “Beautiful but cold.”

  “There is always a price to pay for beauty,” said Astinsai with a gap-toothed grin. “Or for love. Oh, never mind me,” she added. “I am old and sentimental and cannot say anything original anymore. But come to my tent, if you will. I want to see your face by the light of my own fire.”

  Kyra was bone-tired, and she would have to get up before dawn for the so-called lessons with Rustan. But an invitation to spend time with the last living katari mistress did not come every day. So she bowed and said, “I would be honored.”

  She was curious to see how the katari mistress lived. Would there be shelves of glass pitchers filled with colorful potions? Bunches of roots and herbs hanging from the ceiling to ward off evil spirits? Luxurious silk cushions and rugs lining the floors? Glass mirrors and bronze urns? Kyra’s imagination soared as she followed the old woman to the edge of the Khur camp.