Markswoman Read online

  Dinner was a delicious bowl of steaming hot noodle soup, loaves of freshly baked bread, ripe cheese, olives, and roasted nuts. They ate in the dining hall downstairs, attended by a dour and capable old man, who refilled empty plates and bowls without being asked. Everyone ate without speaking, so intent were they on their food, although Shurik managed to wink at Kyra across the table when none of the elders was looking. Kyra ignored him. After a week of millet stew and potatoes, this tasty food deserved all of her attention.

  But what washed off the fatigue of the journey was a trip to the bathhouse after dinner. Kyra had heard of these wondrous buildings but never entered one herself. She learned that there was only one bathhouse in the Jewel of Kashi, with separate hours for men and women; the men could bathe in the mornings and the women in the evenings.

  At the entrance, Kyra put on the wooden clogs that had been thoughtfully provided so that bathers would not slip on the wet floor. She stripped off her grimy robes and handed them to a female attendant to wash. The attendant bowed and gave her a colorful checked bathrobe to tie around her waist, a thick white towel, a scrub, and a square of jasmine-scented soap.

  The bathhouse consisted of three interconnected chambers: a domed “hot” room with a heated marble platform in the middle for sweating, a rectangular “warm” room with alcoves and stone basins for washing with soap and water, and an airy “cool” room with comfortable divans for relaxing, dressing, and maybe having a cup of tea.

  Kyra didn’t stay long on the marble platform of the hot room; the steamy air made her feel claustrophobic, although it also loosened her tense muscles. She made her way to the warm room, where a bored-looking masseuse sat on a stool, waiting to offer up her services to the next guest. She perked up on seeing Kyra, who did not have the heart to deny her, although she had never had a massage before and was reluctant to have a stranger’s hands on her body.

  But the masseuse was as skilled as she was garrulous, and Kyra soon found herself lying facedown on a stone slab, trying not to drift off to sleep while the woman massaged her aching limbs with fragrant sandalwood oil, and kept up a constant flow of inane chatter. Finally, Kyra escaped into an alcove to soap herself, and the masseuse went to the cool room to prepare mint tea for her customer.

  By the time Kyra emerged from the bathhouse, rejuvenated and refreshed, night had fallen on Kashgar. The courtyard was lit with several small fires. Men and women who couldn’t afford rooms clustered around them, cooking food and warming themselves. Kyra paused on the stairs to drink in the scene. So many people. There were even some children, presumably traveling with their families. What spurred them to make the arduous journey across deserts and mountains without the help of doors? Was it only the chance of profit? The livelihoods of many depended upon the markets of Kashgar. But it was a hard way to make a living, being on the move for several months a year, with the ever-present risk of losing your wares and your life.

  Kyra turned to resume climbing, and stopped short. Someone was cat-footing along the first-floor gallery ahead of her. Even without her blade, she sensed it was Shurik. Sure enough, he appeared a few moments later, his boyish face framed by the light of the oil lamp hanging at the top of the stairs.

  “What are you doing still up?” asked Kyra, wary.

  He shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d wait for you.” He came down the stairs and sniffed. “You smell nice. I’m dying to have a bath myself.”

  “You’ll get your turn tomorrow morning,” said Kyra.

  “Yes, I can just picture myself, sweating in the hot room between Ghasil and Ishtul,” said Shurik with a wink.

  But Kyra sensed that his heart was not in it. “What’s the matter?” she couldn’t help asking, although she could guess, and she didn’t really want to hear it spoken aloud.

  Shurik ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “I thought I could do this, come here and run whatever errands the elders wanted me to, and wish you godspeed with a smile. But it’s too hard. I can’t bear the thought of losing you.” He added hastily, “As a friend, of course.”

  “It’s hard for me too,” said Kyra, choosing her words carefully. “But the right thing is rarely easy to do. In fact, that’s probably an excellent way to choose your course: What’s the most difficult and thorny path of all? And then take that one.”

  “What?” he stared at her, surprised. “Kyra, that might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Or the wisest. I’m not sure.”

  “Thank you,” said Kyra drily, shaking her head, moving past him up the stairs. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to sleep.”

  “Stay awhile and talk?” said Shurik, trailing after her. “In three days you’ll be gone and God knows if I’ll ever see you again, and all you want to do is sleep?”

  “Hush,” she hissed. “You’ll wake them up.” They were walking past the rooms that had been given to the elders.

  “I don’t care,” said Shurik. “Let them wake up. I’m not scared of those old bats.”

  “Bats?” drawled a familiar voice. “That’s a new one, Shurik.”

  Kyra stopped, astonished. It was the Maji-khan, leaning against the railing of the gallery ahead of them. How had they missed seeing him in the lamplight? Perhaps he had the gift of camouflage, like Ria Farad.

  Behind her, Shurik cleared his throat. “Gnats. I was complaining about the gnats. They’re always flying about at this time of the night. I think I’d better go to bed.”

  “Yes,” said Barkav. “You had better go before those gnats decide to come after you.”

  Shurik left so quickly that Kyra could have sworn she felt a breeze. She quenched the mirth rising up inside her and met Barkav’s gaze.

  “Has the boy been troubling you?” he demanded. He raised a hand. “No, don’t answer. I know that you will not admit it. I have let this go on for far too long. Perhaps I should not have let him come with us to Kashgar. Saninda did speak against it.”

  Kyra stifled her indignation with difficulty. What did he mean, he had let this go on for far too long? What was this? “I don’t know what you mean, Father,” she said. “Shurik is my friend and I have been glad of his company. There is no trouble of any sort.”

  “You know what I mean, Kyra,” said Barkav. “I’ll not see a promising young Marksman—one who is exceptionally gifted in the Mental Arts—lose his wits because of a childish infatuation. I will send him back to Khur tomorrow morning.”

  Kyra bit her lip. He would send Shurik back through the desert alone? Suppose he was attacked by a gang of outlaws or caught in another storm on his own? How would he survive?

  “Father, there is no trouble,” she said at last. “I will come to you if there is. You have my word. There is no need to send him away. It’s only a matter of three days.”

  Barkav frowned. “Yes. Three days before the meeting in Sikandra. I will be busy with the Kushan and Turguz clan elders, but perhaps I can spare Ishtul to work with you on the different forms of katari duel.”

  Kyra quailed at the thought of individual lessons with the dour Ishtul. “Thank you for the offer, but please don’t trouble the elder,” she said. “Rustan has taken me through all the forms in great detail. I can practice them on my own.”

  “Fine, see that you do,” said Barkav. “You may take a couple of hours to explore Kashgar tomorrow morning, but after that I expect you to practice for the rest of the day. I will send for you in the evening, and then you will duel with me.”

  Kyra gasped, but Barkav slipped away before she could say another word, silent and graceful as a cat despite his bulk.

  She went to her room, bolted the door from within, and collapsed on the bed. Duel the Maji-khan? She doubted even Rustan had done that.

  * * *

  After an early breakfast of fruit and milk brought up on a tray by a serving girl, Kyra set off to explore the town. She took her own katari, leaving Shirin Mam’s blade underneath the bed, buried in her little bundle of clothes. Ever
since Shirin Mam had told her to leave her katari with Rustan, the ancient blade had begun to feel more and more like a burden. Was that why she had also not heard her teacher’s voice in so long? Despondent, Kyra slipped out of the guesthouse, careful not to draw attention to herself.

  The narrow, dirt-packed streets outside were filled with more people and palanquins, shops and vendors than Kyra had thought existed this side of the Tien Shan Range. How did they all survive in such cramped quarters? She squeezed past people and pack animals, narrowly avoiding being run over by a horse cart. Vendors thrust their wares under her nose, wheedling her to part with her precious coin. She ignored them and continued walking, deeper into the bustling heart of the town, half-dazed by the noise, color, and commotion.

  She stopped short at the edge of a vast, dirt-packed square. Row upon row of stalls jostled for space with prospective customers of every hue and garb. Goats and people milled about. At one end of the square was an enclosure for camels; at the other end a strip of sand had been cleared for testing the horses that were on sale. This must be the fabled weekly market of Kashgar. Kyra stood on tiptoe, trying to spot an opening in the press of people so she could join the throngs fingering fabrics and poking melons.

  “I wouldn’t go into the crowd, if I were you,” said someone behind her. “Not unless you wish to have your purse cut.”

  Kyra’s heart leaped at the sound of that voice. Rustan.

  He stood there smiling, holding a covered basket in one hand and the reins of a loaded mule in the other. All the anger and loneliness she had felt at his abrupt departure from Khur evaporated, and she grinned back at him, the first real surge of joy she’d felt in days rushing through her. She was relieved that she had had a bath the evening before and washed her hair. Thank goodness he hadn’t seen her when she arrived in Kashgar, filthy and exhausted.

  He was trim and striking as ever, with his black hair cropped short and his blue eyes regarding her with amusement. Even holding a basket of potatoes, he was every inch the Marksman, the symbol of the winged horse on his robe and the unadorned heartwood scabbard hanging from his waist belt. She noticed a circle of space had opened up around him. People backed away after a single glance at his face. How come they didn’t do that around her? True, she hid her scabbard in a fold of her robe, but still.

  “Barkav told me I’d probably find you at the market,” said Rustan. “He gave me a list of things to buy, and here I am, at your service once more.”

  He gave a mock bow, but the effect was rather spoiled by a half-bray, half-whinny from the mule. Kyra burst out laughing and Rustan straightened, shaking his head in disgust.

  “Where have you been?” she demanded, hoping she didn’t sound breathless. “I thought you were away on a mission for the Order.”

  Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving? I thought I’d never see you again.

  Better if you hadn’t.

  Kyra blinked, startled. Had they spoken aloud?

  But Rustan said, “I was on a mission. I went to Herat to look for Samant, the elder who was visiting the Ersani clan. I found him delirious with fever, lying alone in a hut while the Ersanis waited for him to pass into the spirit world.”

  “What?” said Kyra. “Why didn’t they give him medicine?”

  “Superstition,” said Rustan. “They think sickness is a possession by the spirits. Fortunately, I’ve managed to bring Samant here for treatment. He should be fine in a few days.” He looked at the square. “What were you planning to buy today? Perhaps I can help.” A teasing note entered his voice. “Thieves will steal the robe off your back if you’re not careful.”

  “I only wanted to look,” said Kyra. “I don’t have much coin, and not much time either. The Maji-khan wants me to spend the rest of the day practicing. He said he would duel me this evening.”

  She hoped Rustan would offer to practice with her, but he simply nodded. “We shall have to be quick then. Follow me.”

  He plunged ahead into the crowd, which seemed to part magically for him and his mule. Kyra hurried after him, a little disappointed. What had she been expecting? Rustan had taught her what he could; Barkav had said as much. His being in Kashgar at the same time as her was happenstance, and she had best not act like a fool around him.

  * * *

  Rustan watched as Kyra touched a roll of fabric on the counter of a tiny stall manned by a sharp-eyed Kushan woman. It was Jili silk of the finest quality, spun by silk farmers of the Zhejiang province. It was emereld green in color, much like her blade.

  When Samant told him he should return to Kashgar before it was “too late,” he had been mortified, and also terrified he would somehow miss her, that the contingent would have left for Sikandra Fort already, and he would never see her again. But there was no way he could endanger the life of the elder in his care. It was Samant, finally, who had insisted on leaving the Ersani village as soon as he could stand.

  Stay alive, Kyra.

  She looked at him, frowning, and Rustan blanked his thoughts. She turned her attention back to the fabrics on display, but he could sense her confusion, the disarray of her emotions. She had not expected to see him again and it was difficult for her to hide her feelings. Although, he supposed, he wasn’t doing such a good job of it either. He had known he would be happy to see her again; he had thought of her every day since leaving Khur, and it had seemed like months rather than weeks since he’d last laid eyes on her. But what he hadn’t expected was this fierce desire to take her in his arms.

  Rustan winced inwardly, remembering the kiss he had witnessed in Khur. And the inescapable fact of Shurik’s presence in Kashgar.

  In three days it wouldn’t matter how he felt. She would be gone from their lives, one way or another. If she won the duel, as he hoped and prayed she would, she would return in triumph to her Order, and they would not meet again, except in the most formal of circumstances. If she lost . . . but here his mind refused to go.

  There was nothing he could do about it, nothing. Except—he could be a witness to the last. He owed her that much. Samant thought so. Barkav did too, not that he had said anything outright. But Rustan could still remember the disappointed look the Maji-khan had given him when he’d asked for another assignment. What had he said? Don’t delude yourself. You cannot run away, no matter how far you go.

  In Herat, after inadvertantly confessing his feelings to Samant, Rustan had known he had to come back. There was no way he could influence the course of the duel. But he would be there for Kyra till the end. He would give her—give himself—that.

  Chapter 28

  Compulsion

  Kyra walked along the gallery to her room, humming, cradling the lovely roll of Jili silk Rustan had insisted on purchasing for her, despite her protests. But it wasn’t the silk that made her happy; it was the fact that Rustan had been unable to hide his pleasure at seeing her again.

  “Never mind,” he had said about the silk, with a smile that made her heart flutter in the most alarming way. “Perhaps you will find an occasion to wear it one day.”

  It was foolish, of course. She would never wear that silk. She would never wear anything but the robes of her Order as long as she lived. But she couldn’t help running her hands over the delicate material, imagining how it would feel against her skin. Imagining how Rustan might feel, seeing her in it, how it might make him want to touch her the same way she was now stroking the fabric.

  They had returned to the Jewel of Kashi together, the mule following them through the narrow streets. At the guesthouse they shared a brief midday meal, which Kyra was not able to taste or remember. She was too aware of Rustan’s eyes lingering on her face. Finally he left to run some errands for Barkav, reminding Kyra that she needed to practice before the duel with the Maji-khan.

  The rest of the day dragged by. Kyra tried to concentrate on the forms of internal strength, but her thoughts kept returning to Rustan, and the way he had looked at her when he bought the green silk.

  Wh
en Aram knocked at her door that evening and told her Barkav was waiting for her, Kyra woke from her daydreams with a guilty start. She hastily tied her hair and tightened the belt across her robe, trying to overcome her nervousness. She followed Aram down the stairs and into one of the empty stalls facing the courtyard. To her dismay, Shurik, Rustan, Ishtul, Saninda, and Ghasil were also present, standing just outside the stall, blocking it from the view of curious onlookers.

  The elders gave her a brief nod, but otherwise remained expressionless. Rustan gave her an encouraging smile. As her teacher, this was as much his test as hers, but he did not look unduly worried about it. Shurik, on the other hand, could barely disguise his anxiety. Good luck, he mouthed at her. Kyra bowed to the elders, and gave a reassuring look to her friend. It’s all right. I know what I’m doing.

  And then she entered the stall and faced the Maji-khan. Her heart quailed. He stood in a pool of light cast by two oil lamps hanging at the entrance, immovable and solid as a mountain, his face like granite. He was at least twice her size. But Chintil had taught her that size had nothing to do with the outcome of a duel. You could use someone’s strength against them, if you had the skill.

  Kyra bowed to the Maji-khan, and he inclined his head.

  “I could break you in two like a twig,” he said, his deep voice booming in the empy stall. “Are you worthy of my katari?” He made a tiny movement, and a soft golden-yellow light appeared in his hand.

  Kyra swallowed. He was testing her will and courage. “I am as unbreakable as my blade,” she said, keeping her voice steady. She unsheathed her own katari, and felt its warmth travel up her arm.

  He moved forward, so fast that she almost stumbled back in fear, and thrust his katari toward her throat in a sudden, upward strike. Behind her, she heard Shurik gasp. But Kyra had no time to spare a thought for him. She blocked the Maji-khan’s katari with her forearm, wincing as she hit the flat of his blade. If this wasn’t a mock duel, the katari would have sliced her arm in half. She brought her own katari slashing down on Barkav’s shoulder. At the last moment, she twisted it so it glanced off harmlessly, and at the same time hooked her right leg around his left leg to try to sweep him off his feet.