Out on the lonely Subar desert there was a black horse, and on the horse a rider. He was covered from head to toe in a long and tattered shroud. And he was hunching forward, craning his neck as if to get home a moment sooner, and he swayed upon his seat. The whispering wind and the heavy warmth and the ambling horse lulled him. He wavered like a sleepy hound gazing up at the feast and nodding off despite a ravenous hunger. His chin drooped into his shallow chest. He slid, and his horse dipped to catch him. He shook his cowled head. Desiccated fingers crept out from beneath the shroud. They traced a hempen lanyard until they tapped its anchor, a hollowed-out and cork-stoppered gourd. The rider raised it up and shook it and listened. Heard no liquid slosh. He chewed his tongue for the moisture. “I need to drink.” he said, and his voice was like a stale draft rushing out from a crypt. “How much further?” he asked. And the horse answered.
“Not far, master.” it said. “There’s a little town we can reach by the morning.”
The rider scanned the empty flats. “I need water now. Dig me a well.”
The stallion snorted. “Mortals.” it said, and grew into an elephant. Its shifting weight threw the rider and he flopped into the sand.
“Ogri.” he said, spitting dust. “Be gentle.”
Ogri attacked the ground, his tusks shoveling great scoops of dirt onto the rider’s lap. “Apologies, master.” he said. “I do only what thou commands.” And to prove it he raised a dripping trunk.
“Very good.” the rider said, half-buried. “Now help me up—gently. And make me a resting place.” The trunk scooped him up to his feet and held him there, his knees knocking together like those of a new-born foal. He took one step and faltered. Then he crawled on his knees and elbows and wriggled face-first into the massive hole. He slurped water while Ogri swept the ground with his trunk, pushing away the top layer of sun-warmed sand and airing the cool bed of dirt beneath. For a blanket he made use of his shadow, and there on the chill ground the rider slept, and as he slept he dreamed.
The tunic tickles your skin. The night is cool and good. Your head swims with wine and your heart brims with song and you’re arm-in-arm with friends. Together you’re singing, heedless of the Magister’s curfew, and swaggering down Shindara’s broad streets. Home turf. Passers-by toast your health or cross to the lane to avoid you. The night is good. And as you sing you dance, and your sandaled feet tingle as they slap the cobbles, and you dance faster and they stomp harder and the earth beneath you quakes.
The rider jolted up from his nap. He pressed his ear against the trembling ground. “Ogri.” he said. “There are horses on the plain.”
The elephant yawned. “Six horses, master.” he said, tilting his head at the horizon. And he twitched a floppy ear. “No, I’m wrong. Five horses and a donkey.”
The rider looked. On the horizon a line of dust-clouds rose, like goosebumps along the desert’s broad back. “Who are they?”
“Shindaran troopers, master, chasing outlaws. But don’t worry thyself. They’re far too busy to notice us.”
The rider draped the lanyard of his canteen, now full of brackish water, over his head. “I want to see.”
“Master,” Ogri said, “though I’m sure to witness thy death eventually—and in fact there’s nothing I want more—thou hast ordered me to do my all to prevent it. Therefore, I must insist for thee to stay right here and—”
“Ogri.” the rider said. “Take me there.”
The elephant scooped him up with its trunk and set him onto its back.
“And what do you think people will make of that monster?” the rider said. “Turn into a horse again—and gently.”
“It’s called an elephant.” Ogri said, shrinking into a gargantuan black stallion, “Now hold on tight.” He leapt into a gallop, and the rider bounced along the stallion’s rump and grabbed ahold of its mane. Barely keeping his seat, he jammed his face against the horse’s neck as they soared across the earth, and his horse was all he could see, but he could hear—faintly at first, and growing louder with every stride—the din of a pursuit.
“Stop.” he rasped, and flew nearly overtop the stallion. Then he sank down and squinted. Ahead—about the distance of two strong bow-shots back to back—streaked the murk of a chase. And leading it, like a brush trailing paint, was a boy astride a donkey. Behind him a trio of running and panick-stricken men. They looked over their shoulders at the cloud and at the monstrous silhouette emerging. A pair of steaming horses, side-by-side, hitched to a rumbling chariot. Such chariots were typically manned by two—a driver and a warrior—but this one bore only a single man, driver and warrior both. And he was drunk on glory. Rather than waiting for his horses to outrun the foe, he leapt onto the yoke and, balancing there, strode upon it like an acrobat walking the tight-rope, until he stood between their necks. With one hand he grasped the reins and with the other a spear. And with his voice he sang his name and the name of his father.
As he did so the names were spoken by someone else. Observing from atop his stallion, the strange rider beamed. “Tal-Humche.” he said. Tal was a horseboy no longer. He had earned himself a chariot. And he perched atop its yoke, the long plaits of his dark hair streaming from his headband, his tunic billowing, constrained by a broad blue belt. The colors of the Chosen. He screamed his name and urged his striving horses as they devoured the plain before them and closed the distance to the fleeing men.
One of them, a bare-faced youth, cried out to his elder, a bearded man with a single eye and a spear. “You have a weapon. Fight!” But One-eye didn’t hear him, or pretended not to. The young man siezed him. “Throw it!” he said, pointing to the chariot. “He’s alone!” One-eye looked. His knees were quaking. Then he wrestled himself free and lobbed his spear, not at the Chosen but sidelong into the empty plain. “Coward!” And the bearded one fled. His junior outraced him. Horses galloped till they were nearly stamping on his heels. One-eye dove, and scrambling up to his feet he raised an empty right hand—the universal sign of surrender. Tal-Humche did not slow the horses or spare him more than a glance. He thundered past him, chasing after the fleetest foe, the boy astride the donkey. Tal overtook the outlaws one by one and one by one they surrendered. But the beardless youth, the one with the fighting spirit, lied. Holding his arms up to feign submission he waited for his chance. And soon he found it. As the horses passed him he reached, stretching his empty right hand towards the chariot’s rail and its weapon-case, a quiver bristling with spears. And lunging over the passing chariot he grasped one by the tips of his fingers and pulled the haft free.
Tal’s four troopers, on horseback, galloped out from the murk and saw the youth and the spear. They bellowed out a warning, but their captain had raced too far ahead to heed them. The watching rider found himself rasping at the top of his shallow lungs. He dug his heels into the stallion. “Master,” Ogri said, “I don’t think that’s a good—”
“I command you,” the rider said, “to save Tal-Humche. But there will be no more killing.” And his atrophied limbs squeezed the charging stallion. The rider fought to raise his head and see. The treacherous outlaw, recovering his posture, raised his stolen spear. He ran after his victim and hefted it high to throw. Tal was oblivious. The outlaw had an easy shot. But he did not take it before crying out his name.
“Eresh-Kigal ket Irkalla, King of the Gray Wolf clan!”
Over the rumbling of his wheels and the stamping of his horses Tal-Humche heard the cry. He glanced over his shoulder at the hurtling spear and leapt, and tumbling into the dust he struck the earth and rolled and his chariot left him behind. Eresh-Kigal ran toward the dazed and fallen trooper. The black stallion raced to intercept, and its rider tried to steady his bobbing head so that he could watch. Tal-Humche groaned in the dust. He rose to his knees and elbows. His spear was on the ground a dozen paces distant. The outlaw went to a loose boulder the size of a man’s head. He stooped to heft it. The rider tried to will Tal-Humche up, but he only blinked the grit from his eyes and shook it from his ears. Eresh-Kigal carried the stone. Tal-Humche knelt. The plaits of his beautiful hair were grimed by the fall and strewn about his shoulders. And he was facing the wrong direction. Looking at the runaway chariot and not the nearing killer. Eresh-Kigal approached him and raised the stone up high. Then he stopped. The earth was quaking underneath the massive stallion’s hooves. Both men turned to gaze at it thundering straight towards them like the shadow of Death. Straight towards Tal.
The stallion pounded, kicking up great clods of dirt, and the rider clutched the flowing mane and winced with every stride. His cowl loosened and flapped. The wind peeled it from him, exposing a head as bald and as pale as a skull. Tal-Humche rubbed his eyes. “Duck.” the rider rasped, and his voice was lost to the wind. His stallion leapt. Its shadow passed over the man and its hooves brushed his hair. Then they crashed onto the plain below and the rider’s head smacked against his horse and his teeth bit his tongue. Ogri eased to a canter. The outlaw dropped his stone as the dread stallion circled him like a gigantic bird of prey. “Yield.” its rider said—or tried to. His wounded tongue stumbled over the word. The outlaw stared. His face was young and weatherworn and his eyes were fathomless. They beheld the pale rider and the horse. Then he strode towards them. The rider swallowed the blood in his mouth. “Yield.” he said, and remembering his knife, which was swaddled in wool and dangling on the same string as his gourd, he frisked himself. The outlaw jogged alongside the trotting stallion. Raised his empty right hand. Callused fingers grasped the rider’s shroud and he was pulled flailing to the dust. He slowly stood. Rubbed his aching backside. Squinted up at the man. The outlaw had vaulted onto his horse and Ogri was snorting in mirth. Then his new rider dug his heel into the god’s rib and banished his sense of humor.
“May I throw him, master?” the god asked, speaking so that only the shrouded man could hear. He nodded and Ogri bucked and the outlaw, who was kicking the horse to no avail, flew off him like a flicked ant. He fell flat on his back and lay there gasping. The rider fumbled for his curious blade, a jagged shard of dull black metal. He crouched over the winded youth and waved it over his eyes.
“I said yield.” But the eyes would not. They glared at him spitefully and the pale rider waited, afraid to look away. Hooves trotted closer. Horses whinnied. Shadows took turns blotting out the sun and splotches of reflected light danced across his vision. Bronze spearpoints hovered around his face like deadly silent wasps. He glanced up at a carousel of Chosen. Three of them, long-haired and grim-faced and dark. Their headbands were indigo and so were their belts, and protruding from each was the handle of a long brazen knife. The pale rider straightened his shroud, which had slipped half-way down his emaciated shoulders. At the sight of him, the horses swayed their heads and minced in place. Then the curtain of horseflesh parted. Tal-Humche scrubbed the corner of a kerchief against his grimed cheek. Tousled his tangled plaits. His face was clean-shaven and flushed to the roots of his hair. “You.” he said, striding at the outlaw. “You snake! You sneaky little worm! I should cut off your nose.” And he spoke with the sleepy gaze and the nasal drawl of habiru nobility.
Eresh-Kigal stood, heedless of the spearpoints prodding at his chest. “If you wanted to fight me fairly, dog, then you would have done so. Give me a weapon I dare you!”
The Chosen scoffed. “I am Tal-Humche ket Urek, third prince of the Golden Eagle clan. Squadron leader of the Circle’s Chosen, and even I would have no right to a duel. Not if I was already beat. And you are just a foot-thrall.”
“A foot-thrall? I am Eresh-Kigal, and I am the last and only prince, and thus the king, of the Gray Wolf clan.”
The horsemen muttered. Tal’s crimson flush somehow deepened. “A Wolf.” he said, spitting the word. “You are king of nothing and no one. I should drag you to Tidnum. Its people still pay a bounty for wolves—a silver deben for one of any kind. Full grown or cub, four-legged or two. Perhaps you could speak to them of your noble lineage.”
Eresh-Kigal surged. Spearpoints dug into his chest, and from them bloody rills went streaming. “You know nothing but Shindaran lies!” he said. “Tell me, lap-dog. Does the gold on your collar make you any less a slave?”
Men vaulted off their horses and seized him. They twisted riding crops around his wrists and pinned them behind his back. Then Tal-Humche ket Urek, third prince of the Golden Eagle clan, squadron leader of the Circle’s Chosen, drew his knife and hammered its pommel into the bound man’s face. Teeth crunched and sprayed from his broken mouth. “You’ll learn all about collars soon,” Tal said, “and you’ll find they won’t be made of gold.” Eresh-Kigal’s grimace widened into a gap-toothed, bloody grin. Troopers beat him as their captain wiped the pommel of his knife and matched it to the sheathe.
The pale rider swaddled his own blade. For a second time he had saved Tal-Humche’s life. “It was no trouble at all.” he said, and stepping close he hugged him. Tal’s body tensed and his hands pushed out for distance. He took a few steps back. In his startled eyes there was no recognition.
“Excuse me.” he said, and frisked his waist-sash to check on his belongings. “Have we met before?”
The pale rider scratched his head. “Apparently not.”
“I am Tal-Humche,” he said, “and these are my men, all the sons of heroes.” And he stared into the pale rider’s face. The captain waited for something. “Forgive me, stranger, but I have given you my name.”
“Oh.” the stranger said. His habiru name belonged to a dead man. He reviewed his numerous cognomens and clucked. The Chosen began to look at one another. “I am Root.” he said, settling for the name the witch had given him, and he offered his right arm to be grasped.
Tal looked at the shriveled hand. “A pleasure.” he said, holding the frail arm like it was something dirty, and he gestured to the beaten outlaw. “I must thank you for apprehending this rabid pup. If he were allowed to mature he could one day lead a pack. We will rest now. You may join us, if you wish.” And he looked to one of his men, a squat and hairy trooper with a bristling moustache. “But first let’s gather the slaves.”
The Chosen left their new acquaintance alone with the battered and squirming Wolf. The thrill of the chase seeped out of Root’s limbs, and with it what little strength he had. His knees gave and he sat in Ogri’s shadow and sipped from his gourd and watched. The horsemen rode back trailing captives. Tal’s runaway chariot returned driven by a lanky youth, his upper lip sporting barely perceptible whiskers, his belt a plain green wool. He was a squire, having yet to earn the colors of the regiment. He descended and set to work unharnessing the horses, and found that one of them was dripping blood. The stolen spear, having missed Tal, must have flown on and sliced across its shoulder. The squire cooed assurances at the nervous animal as he staunched the wound. From his belt he took a body-scraper, a piece of flat horn used to wick oil from one’s skin, and scraped beneath the cut, pushing the precious blood into a copper bowl. Then the swarthy trooper arrived with the boy and the donkey. He corralled them with the other captives and, sliding off his horse, joined the other Chosen unhitching the bellybands and saddle-cloaks and bridles from their mounts and brushing them. Then he emptied his water-skin into a bowl for his horse to drink. Tal-Humche removed the quivers from his chariot and turned it upside down, to keep the wheels from warping underneath its weight, and the troopers fashioned crude tents from their spears and cloaks. The thirsty captives crouched in the open heat and watched the horses slurping.
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In the shade of their tents the Chosen rested. They passed the bloody bowl around and took turns to sip. Root was drowsing. “By the gods.” Tal said, looking at him. “I’d think he was a ghola, if his neck were twisted.” Ghola were human cadavers risen, the ones with their faces turned. Denied their proper funeral rites, they were cursed to wander in a witless search for their lost souls and to crave the flesh of the dead.
“And if he could not speak.” said Larsa, the swarthy one with the bristling moustache.
“But he does speak.” Tal said. “Impudently.” And Root had stared straight at him as if the two were equals. Was he some foreign prince? His name was no habiru name. He did not seem like royalty. But how then to account for his peerless horse? His curious blade? Tal had once seen earstuds of the dull black metal at Shindara’s market. The price was two silver bars. “And why does he look like that?”
“Perhaps he’s got some malady.” said Larsa’s squire, the boy with a pale imitation of his mentor’s moustache. “A diseased prince bearing his curse in exile. Using a false name.”
“Or a thief.” said Larsa. “A slave cursed by the gods.” And he watched the strange man’s horse. Its form was flawless and it stood at the withers seventeen hands high. Larsa’s horse stood twelve. “If it isn’t his, perhaps it could be ours.”
“He who does not know the falcon roasts it.” the squire said. “This ‘Root’ could be a god himself, adopting a hideous disguise to test the manners of men.”
Tal-Humche rose. “Let’s go and talk to him.”
They squatted around the strange rider and woke him from his sleep. “You may travel with us,” Tal said, “if you’re going to Shindara.”
“I am.” Root said, and that suited the squire’s first theory. The diseased prince sought what every ailing pilgrim did, a Shindaran miracle. For by the magi’s knowledge of the Firstborn tongue and their skill in etching it into stone, many ailments could be cured. Some travellers who were missing limbs went there for new ones, even though it meant that they could never leave. But Root spoke and proved the theory wrong. “What a lucky meeting! Not only am I going to Shindara, but I’m going there to join your regiment. You’ll be able to introduce me to Lord Mammo yourself, and be witness to my valor.”
“Perfect.” said Tal. “We could use your protection on the road.”
The swarthy cavalier smiled as he twirled an end of his moustache. “And the spoils?” Habiru won their loot by boasting. They would sing their own praises in turn, and the best man among the lot would choose for each a prize. A habiru’s reward wasn’t always just, but often depended on his skill at poetry and his standing with the best man. Arguments over who exactly the best man was could be fatal.
“There’s nothing to brag about this peasant chase.” Tal said. “I say we sell the lot and split the proceeds. Equal shares.”
“Does that include me?” Root asked. The troopers’ faces turned to him. “I could use some silver to outfit myself properly. I should dress well before meeting Mammo-Yhakko.”
Tal-Humche looked at him. “To you, my savior, I give the ass.”
“My thanks!” Root said, having failed to hear the insult. “I can sell it for a tunic and a belt. Then I’ll look like you.”
Tal decided on one final test to prove whether this strange man was really a habiru prince. The test was rude, but not even a god could object—not after such brazen insolence. Tal pointed to the knife at Root’s lanyard. “What a beautiful razor.” he said. The knife of a habiru is no mere tool or weapon but a family heirloom, representing his status as a man free from the indignity of labor. Habiru prize generosity above all else—even revenge—and a host is honor bound to give his guest anything that is admired openly. The only two exceptions are his horse and his blade. A habiru would sooner give his life. “For three days I’ve hounded these bandits,” Tal-Humche said, scratching at his chin, “and in all that time I haven’t had a shave.” His cheeks were smooth. “Would you lend it?”
“Of course.” Root said. He unswaddled his knife and presented it handle first.
Tal took the blade. “We break camp.”
“Should we go back to the caravan?” the squire said. “Let Mammo know we’re safe?”
The captain shook his head. “We’re near the city and it’s quicker to meet him there. But first we’ll go to Whiterock.”
Root watched the Chosen dismantle their tents and ready their horses to ride. The squire patrolled the campsite like a bird hunting for worms. Holding a pronged stick, he impaled cakes of dried horse-dung and deposited them into a sack for fuel. Once he was finished, the campsite looked like just another patch of desert—though one covered by hoofprints. The troopers vaulted onto their steeds and Tal-Humche mounted his chariot. The injured horse was tied to walk in trace. Larsa’s mare took its spot in harness, and the swarthy cavalier stood beside his captain and plied the reins and the whip. Then without a word to their captives they departed. Ogri knelt like a trick pony as his master struggled to climb him. Root told the stallion to amble, since his backside was sore from the chase, and caught up alongside the troopers to avoid eating their dust. Like the captives were. Behind him they followed like dogs. They were not bound—except for Eresh-Kigal, who’d been lashed to the donkey because he couldn’t walk—but they had no water and no place to run.
The troopers rode west until the sun dipped below the horizon. Then they dismounted and stripped their horses. Rearranging the belly-bands and saddle-blankets into scarves and cloaks they threw them around their shoulders and continued on foot, trudging beside the horses to spare their strength and also to keep themselves warm. Root stayed mounted. He wouldn’t be able to keep up without Ogri, and the god’s boundless strength did not need to be spared. The night grew black. Root shivered underneath his shroud and watched the stars emerge. The constellations shone so brightly that he felt as though he could almost reach out and touch them. The men beside him he could not see in the dark. Travelling away from the Mother’s Ladle, a constellation pointing to the east, he listened to the hooves slowly stomping and the men walking and breathing and the chirping of bird-calls. They came not from birds but men, calling to each other so that no one drifted off in the dark. Pausing only when the animals needed rest, they marched until the rosy light of dawn.
The new sun revealed a desert changed. The sandy plains had become stony, and the few shrubs and grasses that had speckled the landscape were there no more. Root had reached the Barrens. He looked back at the trio of bandits trudging and at the donkey bearing the Wolf. They were ragged but they had all survived. The Chosen dressed their horses and mounted and, putting kerchiefs under their headbands for shade, rode away from the rising sun. Root pulled the hem of his hood to shield his eyes from the glare. His canteen was empty and his bottom was tender. The sun slowly climbed. He waited for the captain to call for his men to encamp. Khyre’s burning chariot approached its apex and Root waited in vain. He rode up to the captain. “It’s nearly high noon.” he said. “Are we going to rest? The horses are tired.”
Tal cupped his ear. “Listen.”
Root mimed him and listened. Below the clopping of hooves and the wheezing of captives he heard a quiet clap. And then another.
“Quarry work.” Tal said. Regular waystations dotted the caravan route all throughout the Barrens, but Whiterock was the only place where people actually lived—apart from Shindara itself. Whiterock, as the name suggests, was a quarry town. “We’re nearly there.”
Root cursed beneath his breath and rode. The sun peaked. It pierced his cowl and scorched his shoulders and scalp. He drowsed in the saddle. Felt as though the desert was rocking him to sleep. And suddenly he jolted. The clapping had stopped. In the distance a white tower gleamed over a wall and a town. Outside it a vast quarry sprawled. Men crouched underneath the canopy and took their mid-day meal. Some of them were slaves, naked but for their caps, and some of them free workers. One saw the horses. He wiped the limestone powder off his face and squinted, shading his eyes with his hand. Then he turned to the others and spoke. They gathered their tools and baskets and, crying hew and halloo, scurried to the wall’s wooden gates. They were wide enough to let a wagon through. They opened narrowly and the workers entered.
Tal waved his blue scarf at the closing door. He must have been too far away for them to see his colors. “These quarrymen are crazy.” he said. “When have raiders ever crossed into the Barrens?” And using his broad knife as a mirror he tidied the plaits of his hair. “Take us closer.” Larsa brought the chariot within a stone’s throw of the wall. Men stood atop it holding spears and slings. “I am Tal-Humche ket Urek.” he said. “Third prince of the Golden Eagle clan. Squadron leader of the Circle’s Chosen.”
Atop the wall, an older man with a long and hooking nose raised the staff of a herald. “I am Moushe, servant of the Magus Bartoulme of the House of Stone Thralls, who is lord of this place, and on his behalf I apologize. Our town is nowhere near the caravans. We aren’t used to visitors, and from so far away we could not discern the colors of your regiment. On Magus Bartoulme’s behalf I welcome you.” And with a word from him the gate creaked open wide.
Root followed the chariot through and beheld a teeming throng, veiled wives and naked children and bare-faced girls and old widows all staring in awe of Tal-Humche. The herald cradled his staff. “Chosen of Shindara,” he said, “we are at your service. Would you like the horses stabled?”
“Please, good Moushe.” Tal said, speaking loudly so that everyone could hear. He tilted his head at the captives. “Have you some place that could serve as a jail? A humble date-farmer, thinking these scum innocent travellers hit by hard times, let them under his roof. Fed them. Gave them water and wine. And how did they repay his kindness? They killed him and looted his home!”
The crowd hissed at the captives. Children pelted them with rocks. A pebble struck Root’s shoulder. “We have a cellar with a door that can be made secure. We will empty it and jail the bandits,” Moushe said, catching a boy’s fist and shaking out the stone. “If only for their own safety.” And he pointed at a slave on the wall. “Squeaker, see that this is done. Give the bandits water and have Chorba tend their wounds. The rest of you, leave them be!”
Townsfolk jeered. Women dropped the hems of their skirts, and the rocks they’d gathered tumbled. Men strode down the stairs to go and herd the captives. Root was grabbed by the arm. He must have been thought a prisoner like Eresh-Kigal, permitted to ride only because he was unfit to walk. “No.” Tal said. “He goes with me.”
Boys offered to stable the horses, and girls gasped as the troopers vaulted off their steeds. Ogri knelt and Root slid down his rump. A youth took the god by the mane. Root held up a finger and put his lips against Ogri’s ear. “Don’t change shape or do anything suspicious.” he said. “Just act like a horse.” And the youth led Ogri away. Root followed the Chosen, who Moushe led past the villagers’ mud-brick houses and up a hill toward the looming tower. It was surrounded by a courtyard and a curtain wall. At the open gate, flanked by a pair of attendants, stood an old man in a robe of white linen.
“I present to you the lord of Whiterock.” Moushe said. “Magus Bartoulme of the House of Stone Thralls.”
The Chosen knelt before him. Root, exhausted from the climb, nearly fell flat on his face. “Welcome.” Bartoulme said. His beard and his eyes were gray and he wore no jewels or adornments. “My cooks need some time to prepare a feast worthy of your valor. In the meantime please sit and refresh yourselves. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have pressing business.” And with that curt welcome Bartoulme departed, his herald trailing behind. The troopers entered the courtyard and found themselves seats. Root stared at the two attendants, serving girls bearing wicker trays. They held bowls of figs and dates and steaming saucers of tea. A girl saw him staring and motioned to a chair. Root sighed as his bruised tailbone sank into the feather cushion. She set the tray down and, repressing a brief look of disgust, lifted his pale and swollen feet. Set them on a stool. He sipped at his saucer and spluttered as the hot tea scalded his throat. Sucking air he looked at the Chosen. Larsa, the squat cavalier with the bristling moustache, was blowing gently at his cup as if he hadn’t suffered a full day of thirst. Tal-Humche was washing his hands in a fingerbowl. Root’s attendant offered him one. He stared at it. With shaking hands he picked it up and brought it to his lips. She giggled as he drained the bowl dry. Then he nursed his saucer, blowing hard and blinding himself with steam. Larsa shoved dates into his mouth. “I hope Bartoulme isn’t as stingy with others,” he said while chewing, “as he is with himself. He dresses like a pauper and his teeth are white as ivory!”
But when the magus led them to his feasting hall he made Larsa regret spoiling his appetite. The table was laden with baskets full of freshly baked loaves, made not from flour of barley but wheat, and shallow dipping bowls of vinegar and olive oil and lentils spiced with cumin. Amidst them was an entire roast piglet. The flaming hearth was fuelled not with dried dung but with fragrant cedar, imported from the mountains to the distant north, and musicians strummed their fiddles and servants waited to pour wine and shoo the flies away. The only luxury Bartoulme denied the guests was his own company. He excused himself, citing the burden of governance, and invested Moushe with the authority to sit on his chair and speak on his behalf. Tal-Humche seated the others. He reserved the seat of honor for Root and handed him the strange black blade. “Would you do me a favor,” the captain said, smiling at his men, “and carve the roast?”
It was custom for the best man to carve, and to favor his closest friends with the finest portions. If someone challenged his right to do so or took issue with the serving he was given, the only solution was a duel. Tal’s offer would have been considered an act of submission if Root had been a peer. He should have known this, but in his exhausted state the thought did not occur to him that he was being ridiculed. He took the knife and the men howled laughing. “Mind them not, my friend.” said Tal. “They are only happy and full of wine.” Root began to carve. He did not get the joke but he was glad that spirits were high. He carved slowly and cut bone often, for the blade was keen enough to pierce the flesh of gods, and his slices were uneven and small. The men chuckled and gave him their advice. He passed the meat around haphazardly, knowing neither which portions nor which men were better, but no one took offense.
Once every plate was heaping full the captain stood. “To our new friend,” he said, raising his cup for a toast, “who saw a battle and—instead of running away—galloped straight toward it!” And he pressed a cup at Root. Men pounded the table and praised him. He drank the sweet red wine. They were looking at him. Expecting him to speak. He opened his mouth in search for some words and closed it. Then he stood. Swallowed the saliva gushing from his palette.
“To the Chosen.” he said.
“To the Chosen!” Tal cried, clinking his cup with Root’s. “We’ll take you to see Mammo and tell him of your quality. I’m sure he’ll love you. Might as well get yourself a blue belt first!”
Root drank again and sat down. He lowered his head to his plate and stuffed himself with pork so that his mouth would be too full to speak. A serving woman filled his cup. The squire stood. “For the Magus Bartoulme and his peerless fare!” Root’s eyes watered as he swallowed his morsel, making room to drink. He had barely taken his next bite when Tal toasted again.
“To Enlil Sky Father, for justice and victory and the swiftness of our horses!” Root sipped. Tal’s men took turns praising one another and everything under the sun. And every time they stood, Root had to drink. His cup seemed to stay full no matter how often he did. He grew sluggish. Eventually the toasting ceased. A man began to wrestle with Larsa, and his squire and Tal threw dice. A woman filled Root’s cup. He watched the musicians and their hands blurring over their fiddles as he drank. And suddenly he felt the need for a privy—for the first time since he had been reborn. He stood and the hall around him spun. His legs wobbled. They were too weary to walk. He crouched to the floor and crawled. An ankle slapped his ribs and a wrestler tripped over him, spawning a fresh bout of hysteria. Root ignored it and wriggled his way to the hearth. It was warm. He lay breathing by the open flames and promptly fell asleep.
The herald Moushe leaned close to Tal. “Tell me, noble captain, the story of how you apprehended the bandits. Everyone will ask.”
Tal slammed his empty cup on the table. “It’s nothing to boast about. We were with the eastern caravan when I decided to venture a little, to see if I could get a final bit of hospitality before returning to garrison. We happened across a homestead. The owner had been killed. His tools had been stolen, his harvest plundered. We buried him and tracked the bandits for two days, and on the third we caught them. One of the dogs nearly killed me—he feigned surrender and tried to stab me in the back.”
Moushe slowly shook his head. “Honorless cur! You should have cut off his nose.”
Tal smiled and wiggled his cup at a servant.
“So what will you do with them?” the herald asked, pouring wine.
“Take them to Shindara, to sell.”
Moushe leaned in closer. “That might not be necessary. The quarry needs men.” And he bartered over the price of the captives and was greatly pleased. Tal-Humche did not like to haggle, and didn’t think the captives worth very much at all. The herald got a good price. Then he gestured to Root. “What about the simpleton?” he said. “Surely he isn’t worth as much as the others—healthy men with their wits intact.”
Tal glanced at Root, who snored by the hearth in a puddle of his own making. “No.” Tal-Humche said. “Him you may have in the bargain.”
