Dreams of the Compass Rose (43 page)

Egiras moved her face just a tiny bit, but enough to part her lips. . . .

And then she bit the hand that was pressed against her face.

She bit it as one would bite a birthing bit, in reflex fury, feeling her teeth crush through the resilient softness of meat into bone, tasting salty fresh blood. There was a cry of pain that was more a cry of surprise—

Whoever had entered the tent was now properly alerted, had heard the cry, the muffled movement, heard the
very sound of her teeth coming together
—or so she thought.

And whoever held her did not use the knife at her throat. Instead the hand was dropped and she was grabbed roughly, like a living shield.

Egiras was between the
two,
neither one of whom she could properly identify, though she at least suspected the identity of her attacker.

And then she was shoved down with an amazing invisible force from the opposite side, so that she was detached from the one who had originally held her, and she was lying on the floor of the tent, feeling its roughness of sand and burlap against her forehead, while over her head she heard the dull clash of metal, a clamor of movement, then a short cry of pain.

Then, someone had fallen on top of her, someone whose scent she recognized again, the sour-pungent smell of camels, and recognized the
feel
of the creases and folds of fabric that had been that one’s clothing. And then that same body, now motionless, was displaced, and another took hold of her, picked her up. . . .

This other was great and all-encompassing, as if the night itself took on human form and carefully embraced her. And this one also was oddly familiar, but in a different way.

This one was holding her lightly like a precious parcel, and in reflex she clung back, leaning her head and cheek tightly against the place where she felt a chest and thought she heard a familiar beating heart.

And at the same time, hands came forth from the darkness on both sides of her, hands that wrapped around her gently and stroked her hair with warm, large, slightly trembling fingers.

“
Nadir . . .” whispered Egiras, smelling the warm desert. “It is always you. . . .”

Y
aro heard the footfalls of shadows as she lay next to her mother in the wagon. She opened her eyes wide and could just see
their
movements in the darkness as blurs, thanks to her nearsighted vision. She recognized them by their general outlines or maybe by some preternatural sense, never having heard their voices. These were the men that had worked in the caravan, the servants, the guards.

She knew it was a mutiny. They crept along the wagons toward the tent, never knowing she was there—or maybe not caring—and then she saw then heading toward the place where Nadir slept.

Terror rose up in Yaro’s throat. Urgency. Her temples were ringing like city tower bells. She wanted to fly forth, to run toward them, to throw herself mindlessly between them and the quiet man who had taken her in and who would now be dead. . . .

But in that moment his form lunged from the ground, moving preternaturally fast, and with a triumphant relief Yaro knew he would not fall before this night treachery.

There was fleeting movement in the darkness—so fast she was not sure what happened. She squinted, needing desperately to see. Several shadows fell, then one detached from the rest and made its way to the tent.

Yaro was not going to leave things to chance. All reason indicated she should stay in place at her mother’s side, hide in petrified silence and hope that the two of them would remain unnoticed. She had always been insolent in her courage. Recklessly she slipped from the wagon, fell to the cool night sand below, and then crept forward silent like a mouse and brave like a scarab beetle.

At one point stepping over bodies, she continued toward the tent.

Yaro paused near and listened. The night whispered unknown horrors in her mind, and she thought she heard the wind that hissed serpentine over the sands speak human words in a dry whisper.

Yaro, child of dust.

She ignored it, ignored the insistent whisper of fear, and instead strained to hear what was within. And then someone reached from behind her—maybe it was the night itself solidified—and took her firmly by the torso, while a hand was placed around her mouth. Her first instinct was to struggle, but the next instant she heard a real voice, not the wind, saying in her ear, “Peace, Yaro . . .” and she recognized Nadir.

In that moment from beyond the most distant wagon came the sound of roused camels. And then, in the living dark, she could see three of the creatures, barely corporeal pale ghosts against the night, obviously saddled and ready and indeed mounted.

They who rode the camels were fully equipped. And they pulled behind them two spare pack beasts, also fully loaded, as could be attested by the rounded bulky shapes crowning their backs.

“
Gods!” breathed Yaro. “How can we stop them, or find them in this moonless night? The night is only halfway through! And what of the others? How will we survive the remaining hours of the dark?”

“
There are no more others,” replied Nadir no longer bothering to hush his voice. “I counted the fallen, both those I killed myself and those who were slain by the traitors. All are accounted for, the living and the dead. As for those three, we let them go.”

“
Nadir!” came a frightened soft voice from within the confines of the tent, and for a moment Yaro did not recognize it as that of her former mistress, Egiras.

“
I am here,” he replied. “Do not be afraid. It is over. Come, Princess Egiras, it is only Yaro here with me.” And then he added, “Though it may be an uncertain thing we face in the morning.”

Egiras came forth from the tent. In the obscuring darkness she was a mere silhouette of wispy pallor, a shade.

The shade stood at the tent's entrance in odd, stonelike resignation, without strength. Egiras said, “My women. They who served me. I could not see. I stepped on one of them—on her hand. And she just lay there, silent. They all—just lie. . . .”

* * *

I
was the first to open my eyes, just as dawn colored the sands. I took in the first waking breath, hand gripping my sword by instinct, and then arose silently without disturbing Egiras or Yaro. Both of them lay sleeping nearby, directly on the cooled sand, and huddled next to Yaro was the old woman, her mother, whom we had brought forth from her hiding place in the wagon.

I stood, in that first moment not wanting to be alive, for wakefulness came to me with a pang of heavy truth. It struck me with a seething panic that I could never show, for I did not want to
know
what had come to pass in the night, did not want to face what was left to us.

It had been just as I thought. The camp we had made for the night, what was left of our already small caravan, was in devastation.

The remaining pack beasts and camels lay dead, their throats cut in the night. And in the wagon that held the water sacks there was further horror—all the sacks had been pierced, their water silently pouring out upon the sands in the darkness. Some of it had pooled in small shallow puddles on the bottom of the wagon, and traces remained in the sacks themselves.

But most of it had watered the desert.

I stood there while a cold inevitable knowledge came to me, for I knew now this was the end. The mutineers had managed to kill us with those two acts.

I understood it was not necessarily a malicious thing but a matter of self-preservation, removing all chances of pursuit by us. The men had lost trust for some reason, and wanted to return the way they had come. And they knew there was no other way they could break up the caravan. For it is known to all that, once embarked in the desert, a caravan is inviolate.

If only they had known me better. If only they had realized how much I valued lives, even theirs—I would have let them go and given them their share of supplies.

But they had not known me. And had not asked.

In the blooming of dawn, I salvaged as much as I could of the remaining water by pouring the dregs from the broken sacks into a larger clay vessel, one of the few containers packed in with the belongings of the Princess. It had been used to hold water for washing. I also swept up what was left in the puddles and thereby managed to add another cup or two of liquid to the jar.

When I was done, the vessel was more than two-thirds full, and I capped it tight to prevent further evaporation in the heat of the coming day.

I quietly surveyed the rest of the camp. Most of the dead were servants and guards who had come with us, including Patriq whose body I observed with an inner ache, remembering the moment of darkness when he had been killed.

In the tent lay the handmaidens of the Princess. All had been killed swiftly, professionally, which led me to believe that some of the hired guards had once been more than they appeared, military mercenaries.

What had been their motives? Why did they betray the caravan?

The answer remained unclear until I had examined most of the tent and noticed the rummaged contents of two small chests and the emptied jewelbox that belonged to Egiras.

They had taken whatever had been left of the Princess’s fortune, several large ruby and opal stones and ropes of pearl and precious metals. It is possible they had been disappointed and expected far more, for Egiras was thought to carry secret riches with her.

But then Egiras always had that air of superiority, an illusion of the highest extreme nobility—even when she was reduced to nothing more than a quiet madwoman.

And the reason she herself had escaped with her life, I realized, was that they had planned to take her with them, possibly for royal ransom, not knowing that Egiras had no kin and there was no one who would care to pay for her release. Luckily I had interrupted their kidnapping.

As I continued moving through the camp, gathering the remaining things that might be of use to us—while my thoughts searched madly for a solution, for a shred of hope—Yaro woke and joined me.

“
Tell me what I must do to help you, my Lord Nadir.”

I looked into her earnest eyes and for a moment found a jolt of living energy there, that very hope I had lost.

“
Go and gather cotton and rope and wood sticks,” I said, keeping my expression blank, “and anything else you think may help from the wagons, in order to make a sling. We need something to carry your mother as we walk through the desert.”

* * *

T
hey had taken all they could carry, and bound things in bags to be slung over their shoulders. Since there was a greater stretch of desert behind them than before them, according to the days the caravan had traveled, Nadir had made the decision that they will continue onward toward the East.

Eventually the desert would end in plains, with possible sources of water, and then in the distance there would be mountains. Beyond those lay fertile land, and the trip from that point on would be survivable.

In secret, Yaro had looked into Nadir's eyes, however, and she knew that he did not believe they would come out of the desert.

The Princess Egiras was mostly silent, and she did not protest when given a small bag to carry. While the others got ready, she stood looking toward the East, her narrow eyes unblinking, hypnotized by the horizon. Her midnight black hair was tangled, moving in the warm gusts of wind, and her head was uncovered from the sun. She had to be told like a child to put her veils on and to shield herself from the incandescent sunfire.

“
Leave me behind . . . please . . .” whispered Yaro’s old mother as she was made to lie on a small cotton sling.

“
Be quiet, stupid woman, or I will beat you!” snarled Yaro. A considerable sack of their food and belongings was attached to Yaro’s thin back, and she fiercely picked up one end of the sling while Nadir took the other.

Nadir himself was loaded up like a pack-beast, and in addition he carried their precious jar of water.

“
We go now. Come, my Princess Egiras!” said Nadir loudly, and Egiras obeyed his voice like a trained creature.

They started to walk, taking slow steps so as not to flounder in the thick sands.

Around them, the wind of the desert howled in laughter.

T
heir allotment of water was three sips for each of the four of them, twice a day. Nadir knew this was an unrealistic measure, and that they would not last long under these circumstances, no more than a couple of days. But the jar of water was all they had. And there was at least another week of travel left to them, if not more—now that they were on foot.

The first day passed in a white daze. They took frequent stops, and Nadir watched Yaro carefully, for she was not just overloaded but also carried the other end of the bed-sling. However, she seemed indomitable, her skinny figure filled with implausible strength. It was Egiras who stumbled most often as they walked through the burning sands.

“
My shoes are torn . . .” said Egiras after their third stop. She was pale and serene. When they examined her feet, Nadir saw that indeed her expensive silk slippers had ripped apart, and the delicate soles of her feet had been scorched to bloody blisters by the heat of the sand.