Perhaps it was his own state, but Temur found himself fixating on the word exile. And on the scarred, rag-edged leather of her ears. He did not know the laws of Cho-tse society, but he knew the ways of cats, and no cat with ears like that stood very high in the hierarchy of such creatures. Leaning forward when he wanted to lean back, he said, “And who is your employer, then? Who is the Ctesifonin who takes such interest in the fate of my people and of the royal family of Rasa?”
“Not a Ctesifonin,” Hrahima said. “An Aezin noble in exile, who lives now in Ctesifon and who has ties to nobility in Asmaracanda—which still stands under the sky of the steppes, but I am sure the caliphate would welcome its return. This noble—his business lies along the Celadon Highway, and he is at pains to see peace restored. And as I said, the Uthman yoke can be onerous.”
Samarkar snorted, sarcastic as a mare. “Especially when it involves the murder of whole cities. So your Aezin noble uses the politics of other nations to break the back of the caliphate, but not to set the Rahazeen in power, I take it?”
“I don’t believe he cares who rules any of these cities—save Aezin, which I imagine he’d see made independent again. I can tell you he prefers to see peace the length of the Celadon Highway. And that necromancy is bad for business, especially when it involves the deaths of entire cities.”
“Qeshqer won’t be making good on any debts,” Samarkar said. “That’s truth. So his interest is less patriotic and more pecuniary?”
“War is bad for shopkeepers,” Tsering said, speaking slowly enough that Temur followed her. “Even when they keep very large shops. Who is this merchant-prince who wants to overthrow his conquerors, then?”
The Cho-tse folded her hands together, nails retracted, and fluffed her whiskers smugly. Her shrug indicated she had no intention of answering. But Temur didn’t need her to tell him.
“Ato Tesefahun,” he blurted, naming his mother’s father, and was regarded by a slow, considering cat stare. “He is well known on the steppe,” Temur continued, desperately casual. “He had married his daughter to an Asmaracandan noble. She came to the Great Khagan as tribute when Asmaracanda fell and was married to Otgonbayar Khanzadeh. She might have been Khatun, had her husband not been murdered by his brother Mongke.”
He met Hrahima’s gaze. She held the look for long instants, then blinked gently and looked down. “Of course.”
“Hrahima. If you are going to Tsarepheth,” Tsering said abruptly, breaking the dragging, uncomfortable quiet, “you could come with us. We’re going that way.”
Temur folded his own arms. In his rashness, he had already said too much.
“Thank you,” the tiger said, settling back on her haunches. “I think I shall.”
* * *
Temur went to help the women with the horses and mules while the big cat withdrew to a less-threatening distance. He felt well enough to walk, and he thought it wise that they not burden the mares while there was a chance for them to rest. Both Samarkar and Tsering seemed content to walk as well. If he understood Tsering correctly, with his broken Rasan, she said that they had walked here from Tsarepheth on their own two feet, an idea that Temur found startling. Riding, certainly … but to walk here?
Eventually, he found himself standing beside Samarkar, impassive in her wizarding black, older than he and far more imposing. He had been waiting for this moment, and now he screwed up his second-son’s courage to ask. He cleared his throat, and when she looked at him, he said, “You said … the destruction of Qeshqer. I had a friend…” he began. He swallowed. “… A friend who was stolen by the ghosts. I followed her here, hoping to bring her home again. Edene?”
“I’m sorry,” Samarkar said, her dark eyes deepening with shadows as she dropped her chin. “Everyone in the city is dead.”
Temur felt something harden within him, as if the iron of his name took a temper from the ice in her tone. “She’s not dead,” he said stubbornly, even as he doubted. “If she were dead, I would know it somehow. I would—”
Only when she laid her hand on his arm did he realize his voice had gone shrill. He breathed in, breathed out, and calmed himself. Trembling urgency filled him—the need to be doing. “I must ride back to Qeshqer,” he said. “My people may seek shelter there.…”
Samarkar squeezed his bicep. “I left it warded with plague-sign,” she said. “They will not enter. And if you truly believe your woman lives, you will not find her by returning to a city where the ghosts have already torn everyone limb from limb.”