At this, Songtsan glanced at Temur. Temur nodded. “I have spoken with men who rode against the Rahazeen fortresses,” he said. “Even the Great Khagan never managed to capture more than one or two of them, and at great cost for little gain. The Rahazeen put them in barren places by preference, and there is little won in the sack or conquest of such places.”
“But they make excellent bases for war such as you monkey-men wage,” Hrahima said. “Fastnesses are proof against all but the most resourceful and determined troops.”
Songtsan tossed back the cold remains of his tea and set the bowl aside before Samarkar could move to refill it. It was a sign the interview was coming to an end, and Samarkar touched Hrahima’s arm to be sure Hrahima knew it. Hrahima’s great feet shifted at the edge of the white rug; the tips of her claws protruded. Samarkar saw her wrap one hand inside the other to hide the evidence of premature irritation.
Premature, or perhaps prescient. Because Songtsan looked up into the tiger’s eyes and said, “There are benefits to allowing one’s enemies to eat each other, when one is in position to pick up the pieces later. I do not think I will interfere in a war between the Rahazeen and the Qersnyk. It benefits me more than either of them.”
Samarkar meant to bite her lip but could not. The memory of a pile of raw bones lay within her, forcing impassioned words from her mouth. “Honored Brother,” she burst out, “are not the dead of Qeshqer our people? Is that not a sufficient act of war?”
“They are,” he said. “And I have every intention of avenging them. Once the plainsmen and the assassins have thinned one another out.”
Samarkar saw the muscle ripple in Temur’s jaw as he clenched it against the words that wanted to fly loose. His hand trembled so the dregs of his tea wet his fingers. Carefully, he extended an arm and put the eggshell-thin porcelain bowl down before it could shatter.
He said nothing, even though Songtsan looked at him inquiringly for a moment. Samarkar also saw the curious gesture Hrahima made—arrested, half completed—and recognized it for something of arcane intent aborted before it was fully formed. And yet she said her people did not have wizards.
But that was a question for later, when they found themselves alone.
“Of course, Honored Brother,” Samarkar said. She lowered her eyes, bent her body almost parallel to the floor with her arms at her sides. She held the pose, uncomfortable as it was, for a few dozen heartbeats before Songtsan deigned to notice her.
“Honored Sister,” he said.
Everything she felt seemed to rise up at once, seizing her throat, banding her heart so tightly she felt each beat like a blow.
“I have heard,” she began carefully, “that our brother is a prisoner.”
Songtsan set himself back on his heels. “Our mother died of arsenic,” he said. “Someone must go to the fire.”
Her hands shook. She could not stop the heat of tears as they trickled down her cheeks, spotting the floor above which she held her face. Songtsan’s voice seemed to come from all around her, and all she could see was the toes of his shoes. His voice was cold, a threat. A voice she had obeyed in almost all things, since it sent her away to be fostered then married at fourteen.
She found the ice of determination in her heart like a hook and hung her courage from it. “Must it be Tsansong?”
“Would you rather it were you?” Songtsan did not sound like a man who threatened, but merely like one who was tired. Of course, with his coronation looming, all the administrative tasks his mother had previously taken off his hands …
Somehow, she found the will to ask again. “Must it be our brother? Can he not … can he not come to the wizards, where he would be no threat to you?”
Songtsan stepped back. She knew him too well to think she had shamed him. More probably, she had bored him—but sometimes he would do things for the pleasure of seeing you plead again the next time.
“He is not dutiful,” Songtsan said, and turned his back on her.
* * *
This time, when al-Sepehr arose from his copyist’s prayer, it was because he had come to the end of a chapter. He was not alone in the scriptorium this hour. Others of the Nameless toiled about him, heads bent as hands worked black ink into the ordained labyrinth of holy words across mottled, creamy vellum. Al-Sepehr left silently out of respect for them, his soft-shod feet making no noise on sanded stones.
The scriptorium’s arched windows let in both breezes and the awning-filtered light of the sun. One did not do a copyist’s work by lamplight—not for long, anyway, and not accurately. Because of this, the scholarly devotions of Rahazeen monks took place largely in daylight hours, while their more martial pursuits could be attended to in the morning or evening. Sorcery had its own times, the hours of the day being appropriate for different invocations depending upon their natures and energies.