In the Heart of Darkness(117)

"Those horses were stolen from the royal courier service. To possess them is to be condemned to death. Impaled."



The peddler's mouth clamped shut. His eyes bulged.



Sanga raised his hand reassuringly.



"Have no fear. We have no interest in your execution. If you serve us well, we may even repay you for the loss of the horses."



Partly, he thought, watching the avarice leap back into the peddler's eyes. Whatever you paid for them. Which, I am quite certain, is much less than what they are worth. I think I am beginning to understand what that—that—fiend—



He took a deep breath.



No. What that fiendish mind has done here.



He glanced to the side. Thirty feet away, his Pathan tracker was holding up one of the horse's legs, examining the hoof. Very carefully.



Sanga turned back to the peddler.



"But now, man, you must tell me—very quickly, very simply, very clearly—how you got the horses."



"He was a Ye-tai," gasped out the peddler. Then, in a sudden rush of words:



"A deserter from the imperial bodyguard, I think. I'm not sure—I didn't ask!—not a Ye-tai—but. I think. I saw part of a uniform. Gold and red. He was on the run, I think. Had nothing but those fine horses, and seemed desperate to get out of Ajmer. So he—he—"



Suddenly, amazingly, the peddler burst into laughter. "Idiot Ye-tai! Stupid barbarian! He had no idea what those horses we're worth—none, I tell you! In the end—it only took me two hours of haggling—I traded them for three camels, some blankets, and a tent. Food. Maybe fifty pounds of water. Two big tureens full. And five bottles of wine. Cheap wine." Howling, howling. "Fucking idiot! Fucking savage!"



Sanga slapped the man's ear. "Silence."



The peddler's hysterical laughter stopped instantly. His faced turned pale.



"And what else?" grated Sanga. "There would have been something else."



The peddler's expression was a weird conglomeration of astonishment, fear, greed. Fear.



"How did you know?" he whispered.



"I know that—Ye-tai," replied Sanga quietly. "He would not have simply sent you on your way. He would have made sure you came this way. How?"



Fear. Greed. Fear.



"Show me."





It was one of the Emperor's emeralds.



A small emerald, very small, by imperial standards. Probably the least of the jewels which Belisarius had with him. But it had been a fortune to the peddler. Enough to send him off to Bharakuccha, with the promise of a matching emerald if he delivered the message to the proper party.



Who?



A Greek merchant. A ship captain.



His name? The name of the ship?



Jason. The Argo.



Show me the message.



Rana Sanga could read Greek, but only poorly. It did not matter. Most of the message was mathematics, and that he understood quite well. (India was the home of mathematics. Centuries later, Europeans would abandon Roman numerals and adopt a new, cunning arithmetic. They would call them "Arabic numerals," because they got them from the Arabs. But they had been invented in India.)



So he was able to understand the message, well enough.



Finally, in the end, a king of Rajputana could not restrain himself. He began laughing like a madman.



"What is it?" asked Jaimal, when Sanga's howling humor abated.



"It's a theorem," he said, weakly. "By some Greek named Pythagoras. It explains how to calculate angles."



The Pathan rose from his examination of the horse's hoof and stalked over.



"Not cut by stone on road. Knife cut. Done by meant-to purpose."



Sanga had already deduced as much.



"Exactly." He smiled, stroking his beard. "He knew we would spot the mark. And that, after weeks of following it, would stop thinking about anything else. So he switched in Ajmer, sent us charging off south while he drives straight across the Thar on camelback."



He glanced at the peddler, still ashen-faced.



"Three camels," he mused. "Enough to carry him—and his food and water—across the desert without stopping."



He rose to his feet. It was a sure, decisive movement.



"We'll never catch him now. By the time we got back to Ajmer and set off in pursuit he'd have at least eight days lead on us. With three camels and full supplies he'll move faster than we possibly could across that wasteland."



His lieutenants glared, but did not argue. They knew he was right. Five hundred expert cavalrymen can eventually outrun a single horseman, even with remounts. But not across the Thar.



That was camel country. There probably weren't five hundred camels available in Ajmer, to begin with. And even if there were—