Shattered Pillars(47)

She must have hit the right note, because the caliph laughed. And then, with a canny look, he said, “Asmaracanda? Then you do not know that I have already taken it.”

Samarkar had the experience to keep her face impassive, but there was nothing to be gained by trying to hide that he’d scored when he knew it already. “The news had not reached me.”

“Or perhaps I should say that Asmaracanda has been retaken. By men sworn to Kara Mehmed, who is in turn sworn to me.”

“It is very important to Kara Mehmed to reopen the trade routes,” Samarkar observed impartially.

“Oh,” said the caliph. “You are a delight.”

She would not allow herself to be charmed. But it wouldn’t hurt to let him wonder if he was succeeding. She sipped wine again and waited, wishing she’d already disarrayed her armor. Sitting on the lacquer skirts was less than comfortable.

“Kara Mehmed,” the caliph said, “is of the opinion that trade would be best served if the caliphate’s reach extended all the way to the open-water ports of Song, as well as west to Messaline.”

“It would be advantageous to any prince who could control the length of the Celadon Highway. But the challenge of pacifying and stabilizing that much territory is immense … and that doesn’t even consider the challenge of then administering it.”

“I don’t want to go to war with the steppe lords,” the caliph said. “I have seen war. I have waded in it. But you understand the politics of the situation with Mehmed—”

Samarkar did. Any land Mehmed could reclaim from the Qersnyk host would bolster his image. And if, as the caliph intimated, Mehmed was eager to start a new war not just for the liberation of formerly caliphate lands now held by the Khaganate but for conquest of new lands, a civil war raging between Temur and his uncle Qori Buqa was an opportunity so perfect it might have been gem-polished and set before him in a cup like a soft-boiled egg.

She said, “You want to see the situation in Qarash settled as soon and as decisively as possible, I understand that. What if I tell you that Temur Khan will not contest your rights to Asmaracanda, whereas Qori Buqa will—of a certainty, once he is settled in his power—bring the war to you?”

“It’s a small concession.”

“So is what we ask of you. He’ll sign a treaty to the effect.”

“Sign it Temur Khan?” the caliph asked, mocking.

Samarkar let herself laugh. “Of course. How else would he have the power to agree to it?”

The caliph made no encouraging expression, but from the way his architectural brows drew together over the bridge of his nose, Samarkar thought he was considering it. “It’s a long road from Khan to Khagan. A road drenched with the blood of family. Your young man…”

He shook his head. Is he ruthless enough? Will he quail before the bloody work that is the building of empires?

“… he seems nice,” the caliph finished. Samarkar did not think she imagined the bitter regret that soaked his tone.

She straightened her shoulders against the weight of the armor and said, “He has been raised in war camps since he was old enough to ride, your Excellency. His uncle killed his father, to whom Temur Khan never had the chance to speak. Qori Buqa killed his older brother, for whom Temur Khan had a younger brother’s worshipful adoration. And Qori Buqa is allied with your own rebel warlord, as we have said—and that warlord has taken Temur Khan’s woman as a hostage. So you can see, al-Sepehr thinks Temur Khan is a threat—enough a threat to take punitive action against him.”

“His woman?” Surprise, at last. Real surprise, if only a little. “Are you not his woman?”

“A man may have more than one woman,” Samarkar answered blandly. “As I am sure your serene Excellency has reason to know.”

The caliph laughed. “He could do no better in you than if Ysmat herself stood at his right hand.” And that was blasphemy. “How can he then fail?”

I don’t know how we’ll succeed.

“Temur…” The caliph hesitated, toying with whatever sat upon his tongue. Tasting it. “Temur Khan aside—your Rahazeen rebel seems to think highly enough of you, Wizard Samarkar, to send his assassins into my very door-court to have done with you.”

Well, of course he knew. He was the caliph: it was his job to know everything, and he doubtless employed a great many people whose entire mandate was making sure he did so.

“They were only a little trouble,” Samarkar lied.

Uthman Fourteenth smiled at her. He winked. “I imagine there is very little that you would admit to perceiving as a great trouble, once-princess.” He gave her the Rasan title in a flawless accent. “Thank you for your time. I will think on what you have said—as you should think on what I have said as well.”