The Ten Thousand(29)

“So tell me, General, how far from this port of yours to Tanis? What length of voyage are we speaking of?”

Phiron blinked. He had been through these details a dozen times with intermediaries.

“Twelve hundred pasangs, my lord. The fleet captain, Myrtaios, assures me that with the wind as it stands, the passage will take some ten days.”

“Ten days.” Arkamenes strode away from the window, fairly crackling with energy. He tossed aside his exquisite goblet to clatter on a table. “Ten days! I shall be there before you, General. I shall be standing on the docks of Tanis, watching the northern horizon for the arrival of my fleet.” His mouth widened in a huge grin, and it seemed that behind his lips there were far too many teeth.

“We will march across the Gadinai Desert in winter, so it will be no hardship, and when spring comes and the snows in the Magron Passes have melted, why then, there we will be, in the Land of the Rivers, the richest farmland in the world. My brother will meet us there, I know it. He will not march halfway across the Empire to bring us to battle, but will wait for us to come to him.” His face blackened. “I will impale him for the killer of kin that he is.” The thought cheered Arkamenes instantly.

“We will dine together tonight, you and I, Phiron. You like our food? Have you ever seen a Kefre dance? I shall have a robe made up for you, something more fitting than that scarlet rag you insist on donning. I should be thinking of liveries for your men. I see them in gold, I think. My crest in black upon breast and back. What think you?”

Phiron thrust out his jaw. “I think not, my lord.”

Arkamenes went very still. Phiron caught the gleam of the female’s eyes watching him with sudden attentiveness, the first genuine interest she had shown since entering the room. “What?”

“My lord, scarlet is our badge. We wear it all our lives, so long as we hold spear in hand and set it out for hire. The colour is of our blood, our calling. No matter the employer, we wear it to our deaths, and are wrapped in it upon our pyre.”

Arkamenes smiled again, a false note. “Fascinating. And though I pay your wages, though you will be afloat in my ships, eating my food and drinking my wine, still I have no say in this?”

“No, lord,” Phiron said doggedly.

Arkamenes covered the room in four strides. He set one long hand on Phiron’s shoulder, and fingered the red-dyed wool of the cloak upon it. He looked incredulous, amused.

“It will, no doubt,” he said, “take some time for us to become accustomed to one another’s ways.”

Only when the doors were shut behind him did Phiron wipe the sweat from his brow. He could feel it pooling cold at the base of his spine, and the wine he had drunk sat with a disagreeable heft in his empty stomach. The two Juthan stood impassive on either side of the antechamber, yellow eyes unreadable. Phiron had killed a wolf with those eyes above its muzzle. He glared at the nearest Juthan as though the creature had insulted him.

“Kufr,” he said with cold contempt. And he spat at the thing’s feet. Then he strode away, intent on seeking the company of his own kind.

Behind him the Juthan bent, and with the hem of his robe, wiped the spittle from the patterned tiles of the chamber floor.

“Was it your intent to bait him?” Tiryn asked. Gently, she righted the cup Arkamenes had cast aside, and with one long finger traced a sigil in the spilled dregs of the wine.

“It was my intent to make him think me a fool,” Arkamenes replied with a shrug of his narrow shoulders.

“There is then some advantage to be gained by making yourself out to be a vainglorious feather-head?” Tiryn asked.

Arkamenes laughed. The beat of sound was enough to make the nearest wall-sconce flicker. “I’m no fool; you know that better than anyone. But I want to see what this Macht mercenary will do, if I saddle him with burdens. He hates us— did you see that?”

“I saw it. Hatred—and yet a kind of lust, too.”

“Your eyes, perhaps. Even the animals of the Macht can be bewitched by them.” Arkamenes bowed. It was impossible to tell if he were mocking her or not.

Tiryn unhooked one side of her veil. Underneath was a pale-skinned face, something like Arkamenes, but in a lower key. It was softer, paler, and the mouth was both wide and full. One might have said it was more human, though the resemblance was one of form, as a portrait echoes the sitter.

“Not lust of the flesh. This man is hungry. He desires power as a drunkard craves wine. He is dangerous.”

“I should hope he is,” Arkamenes said tartly, “or else my money has been wasted. He is a hound, Tiryn, like those coursers they breed along the Oskus. Turn your back on them, and they’ll hamstring you. Beat them well, and they will die in your service.”