The Tower Broken(51)

The soldiers threw water at him from time to time, and likely some of it ended in his mouth, but they jeered and shouted insults, threatening to kill him – though if he died, they would not find the Fryth mage they were looking for. To Farid they were small men, and not very clever, but at least they were confident in their mission. He was not so certain in his.

His legs ached from being in the unfamiliar saddle and his head ached from the sun. Some found the desert beautiful, but Farid’s limited experience with the place was giving him a different opinion. He had heard stories of merchants who lost their way in the dunes and died of the heat within a day. He believed if the desert had to be dealt with, it should be done quickly, and he longed to return to the safety of Nooria and the cool relief of the Blessing. They had left the city through the Gate of Storms, the west-facing gate used by caravans and nomads, and he could not wait to see it again.

The long train slowed. In front, the captive had fallen to his knees, and thinking this the death of the horse chief Farid nudged his mare forwards. He might be the only man present who would look upon the event with any solemnity or pity. But the soldiers had not stopped for the chief’s death; they had reached their goal, a camp in the lee of a great dune. Farid counted several dozen horses but only half as many men, some of them taller than any he had ever seen, long scabbards at their sides glowing orange in the setting sun. Brightly coloured tents rose from the sand, surrounded by a confusion of barrels and crates. Though the company was small, Farid worried that any group of armed men had been able to camp so close to Nooria.

As the Cerani paused, the tall soldiers in the camp gathered to look, hands hovering by their sword hilts – but then one of their number stepped forwards. Like the rest, his hair was black and his skin pale, but he wore a different garment, darkest blue, with epaulettes and bright buttons. Farid had never owned anything with a button, but this man had twelve, ten down his front and one on each shoulder. He looked like a captain of soldiers, not a mage, and yet the way he held himself, the way his eyes did one thing while his hands did another, suggested an uncommon awareness.

‘I am Didryk.’ The mage spoke Cerani with a strong accent. He walked to where the chief had collapsed in the sand and helped him up before holding a waterskin to his lips. ‘Remove his chains,’ he said to the Cerani captain.

Captain Ziggur refused with a motion of his hand. ‘He comes back with us.’

‘But we have not even started our negotiations,’ said Didryk. He lifted his head and his blue eyes instantly picked Farid from the crowd. Farid felt a shock of recognition – like for like – before the mage backed up, pulling the captive with him. It was then Farid noticed a glimmer in the sand, and then another, spreading in an arc away from the mage’s boots. ‘You are standing inside my pattern,’ said Didryk, ‘so you really should do as I ask.’

‘It’s true.’ Shapes shone from the shifting ground, geometries of line and curve, all of it beyond Farid’s ken but quickly saved to memory. He pointed. ‘Can you not see it, Captain?’

The captain ignored Farid and spat into the sand. ‘Putting a knife to our necks is not a good way to start, Duke Didryk.’

‘I take few risks,’ said Didryk.

Farid studied the mage with interest. He saw no pattern-marks, no totems or charms, no wind or fire behind his eyes, and neither was he muscled like Austere Adam. Even so, Farid did not intend to take him on.

The captain dismounted, pulled keys from his belt and leaned over the captive. All of the men watched in silence as he worked, until with a jangling the chains fell off to the side.

The duke said something in his own language then, and his tall soldiers took the blond man among them. ‘Now I will give you Arigu,’ he said, ‘and that will be a good start to our dealings.’

‘You are giving us no more than what’s owed, Northerner, and taking our prisoner besides.’

‘We are trading, one man for one man.’ And as Didryk spoke, his men brought forth a Cerani, burly and soft in the way of muscled men who have taken to their chairs for too long, but this one was not lazy; his sharp eyes took in and measured their company. He could be none other than the fabled General Arigu, who wasted no time taking command. ‘Where is the Windreader chief? Give him to me.’

‘They took him.’ The captain motioned to the tents coloured by the setting sun.

‘Fool!’ Arigu struggled against the Fryth who held him. ‘Archers, kill them all!’

These were Blue Shields and they did not take orders from White Hat generals – yet the archers reached for their bows. No sooner had their fingers touched wood than a great concussion sounded over the assembly and Farid fell from his horse, holding his ears in pain. Other soldiers landed around him, eyes wide with fear, hands pressed full against their heads as their horses bolted from the circle. After a moment Farid found his feet and took in the size of the pattern. The duke had made it large enough for all of them, and for half again as many.