Snare (92 page)

‘Oh God.’ She did weep, a brief scatter that she managed to suppress. ‘Yes, I understand.’

‘That child you’re carrying. It’s his, correct?’

‘Idres is the father, yes. But how did you know? I only told my friends today.’

‘We know most things we need to.’ Rashad’s voice went flat. ‘Not all, obviously, but most. Now, you and the widow had nothing to do with Warkannan’s treachery, but my officers are thinking of having you both questioned all the same. I don’t see any need for that. Torturing you would mean nothing but a bad moment for Idres when he found out. I don’t take my frustrations out on women. I don’t intend to let the Chosen dishonour themselves for the sake of petty revenge, either.’

The tears came again, and she snuffled them back.

‘By all accounts we’ve had, he’s alive and well. He’s the khan’s second-in-command.’ All at once Rashad laughed, a dark mutter under his breath. ‘And on his way here, come to think of it. Whether he and Jezro reach the city’s up to God, I suppose.’

Lubahva found that she couldn’t speak. Side by side they walked through the dark streets and out onto the plaza by the harbour. When she glanced out to sea she could see the warning lights, as red as blood, glistening on the calm water inside the breakwater.

‘Will you go north?’ she said. ‘To join them, I mean?’

‘No.’ Rashad’s voice sounded perfectly calm. ‘I’ll stay here. Either we’ll win, or I’ll die with the Great Khan when the end comes.’

‘But why?’

‘It’s nothing I can explain. Don’t ask me again.’

‘All right. I’ll make you a promise. If the child’s a boy, I’ll name him Rashad.’

‘Thank you.’ For a moment his voice wavered. ‘Tell Idres why, will you?’

‘Of course.’ If Idres even cares, she thought. If he even remembers who I am.

At the entrance of Nehzaym’s street Rashad handed her the satchels, turned, and walked off without another word. Lubahva watched him till he disappeared among the narrow streets, then hurried on to Nehzaym’s, where the gatekeeper ran out to meet her.

Nehzaym had not yet gone to bed. She was sitting on a heap of cushions in her tiled reception room and reading, a pot of freshbrewed tea beside her on a little brass table. At the sight of Lubahva, she tossed the book down.

‘What –’ Nehzaym began.

‘The army’s on its way,’ Lubahva interrupted her. ‘And the Chosen know who we are. By the mercy of God, one of them knew Idres in the old days, and he warned me and brought me here. We have to be ready to leave when the city gates open.’

Nehzaym stared open-mouthed for a long minute. Finally she swallowed heavily and stood up. ‘I’ve gotten myself a set of veils, and I bought a pony with a pack saddle. When we reach the gates, we’re just a pair of poor women, peddling the produce we raise on our little farm. Practise remembering that.’

At dawn they left the city through the south gates and started their long, slow walk to Indan’s villa. That first night they slept by the side of the road, but on the second night clouds rolled in and threatened a storm. They found refuge in a shabby inn, packed with terrified refugees. Everyone knew that Jezro Khan was heading south with an army that grew larger by the hour, while
Gemet’s army shrank at the same rate. In the common room they found a rickety bench in a corner by the smoky fire. The innkeep brought over a shabby bronze screen, dented and corroded, and placed it between them and the men out among the tables.

‘Two women alone like you,’ the innkeep said, ‘you shouldn’t be on the roads. When the army gets here –’

‘What choice do we have, my poor daughter and me?’ Nehzaym said. ‘I’m a widow, and she’s with child, and for all we know, her man is dead too.’

‘Is he in Gemet’s army?’

‘No, in Jezro Khan’s.’

‘Then maybe he’ll live through the war. Inshallah.’

‘Oh yes. Inshallah.’

Lubahva felt her eyes fill with tears. She raised a hand under the enveloping veil and wiped them away – this was no time to give in to weak thoughts. Whether Idres lived or died, whether he ever cared to see her again or not, she was determined to get their child to safety.

And in the end, it was the pregnancy that saved her and Nehzaym. In the atmosphere of chaos and fear from the gathering war, the rough-looking men in the inn might have seen two women alone as prey, but a veiled, modest woman carrying a soldier’s child, and her widowed mother – they were followers of the Three Prophets, and they said not one word to either woman. Even so, Lubahva and Nehzaym slept out in the stables with their pony rather than risk the inn. In the morning, when they joined a sprawling crowd of city people fleeing south, they found other women with children and joined them. In this safety of numbers they travelled on.

At noon they stopped at a public caravanserai. The women shared what food they had and drew water from the public well to drink. They were just leaving when more refugees gathered around for water. With them came the news that Gemet was refusing to leave the barricaded city.

‘His soldiers have turned citizens into slaves,’ a young man said. ‘They’re building a stone wall around the city, and they’re rounding up every man they see for the work gangs.’

‘May God send an earthquake to knock it down,’ Nehzaym muttered.

‘Better yet, may He grant that the Great Khan gets here soon,’
an old man said. ‘That’s who Jezro is, the Great Khan, and he’d be better than an earthquake. Why should we weep one tear for Gemet and his taxes and his spies?’

‘That’s true,’ the young man said. ‘The coward! He won’t even lead his troops himself. He’s just sitting in his palace like a turd in a chamber pot.’

Towards sunset Lubahva and Nehzaym said farewell to the other refugee women. They left the main road and headed down the narrow lane that would eventually bring them to Indan’s. Overhead the clouds grew dark, and a drizzle soaked their veils. Rather than risk another inn, they spent a terrified night hiding in a clump of spear trees. Dawn brought them another ten miles to walk in the chill. At noon they at last reached Indan’s villa and found new walls, solid things of plaster and stone. The gates were barred – understandable, given the terrified crowds spreading along all the roadways. Still, Lubahva broke down and wept, leaning against the gates as she sobbed from sheer exhaustion. As the sheltered daughter of a councillor first and then as a palace girl, she’d never walked so far in her entire life.

‘There must be a way to get a message in,’ Nehzaym said. ‘He won’t turn us away once he knows we’re here.’

To one side of the heavy oak planks hung a chain. When Nehzaym grabbed it and pulled, Lubahva heard a bell respond. Over and over Nehzaym rang, then began calling out as well, screaming curses and prayers until at last a little window in the gate slid open to reveal a dark and suspicious face.

‘Go away,’ the servant said. ‘We have no room. Go away.’

‘You have plenty of room, Dullah,’ Nehzaym said. ‘It’s Mistress Nehzaym, the councillor’s friend from the city. If you don’t let us in your master will beat you raw.’

The window slid shut. In a few minutes it slid open again, and Councillor Indan himself peered out.

‘It is you!’ he said. ‘Open the gate, Dullah! But just a little bit, just enough to let the women and their pony inside.’

Lubahva picked herself up and managed to stop weeping. They hurried through the gate into a garden, where green grass stretched up a slope to the white villa itself, its windows glowing with lamplight. Muttering apologies, the servant took the lead rope of the pony. Indan put his arm around Nehzaym’s shoulders and helped her walk up the long gravelled path.

‘My dear old friend,’ he said to Nehzaym, ‘please forgive me. I’m just so afraid that Gemet’s men will come for me. The Chosen! They must know we all had a hand in bringing Jezro Khan home.’

‘We know they do.’ Nehzaym sounded exhausted. ‘I’ve got news.’

‘Well, we can hold them off for a while. I’ve made preparations. We’ve plenty of food, armed guards, and look!’ Indan pointed to the tops of the new walls around his villa.

In the sunset they gleamed with big shards of embedded glass, glowing blood-red. Lubahva began to hope that they might indeed have reached safety, at least for a time.

‘After all,’ Indan went on. ‘The Chosen no doubt have plenty to keep them busy. And when Jezro takes power, he’ll root them out.’

‘Inshallah,’ Lubahva said.

‘Well, yes.’ Indan glanced back. ‘Lubahva! I didn’t recognize – forgive me! You’re with child! The father, is it Warkannan?’

‘Yes. I don’t suppose you have any news of him.’

‘None. There’s nothing we can do but pray and wait.’

The wait proved a long one. At first the only news came through the little window in the gates, some of it reliable, some of it sheer fiction, with no way to know which was which. Some ten days later, however, an old friend of the councillor’s took refuge with them. Hakeem Mushin brought news they could trust.

‘Gemet finally marched out to lead his troops,’ Mushin said. ‘It must have helped their morale, because the desertions have slacked off. Much of the infantry’s held loyal to him, but most of the cavalry is Jezro’s. There was quite a battle in the north on the Merrok Road. In the end, Jezro won, and he’s marching south again, but his army paid a heavy price, or so the rumours say. It may just be wishful thinking on Gemet’s part. No one truly knows. Messengers come and go, or at least, they did up to the time I left, but we only hear what the palace wants us to hear. Gemet left the city garrisoned, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Indan said. ‘The city can’t still be barricaded. After all, you got out.’

‘Oh yes. Once he marched out with most of his men, the common people took over the gates and opened them.’

‘Ah. Then if Jezro does reach Haz Kazrak –’

‘He’ll probably find them barricaded again,’ Mushin interrupted. ‘Gemet will be running back to it ahead of him.’

‘True, true. Our poor city!’

‘Everyone who possibly can has left town. I tell you, that last ride through the streets was really rather horrible. It was so quiet, so empty. Some people are left, of course, those loyal to the old khan and those who don’t have anywhere to go, but still.’ He shook his head in a gesture more like a shudder.

From then on what news they got came sporadically from refugees passing by. At times Indan’s servants ventured out, mostly to buy food while there was still some available to buy. When they did so, they picked up scraps of information, some likely, some not. Mushin and Indan pieced the plausible ones together and decided that Jezro’s strategy lay in securing lines of supply from Andjaro south. Once he held Zerribir and its rich farmlands, he could slowly push Gemet back to the sea.

Or so the speculation ran. No one truly knew. One rainy morning Lubahva realized, with a sensation much like terror, that they might not know anything for months.

The Brotherhood of the Like-Minded, as they called themselves, had built a community in the border hills not far north of Blosk. Out of the local vines and cultivated bamboid they had woven yellow and red huts, dug wells, and cut steps into the hillside to make a village scattered at the crest. At the highest point stood their mosque, a fine building of true-wood, painted white and decorated with holy sayings calligraphed in gold. Down below in a long valley they worked kitchen gardens, and local farmers brought them other provisions out of piety. On the hill opposite the village, Ammadin and the Chof made a camp among fern trees, where they would wait till Zayn signalled or, if things went badly, returned.

Ammadin walked with him when he led his horse to the road that would take him across the valley.

‘You look frightened,’ she said.

‘Do I? The old man still has that effect on me, I guess.’

‘Are you going to tell him the truth? About your talents, I mean.’

Zayn shrugged. ‘He won’t believe me. Sooner or later Jezro Khan’s new laws will convince him, but until then, it’ll be a waste of time to try to change his mind.’

‘You know him best. Good luck.’

Zayn gave her a kiss, then mounted and rode out. At the base
of the hill he paused, looking back, to see Ammadin still standing where he’d left her, hands on her hips, to watch him.

In the valley some of the brothers, dressed in dirty white clothes, were working, gathering the last of the red and yellow autumn crops. As he approached, they would straighten up and lean on the handles of shovels and rakes till he’d passed by. In the village at the top of the hill, a few brothers were walking back and forth, talking together in the ancient language of the Qur’an, but Zayn saw no sign of his father. He dismounted and led his horse towards the mosque.

The building, shimmering with gold tracery in the bright sun, stood behind a small reflecting pool. Zayn tied his horse at the rail off to one side, then walked up to the double doors. They were closed, but while he stood hesitating, the imam came out of a side door. He was an elderly man, to judge by his white beard, but tall and straight-backed, dressed in an ordinary-looking white shirt and pair of trousers. His head, however, was wrapped in white cloth in the antique style. He smiled at Zayn and quirked an eyebrow as if to ask a question.

‘My name is Zahir Benumar,’ Zayn said. ‘My father’s living among you, and I’ve come to see him.’

‘Ah yes, Brother Bashir.’ The imam rolled his eyes heavenward and shook his head. ‘Was he always this crabby?’

Zayn smothered a laugh.

‘I see he was,’ the imam went on. ‘The Lord created the universe to be beautiful and a joy to Him and His angels, but to hear your father tell it, it’s all a snare and a delusion. We have hopes for him, though. I’d never deny that he loves God with all his heart and soul.’

‘God is the only person he ever did love.’ Zayn heard his voice crack with bitterness.

The holy man apparently heard it too. He cocked his head to one side and gave Zayn a look that reminded him of Ammadin, digging out secrets.

‘Uh well,’ Zayn said hurriedly. ‘Besides my mother, of course, may her soul rest in Paradise.’

‘Of course. Bashir lives in the last hut in the village.’ The imam pointed towards the south. ‘Think you can find your way?’