The Huntsman's Amulet (32 page)

Chapter 46

The Khagan of Kirek

T
hey approached the Khagan,
who was sitting in the single chair on the dais. He was thin, bald and clean-shaven, wearing robes of finely decorated cloth. He had an air of unquestioned power that Soren found disconcerting.

‘My First Jan informs me that you have come to claim the bounty on the pirate Sancho Rui,’ he said. His voice was deep and resonant, oozing authority. He was obviously not a man accustomed to having his requests denied.

‘We have, Magnificence,’ Varrisher said.

A servant came forward and took the barrel from Varrisher. Joined by another servant, they prised the lid off and hesitantly peered in, their faces contorting in disgust when they saw what was inside. For some morbid reason, Soren found himself oddly curious as to what the head would look like after over a week in the heat of the southern climes and if the vinegar it was steeped in would have any preservative effect.

The Khagan was not a squeamish man. When his servants confirmed that there was a head floating in the pungent vinegar, they brought the small cask to him and he reached in and pulled the head out by the hair without hesitation. He inspected it closely for a moment, the vinegar dripping all over the floor and filling the air with its tang. He said something to First Jan Esqivel, who gave a series of commands to one of the guards. The guard strode purposefully out of the room as the Khagan dropped the head back into the barrel with an unpleasant plop.

‘It will take a few minutes to confirm the identity of the head you have brought us,’ Esqivel said. ‘We have someone who knew Rui and will be able to do so, as soon as the guards bring him here.

‘I noticed earlier that you were looking out over the city.’ He walked toward the balustrade and gestured for Soren and Varrisher to follow. ‘The city is built on the edge of the delta of the River Kirek. Several branches pass through the city, which provide us with the water used to fill all of the fountains and pools—’ There was a commotion at the door that cut Esqivel off mid-sentence. ‘Ah, the guards have brought our prisoner.’

The guard returned with a colleague and a man who looked as though he had seen far better days. He was shoved along the length of the room until he was only a few feet from the Khagan, who, once again showing his possession of an iron stomach, pulled the head out of the barrel of vinegar. He spoke in Shandahari, but Esqivel had moved to his side and translated his words into Imperial.

‘His Magnificence asks if you recognise this face,’ he said.

‘I do, sir, that’s Sancho Rui. Sure as anything and swear on my life,’ the man said.

Esqivel spoke quickly to the Khagan who nodded and gestured toward Soren and Varrisher. He spoke to the guards who dragged the wretch out of the room and turned his attention back to Varrisher and Soren.

‘His Magnificence is satisfied that you have indeed slain the pirate Sancho Rui and wishes to express his gratitude. We received word that he had been killed, two days ago, but we needed to be sure of his identity and that you were the ones responsible before paying the bounty. It is being put together as we speak, and His Magnificence wishes to offer his hospitality to the men who have done him this service. You will find there are a great many pleasures and comforts to be enjoyed in the court of His Magnificence and he wishes to extend these to you while you remain in Kirek.’

Soren cast a glance at Varrisher who seemed tempted by the idea; life had not been comfortable for either of them for some time, but for Soren it was not an option.

The question that remained was how they could refuse the Khagan’s hospitality without angering him. Soren had no desire to end up like the man that had just been brought before them. He could make it clear that his refusal stemmed from his own injury at the hands of Sancho Rui, in the hope that the common complaint would ease the slight of his refusal.

‘Tell the Khagan that I am most grateful for his kind offer of hospitality, but am unable to accept,’ Soren said. He could see the change of expression on Esqivel’s face and the one of disappointment on Varrisher’s, so he continued quickly. ‘I have also suffered injury at the hands of Sancho Rui. He attacked a ship carrying a friend of mine. I believe she may have been sold as a slave in Galat, and I need to go there to find her.’

Esqivel nodded, seemingly satisfied by the explanation. He turned to the Khagan and relayed the information to him. Soren tried to read his face, but the Khagan’s expression gave nothing away.

He spoke in a commanding tone, but in the unintelligible Shandahari language and he had to wait for Esqivel to translate before Soren knew whether or not he had caused offence.

‘His Magnificence says that he understands and sympathises with your position. He takes no offence at your wish to depart as soon as possible. He asks me to show you to the comfort and tranquillity of his courtyard while you wait for your reward to be brought to you. If you would follow me this way please.’

Esqivel led them back down to the courtyard, before leaving them to fetch the bounty. There were several servants waiting for them, carrying trays of food; various fruits, most of which Soren had never seen before, as well as a selection of sticky pastries that looked delicious. Soren had to admit that the temptation to remain was strong. There was something so intriguing and exotic about the city and its culture, with all its colours and unusual sounds, and that was not taking into account the food that was available there.

Nonetheless, he was uneasy remaining in the court of an all-powerful man who owed them a large sum of money. Perhaps to the Khagan it was merely a trifling amount and of no concern to him — this was the only comforting thought that Soren could muster and he wanted to get out of there as quickly as they could.

He picked up a few items from the trays that caught his eye, sat and began eating them. It would be as easy for the Khagan to have them killed by his guards as by poison. He had already shown that he wasn’t squeamish; having blood let in his palace was unlikely to bother him.

Esqivel returned a few minutes later with two guards who carried a wooden chest between them. He opened it, revealing the very attractive lustre of gold coins. Soren picked one up. They were too small to be gold crowns, and were minted with a design that Soren had never seen before.

‘Your bounty, as agreed,’ Esqivel said. ‘Please feel free to count it, although I assure you it is the full sum offered.’

Esqivel noticed Soren’s curiosity. ‘They are Gold Tremissi; we do not use Imperial currency in Shandahar, although there is a good deal of it in circulation. Each tremiss is worth roughly half an Imperial Crown.’

Soren nodded in appreciation and threw the coin back into the chest.

Varrisher stepped forward and ran his fingers through the coins. Faced with so much money, he seemed just as eager as Soren to depart as swiftly as possible. ‘It appears to be fine,’ he said.

Esqivel nodded and turned to Soren in the slow, purposeful manner that defined him. ‘His Magnificence wishes to speak with you again. Captain Varrisher may leave if he pleases. Or wait if he would prefer.’ He gestured for Soren to follow him.

Soren looked at Varrisher and shrugged. There was no reason to suspect danger, and the offer for Varrisher to wait or leave suggested that Soren would also be free to leave once he was finished speaking with the Khagan.

‘I’ll wait,’ Varrisher said.

‘He will not be long,’ Esqivel said, gesturing for Soren to follow him.

The Khagan’s hall had been cleared of people by the time Soren and Esqivel got there, with only the Khagan and two of his guards remaining. He said something to Esqivel when they reached the dais and then looked at Soren with his authoritative and penetrating stare.

It made Soren uncomfortable, and having denied the Khagan once already, he knew it would be dangerous to do so again.

‘His Magnificence believes you may be able to assist him with another matter and wishes you to listen to his proposal.’

Soren tried not to show any reaction, but he was cringing on the inside. ‘Of course,’ he said.

‘The reason that the Khagan placed a bounty on Sancho Rui was because Rui captured his ship, the
Gandawai
. The
Gandawai
was carrying, in addition to a great fortune in jewels, gold and cloth, the Rala of Serash, daughter of the Khagan of Serash. She was to be married to His Magnificence and the fortune on board represented her dowry. It was not pure happenstance that Rui came upon the
Gandawai
. He was given information of her voyage by the Khagan of Galat, His Magnificence’s sworn enemy.’

If the Khagan was looking for an assassin, Soren would have to come up with a reason as to why he was not the man for the job, fast. He wasn’t going to take on any job that would come between him and finding Alessandra.

‘The Rala is currently being held in Galat. His Magnificence is given to understand that Galat is trying to negotiate a treaty with Serash using the Rala as an incentive. This displeases His Magnificence. He has engaged several skilled warriors to secure her freedom, but none have managed to achieve his task. He believes that the warrior who killed Sancho Rui may be able to succeed where those others have failed and asks that when you go to Galat in search of your friend, you also free the Princess of Serash and bring her here. He asks me to assure you that the bounty you have been paid for Sancho Rui’s head will be but a drop in the ocean in comparison to the rewards he will bestow upon you should you succeed. Such is his desire for his betrothed to be brought to him that he bids me tell you that he will allow you name your price, and so long as it is within reason, he shall pay it. Land, titles, wealth, slaves, whatever you wish.’

Soren had to concentrate to stop his jaw from dropping.

Chapter 47

The Search Renewed

T
here was really no
answer that Soren could give other than yes. He was thankful that the task would not interfere with his search for Alessandra, so he agreed and Varrisher brought him to Galat. On the voyage north, Soren had outlined the content of his conversation, through Esqivel, with the Khagan.

After all they had been through together, he felt that it was only proper to give Varrisher the opportunity to accompany him on what was in effect an extension of their original agreement. If he was being honest with himself though, he was hoping that Varrisher would decline. Soren had always been a loner, which he knew was a symptom of being an orphan and growing up alone through dire circumstances. While being part of the crew of the
Typhon
had been an interesting experience, living and working in such close confines with the same people every day all day was not for him.

It came as a relief when Varrisher had become uncomfortable when Soren brought the issue up. He had been at pains to avoid causing offence, but outlined how he and his crew had agreed that once the bounty was collected they would return to the Spice Isles to buy a cargo to bring north — and in so doing he would establish himself as a merchant. Once he had delivered Soren as agreed, that was the plan he would be pursuing.

Soren made it clear that there were no hard feelings, and the two parted as friends. It was with a degree of uncertainty that Soren clambered out of the jolly boat at the quayside in Galat and watched it being rowed back to the
Typhon
, alone once again. All he had for company was the sword and dagger strapped to his waist, a sailor’s duffle bag at his feet and a purse of gold tucked away inside his doublet, the remainder of the spoils from his previous adventure safely deposited with the Austorgas’ representative in Kirek.

Ferrata was confident he had reached the point where the man in front of him would be screaming loudly, were it not for the gag stuffed in his mouth.

In Ferrata’s experience, threats of torture were never effective when dealing with the type of men his profession brought him into contact with. It might work with someone unaccustomed to the harder aspects of life, a clerk or craftsman perhaps, but a pirate would be rightly scornful, and possibly downright offended by mere threats of violence.

That was why Ferrata always began his information gathering sessions with a statement of his bona fides. It was not necessary to inflict pain as such, but rather to demonstrate that he was comfortable with matters that might make someone else squeamish.

He finished removing the man’s second little finger — not as quickly as he might have, for pain did play a role — and cauterised the wound with the flat of a blade which was glowing a yellowy red colour.

Once the initial pain and then the stench of burning flesh subsided, Ferrata spoke to the man, a swarthy looking pirate by the name of Blasco he had abducted from outside a tavern.

‘Now, you’re probably wondering why I’ve brought you here, and why I’m doing this to you.’

There was terror in the man’s eyes, but also a sizeable portion of indignation. That might make things more difficult.

‘I’m going to ask you some questions in a moment, and if I feel you’ve answered them honestly and comprehensively, I’ll let you go, no worse but for the loss of a couple of fingers and a bump on the head. Do you understand?’

Blasco glared at Ferrata for a moment, then nodded his head.

‘Excellent,’ Ferrata said. ‘Now. I’m going to remove your gag. There’s no one nearby to hear you if you scream, so I would advise against it. If you do scream, I’ll gag you again, remove another two fingers, and we can start over. Understand?’

Blasco nodded again, with no delay.

Ferrata gave the ropes securing Blasco to the chair he was sitting in a cursory check and then pulled the gag from Blasco’s mouth.

‘Now. I’ve been led to believe that you recently encountered a fellow called Soren. Tall, dark hair, good with a sword…’

Blasco said nothing.

Ferrata raised his eyebrows and lifted the gag up.

‘Yes, I did,’ Blasco said.

‘Excellent. I need to know where he went after you parted company. I know he sailed east again, but after that. Where was he headed?’

‘I don’t know— No wait. Galat. I think he’s going to Galat. There’s a girl. He’s looking for her. He thinks she might be there.’

A girl? There was a girl with a price on her head also. A small one, but a price nonetheless, and he had been told she might well be associating with Soren when he caught up with him. It was an insignificant sum compared to the one offered for Soren, but it would make the killing worth the effort if she was close at hand.

He stood and cut Blasco’s throat with the blade he had used to remove the two fingers. It was time to find a ship heading for Galat.

Soren had packed his sea-going slops in the bag and wore his shore-going clothes when he left the
Typhon
. If he set foot on a ship again, he sincerely hoped it would be as a passenger and not a member of the crew — but preferably not at all.

Galat appeared similar to Kirek. It was made up of white, flat roofed buildings that were rarely taller than two stories, intermingled with blue constructions.

He walked through the town, which had the same fascinatingly exotic feel that he had found so appealing in Kirek: bright colours, strange sounds, interesting smells. While he would like to be finished with his business as quickly as possible, he had already learned the consequences of insufficient planning the hard way and had no desire to repeat the experience. An ill-conceived flight across the plains east of Ostia was unpleasant, but he reckoned that it would be a veritable pleasure by comparison to a similar flight across a desert. Freeing Alessandra only to lead her to her death in the arid sea of sand between the Galat and Kirek rivers would be counterproductive.

Nonetheless, the thought that she might still be in that city was intoxicating, and his heart began to race every time he allowed himself to dwell on it.

He began to look out for an inn, or the Shandahari equivalent. He spent some time wandering around, his difficulty all too evident. It was the first time he had ever been alone somewhere that he didn’t speak the language. It was hot and he was tired, not to mention hungry, and his frustration grew as each minute passed.

Happily one thing that seemed common in Shandahar was the prevalence of food vendors on the street. Soren wandered past several, trying to see what was on offer without drawing the attention of the proprietors. Eventually he was overcome by the smell of the food and stopped at one of the stands. At first he simply pointed to food that he wanted, some type of heavily marinated meat that set his mouth watering each time he drew in a breath, but the vendor was quick to pick up on his ethnicity.

‘Imperial? Yes?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Soren said. He pointed to the source of his temptation. ‘How much for a portion of that?’

‘Honey and spice marinated beef,’ the vendor said, with a smile that revealed a remarkably good set of teeth as he scooped a ladle full from the pot. ‘Two grossi, or about four Imperial pennies.’

‘So, less than four pennies then,’ Soren said.

The vendor smiled. ‘Yes, but there is of course a premium for the service of exchanging a foreign currency.’

It was an outright lie. Imperial currency had been in use for such a long time, and used for trade over such a vast area that it was used interchangeably here as it was in most places that had contact with the Empire. Esqivel had said as much. This vendor was relishing the prospect of being able to inflate his profit, even if it was only by a small amount, probably for no more reason than the chance to do it. Soren almost felt bad to spoil it for him.

He handed over one of the gold tremissi that came from his share of the bounty. ‘You have change for a tremiss?’

The smile dropped from the man’s face, but he took the coin and rummaged about in a leather waist pouch, taking grossi out one at a time. He placed each coin down with a sullenness that made Soren smile. It had been a small battle, but he was victorious.

The vendor handed over the coins and the thin wooden bowl he had filled with the marinated beef, along with a flat wooden spatula, both of which were designed to be disposable.

‘You’re a mercenary, yes?’ the vendor said.

Soren nodded. He was always guarded with information, especially so when in strange places. There was no point in correcting the man’s mistake.

‘Lots of mercenaries around these days. Are you stationed up at the palace or have you just arrived?’ he said.

‘Just arrived,’ Soren said. ‘Where’s the nearest inn?’

‘Ah, I know of a—’

‘The nearest inn,’ Soren said firmly, not interested in whatever establishment his brother, uncle or best friend might be running on the other side of the city.

‘Of course,’ the vendor said, clearly offended by Soren’s brusqueness. ‘The nearest is only a short walk from here, but the directions will cost you two more grossi.’ He smiled condescendingly.

Soren felt a flash of anger, not at the vendor, but at himself for inviting this. He handed over another two grossi.

The vendor smiled at having evened the score. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is the nearest inn.’ He pointed to a building no more than a dozen paces away.

Soren nodded in a belated display of manners, which might have saved him two grossi had he employed them earlier, before turning and walking toward the inn, eating as he went. The food was surprisingly good, the meat tender and the flavour rich and sweet.

From the price he paid to the innkeeper for a room for three nights, it seemed that the people of Galat had become used to northern mercenaries being in the city and having money, and had adopted a policy to fleece them as best they could. The room was small but looked as though it had been cleaned since its previous occupant had left, which was something at least.

He had no expectation that anything he left would still be there when he came back, so he only left those things that were of no value to him; the sailing slops that he hoped never to have to wear again, and one or two odds and ends that he could not conceive of being of value to anyone else.