4

To advance up a valley without controlling the heights was normally rank folly, but sometimes a man had no choice. Short of winching everything—including the camels—up sheer cliffs, the caliph had to come this way. He had interrogated his scouts closely and had even ridden ahead to see for himself, escorted only by the horse cavalry of Fifth Panoply. He had returned satisfied. The sides were too steep for a charge, too high for an archery attack. The upper end was closed by a sizable lake, and there would be a steep climb up a tributary valley on the morrow, but that could be managed. Furkar reported no evidence of sorcery at work, except for the Covin’s continuing surveillance. Azak set a guard on the exit and moved his main force into the valley for the night. It was an excellent location. The floor was level and wooded, with a stream providing the first adequate water the army had seen since leaving Quern.

Following his custom, the caliph rode around as camp was set up, inspecting, criticizing, and acknowledging the cheers of his troops. Arriving back at his own quarters, he observed that the seraglio wagons had been arranged to form an enclosure by the stream, with the gaps between them curtained to keep out prying eyes. A ring of armed men surrounded this silken bivouac, all standing with their backs to it and ignoring the shrill squeals emanating from within.

So his women were enjoying a bathe? Azak told his bodyguard to stand down and ducked through the draperies to enjoy the view. At his appearance, of course, they all prostrated themselves. The sight of seventeen bare bottoms in the air was intriguing—sixteen? One woman had merely turned her back and sat down. That one was a wench of a different color, of course. He signaled to Nurkeen that the festivities should continue, and he continued to watch with approval as the girls began showing off for him; all but that one, who remained where she was. Her defiance intrigued him far more than all the juvenile gymnastics of the others. He began to feel quite aroused. Inosolan was the only woman who had ever humiliated him. Tonight he would administer another rebuke.

At sunset Nurkeen informed Inos that she was his Majesty’s first choice for the evening. Somehow Inos had expected that. She braced herself to endure more hurt, more humiliation. She had absolutely no way of escaping the constant surveillance, and she could acquire no weapon. Her only satisfaction would be to minimize Azak’s enjoyment, and so far her success in that direction had been nonexistent. In Quern she had struggled and he had overpowered her. In his tent, two nights ago, she had remained completely passive, so he had thrown her around. The end result had been the same either way—he was just too big, too strong. She could win no points in this game, except to conceal her fear and distress.

She might refuse to obey the summons, of course, but then she would just be carted to his tent bodily, like a parcel. Or he might even come and abuse her before the rest of his women. That would be no answer. When she had been suitably adorned and perfumed, she set off submissively with Nurkeen and an honor guard, walking into the night.

Someday, by all the Gods, he was going to pay for this! The journey was short. Even in her all-enveloping wool robe, she shivered in the sudden chill of a desert night. Camels bellowed in the distance, and she could hear the thousands of men and horses but she heard those every night. Scenery she had seen only rarely since her imprisonment. Steep mountains framed the valley; the sky over them was afire with stars. Odors of sage flowed down from the hills to blend with the smoke of innumerable fires. Thume, she recalled, was always beautiful. The evil at its heart was human.

The caliph’s tent was very large. The guards remained outside; Inos entered with Nurkeen. Azak was not there. The interior was opulent, with bright-hued rugs and silk hangings, warmed by braziers and lit by lanterns attached to the many poles. Thick quilts had been piled for the royal bedding, and a meal spread out on a cloth nearby. There were damask cushions and two solid chests for documents; no other furniture. “Give me your robe,” Nurkeen said. ”His Majesty will return shortly, I expect. Warm your hands.” Filmy red eyes peered out over her yashmak: “I suggest you strive to please him this time, and avoid unpleasantness.”

Inos said nothing.

The old hag departed, leaving her standing there, garbed only in a swirl of obscenely transparent gauze. Her face was still purple from his last wooing; her shoulder still hurt.

As soon as the tent flap fell, Inos stepped over to the display of food, seeking a weapon. She found nothing more dangerous than a small silver spoon, not even a knife for peeling grapes. She eyed the braziers, but they were cunningly crafted of fretted bronze. If they fell over, the coals would not spill. she might contrive to set the tent on fire, but that pettiness would not harm Azak and he had a million cruel ways to retaliate.

Shamed by her fear, vulnerable in her state of undress, she settled cross-legged in a corner and wrapped herself in a quilt. She had to wait a long, nerve-wracking time. That was probably deliberate. Eventually, though, she heard hooves outside, and gruff Zarkian voices. Then he entered, throwing off his cloak. He wore his usual green-loose trousers and shirt. Across his wide chest the emerald baldric of Arakkaran glittered like a river of green fire. That alone would purchase her whole kingdom, and he was liberally draped with other jewels. When she had first known him, he had preferred to sport the sash as a belt, wrapped many times around his waist. It would not go many times around now. He seemed larger every time she saw him, for he had added beef to his great height. He would be almost a match for the largest jotnar in Krasnegar, even Kratharkran. He was not sporting any weapons. Azak, unfortunately, had brains.

His big hands sparkled with rings-they would add to the pain when he struck her, and she had no doubt he would strike her. There was white now in his red beard. There was blood in his red eyes.

“Take off that quilt!” he said, seating himself beside the food.

She dropped the quilt.

He reclined on one elbow, spreading himself out along the cushions like a basking walrus. He began to eat, stuffing food in his mouth one-handed without seeming to notice or care what it was, barely taking his eyes off her.

What had she ever seen in the man? Once she had been sorry for him, she recalled. Once there had been hints of greatness, where now remained only pride and cruelty and debauchery. She remembered wise old Sheik Elkarath prophesying what happened to a sultan who trod the red road of war. In those days Azak had loomed above Arakkaran like a human thunderstorm—dangerous, frightening, but also awesome, full of menace and might and potential. Now he was a blood-soaked tyrant, glutted on twenty years of battle. Now—as she knew only too well—he was physically repugnant, gross and disgusting. She had not felt clean since he fist laid hands on her.

Unfortunately, although he now held no appeal for her at all, the reverse was not true. His lusts had more to do with power than sex, although he enjoyed that, also.

“You have worn well,” Azak mumbled. “Come and sit there.” He pointed to the floor just across from him.

Steeling herself not to tremble, Inos rose and did as she had been told.

“Pour me wine.”

She poured. Each tiny obedience ranked as a defeat, and yet each itself seemed too small to justify provoking violence. How far would she pander to his demands? Soon he would tell her to strip. Would she go that far without compulsion? She did not know.

He leered. “More cooperative tonight? Speak. Amuse me.”

“I have nothing to say to a turd like you.”

His eyes narrowed. “Revenge is very sweet, Inosolan.” I am sure it will be.

The tent flap moved in the background. For a moment she wondered about that, then decided it must just be the wind. “I have waited twenty years for my revenge,” Azak said, still chewing. “And I find it exquisite. Now, stand up and dance for me.”

“I cannot dance that way.”

He chuckled and reached under one of the cushions. He brought out a coiled whip and laid it on the rug for her to see. “Dance.”

Light gleamed on the oiled leather of the thongs. Shivering, unable to take her eyes off that awful threat, Inos clambered to her feet.

Rap put a strong arm around her and became visible.