“Not while I live, I think,” Aurens said, in his crisp, precise English.
“Well, when you die, then,” Allenby retorted savagely. “And the moment you’re dead, we’ll be waiting—just like the vultures you called us in there.”
If anything, the smile only grew a trifle. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. There is wealth here, and wealth can purchase educations. In a few years, there will be men of the tribes who can play the politicians’ game with the best of them. Years more, and there will be men of the tribes who look farther than the next spring, into the next century. We need not change, you know—we need only adopt the tools and weapons, and turn them to our own use. I would not look to cut up the East too soon, if I were you.” Now he chuckled, something that surprised Kirkbride so much that his jaw dropped. “And in any event,” Aurens concluded carelessly, “I intend to live a very long time.”
Allenby swore under his breath, and turned on his heel. The rest, all but Kirkbride, followed.
He could not, for Aurens had turned that luminous blue gaze upon him again.
“Oxford, I think,” the rich voice said.
He nodded, unable to speak.
The gaze released him, and turned to look out one of the windows; after a moment, Kirkbride recognized the direction. East.
Baghdad.
“I shall have need of Oxford men, to train my people in the English way of deception,” the voice said, carelessly. “And the French way of double-dealing, and the German way of ruthlessness. To train them so that they understand, but do not become these things.”
Kirkbride found his voice. “You aren’t trying to claim that ‘your people’ aren’t double-dealing, deceitful, and ruthless, I hope?” he said, letting sarcasm color his words. “I think that would be a little much, even from you.”
The eyes turned back to recapture his, and somewhere, behind the blue fire, there was a hint of humor.
“Oh, no,” Aurens said, with gentle warmth. “But those are Arab deceptions, double-dealings, and ruthlessness. Clever, but predictable to another Arab; these things are understood all around. They have not yet learned the ways of men who call themselves civilized. I should like to see them well-armored, before Allah calls me again.”
Kirkbride raised an eyebrow at that. “You haven’t done anything any clever man couldn’t replicate,” he replied, half in accusation. “Without the help of Allah.”
“Have I ever said differently?” Aurens traded him look for ironic look.
“I heard what happened before the battle.” Aurens, they said, had ridden his snow-white stallion before them all. “In whose name do you ride?” he had called. “Like a trumpet,” Kirkbride’s informant had told him, as awed as if he had spoken of the Archangel Gabriel.
And the answer, every man joined in one roar of response. “In the name of Allah, and of Aurens.”
Aurens only looked amused. “Ride with me to Baghdad.” This had less the sound of a request than a command. “Ride with me to Yemen. Help me shape the world.” Again, the touch of humor, softening it all. “Or at least, so much of it as we can. Inshallah. I have Stirling, I have some others, I should like you.”
Kirkbride weighed the possibilities, the gains, the losses. Then weighed them against the intangible; the fire in the eyes, the look of eagles.
Then, once again, he looked Aurens full in the eyes; was caught in the blue fire of them, and felt that fire catch hold in his soul, outweighing any other thoughts or considerations.
Slowly, knowing that he wagered all on a single cast of the dice, he drew himself up to attention. Then he saluted; slowly, gravely, to the approval of every one of the robed men in that room.
“To Baghdad, and Yemen, Aurens,” he said. “Inshallah.”
Balance
This story first appeared in Fantasy Book magazine; it was later combined with the following story, “Dragon’s Teeth,” and stories by Marion Zimmer Bradley and Jennifer Roberson for a volume originally called Bardic Voices, later published by DAW as Spell Singers.
Martis is very close to being a soul-sister to Tarma and Kethry.
“You’re my bodyguard?”
The swordsman standing in the door to Martis’ cluttered quarters blinked in startled surprise. He’d been warned that the sorceress was not easy to work with, but he hadn’t expected her to be quite so rude. He tried not to stare at the tall, disheveled mage who stood, hands on hips, amid the wreckage she’d made of her own quarters. The woman’s square features, made harsher by nervous tension, reflected her impatience as the mercenary groped for the proper response to make.
Martis was a little embarrassed by her own ill-manners, but really, this—child—must surely be aware that his appearance was hardly likely to invoke any confidence in his fighting ability!
For one thing, he was slim and undersized; he didn’t even boast the inches Martis had. For another, the way he dressed was absurd; almost is if he were a dancer got up as a swordsman for some theatrical production. He was too clean, too fastidious; that costume wasn’t even the least worn-looking—and silk, for Kevreth’s sake! Blue-green silk at that! He carried two swords, and whoever had heard of anyone able to use two swords at once outside of a legend? His light brown hair was worn longer than any other fighter Martis had ever seen—too long, Martis thought with disapproval, and likely to get in the way despite the headband he wore to keep it out of his eyes. He even moved more like a dancer than a fighter.
This was supposed to guard her back? It looked more like she’d be guarding him. It was difficult to imagine anything that looked less like a warrior.
“The Guard-serjant did send this one for that purpose, Mage-lady, but since this one does not please, he shall return that another may be assigned.”
Before Martis could say anything to stop him, he had whirled about and vanished from the doorway without a sound. Martis sighed in exasperation and turned back to her packing. At this moment in time she was not about to start worrying about the tender feelings of a hire-sword!
She hadn’t gotten much farther along when she was interrupted again—this time by a bestial roar from the bottom of the stair.
“MARTIS!” the walls shook with each step as Trebenth, Guard-serjant to the Mage’s Guild, climbed the staircase to Martis’ rooms. Most floors and stairs in the Guild-hold shook when Trebenth was about. He was anything but fat—but compared to the lean mages he worked for, he was just so—massive. Outside of the Guards’ quarters, most of the Guild-hold wasn’t designed to cope with his bulk. Martis could hear him rumbling under his breath as he ascended; the far-off mutterings of a volcano soon to erupt. She flinched and steeled herself for the inevitable outburst.
He practically filled the doorframe; as he glared at Martis, she half expected steam to shoot from his nostrils. It didn’t help that he looked like a volcano, dressed in Mage-hireling red, from his tunic to his boots; it matched the red of his hair and beard, and the angry flush suffusing his features. “Martis, what in the name of the Seven is your problem?”
“My problem, as you call it, is the fact that I need a bodyguard, not a temple dancer!” Martis matched him, glare for glare, her flat gray eyes mirroring his impatience. “What are you trying to push on me, Ben? Zaila’s toenails, if it weren’t for the fact that Guild law prevents a mage from carrying weapons, I’d take sword myself rather than trust my safety to that toy!”