The Yarimese soldier nodded, his eyes bright in the sandy wind.
“Good. Then let us move out more quickly; the men deserve a rest from this sun before we begin work at nightfall.”
From the gleaming marble balcony of her guest room in the Judiciary, the palace of Yarim’s duke, Rhapsody watched the procession of wagons and horses as it turned to the east. The gown of green Yarimese silk in which she was clothed, the duke’s welcome gift, gleamed in the sun passing over it as she turned to follow the caravan.
“Where are they going?” she demanded, shielding her eyes from the bright glare radiating off the balcony railing, inset with precious opals and lapis lazuli, the gloriously colored products of Yarim’s famed mining camps.
Ihrman Karsrick cleared his throat. “I have arranged for them to be quartered in the Bissal Crescent, a few miles outside of the city,” he said blandly. “They should be easy to protect there.”
“That’s nothing but a dust bowl,” said Ashe, crossing his arms. “Have you recently built a garrison there, Ihrman?”
“No, m’lord, not a permanent one, but a full camp has been erected, with a ring of guards around it.”
Rhapsody turned to the duke. “Let me understand this. You have invited King Achmed to your province for the purpose of benefiting from his expertise, in a matter that could remedy the possible starvation of your people and save your treasury from being emptied, and you are expecting him to quarter outside the city, sleeping on a cot in a tent in the middle of a barren wasteland, under continuous guard, much in the same manner as you once housed the murderers from the Market of Thieves?”
“Not at all, m’lady,” replied Karsrick, his teeth set in annoyance. “The murderers from the Market of Thieves were given bedrolls, not cots. Where did you expect me to house the Bolg?”
The Lady Cymrian turned and strode angrily to the door. “I expected you to house them as you would any other guests in your province, Ihrman, and I am embarrassed on your behalf, as well as my own, that you didn’t expect to do this as well. As for the Bolg king, who is a visiting head of state, and a fellow member of the Cymrian Alliance, I expected you would put him up in your very own bedchamber, if need be, and sleep yourself on the scullery floor with your fat arse to the fire before you would disgrace both of us like this.”
When the duke turned, purple with fury, to her husband, the Lord Cymrian merely shrugged.
“Namers must tell the truth as they know it, Ihrman,” he said, following Rhapsody to the door. “Speaking anything other than the truth dilutes their power. So perhaps it would have been more politic of me to address you myself, rather than leaving it to Rhapsody, and tell you what a graceless, mannerless idiot you are.” He caught her arm before she went through the door way.
“You are right, of course, Aria,” he said quietly. “But practically speaking, do you not think the Bolg would be uncomfortable here in the Judiciary? Wouldn’t they, in fact, have chosen the same sort of accommodation that Ihrman has provided had they been asked?”
“Undoubtedly,” his wife replied, kissing him on the cheek. “But they weren’t asked. Sometimes the etiquette is more in the question than in the answer. I will return before supper.”
Ashe caressed her face gently, then returned to the balcony, watching in silence, listening with Karsrick as the palace guards repeated her orders to bring forth her mount and open the gate.
“Make certain she is accompanied and guarded on her way to the Bissal Crescent,” the Lord Cymrian directed Karsrick, who nodded angrily and left the room, leaving him to stand alone on the balcony, observing his wife ride off to meet the other two of the Three, the men who had brought her across Time, through the belly of the Earth, unknowingly returning her to his life and his world again.
He swallowed, willing himself to be grateful.
“Well, would ya look at that.”
Grunthor laughed aloud at the sight approaching the camp. From the west a rolling cloud of dust rose, in front of which a Lirin roan could be seen, in full canter transitioning to a gallop. Atop the roan was a woman in a green silk gown, her lower legs bare, the skirts streaming behind her in the wind, similarly to the way the blond tresses of her hair were flying, her scabbard slapping at her side. Behind her, a small retinue of guards struggled to keep pace.
“Looks like she’s bent on losing them, eh, sir? Think she might be ’appy to see us?”
Behind his veils Achmed smiled as well. He knew it was only a matter of moments before she would descend upon them, because he had been tracking her heartbeat for most of the morning. It was racing in time with the galloping mare.
“Yes, I believe she is,” he said.
As she crested the rise where they were encamped, the roan slowed, then came to a graceful halt in a swirl of red dust. Rhapsody vaulted from the animal’s back, and ran toward them, bare of foot, grinning.
She threw herself first into the waiting arms of the giant, allowing him to lift her from the ground and swing her about in his embrace like a child.
“Grunthor! I am so glad to see you! Thank you for coming!”
“My pleasure, miss,” the Sergeant grinned in return. “Been far too long.”
“I agree,” she said as he put her down gently on the ground. She turned to the Bolg king and embraced him. “Hello, Achmed.”
“Hello yourself,” Achmed replied. “That was quite a spectacle, the Cymrian Lady riding astride with her skirts flying up in the wind. If you decide to give up the royal life and go back to your previous profession, that might be a good way to attract business.”
“Thank you, I’m glad to see you as well,” she said, ignoring his comment and taking his arm, then Grunthor’s. “I’m here to escort you to the Judiciary in Yarim Paar.”
“Why?” Grunthor asked.
“Well, it’s bound to be more comfortable than billeting in the middle of the desert.”
“Naw, that’s all right, miss. The troops are more comfortable ’ere actually; fewer ’umans gawkin’ at ’em. They can get some rest and a good meal and be ready ta work tonight. An’ Oi’d just as soon stay with ’em, if ya don’t mind.”
“Well, what about you, Achmed? Do you wish to remain here as well?”
“Did your husband accompany you to Yarim?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll pass on the invitation,” the Bolg king said. Rhapsody’s face fell, so he quickly added, “It’s better that I remain with my ‘men,’ as you are so fond of calling them.” He stopped at the top of a sandy rise, watching the deployment of the Yarimese guard around the perimeter of the camp. “But as long as you’re here, I need you to look at something.”
Rhapsody glanced around the Bissal Crescent. Far away at the horizon to the east she could see the shadow of the Teeth, their multicolored peaks faded by distance into a muted gray, ringed with a haze of clouds; it was raining there, filling the watersheds, no doubt, with the life-giving rain that was denied by Nature to the vast expanse of the province of Yarim.
To the north and west of the Crescent, great red rocky formations were strewn about the desert floor, some reaching heights of over one hundred yards. Their curves and hollows spoke of a time when they might have been supple clay, now fired in the kiln of the wind and sun into the hard, dry skeletons that baked in the heat along with the rest of Yarim.