The Legend of the Deathwalker

'This is Zhusai, my grand-daughter. It is my wish that you take her with you on your quest. It is also the wish of Nosta Khan, and your father.'

'And if I refuse?'

'No more will be said. You will leave my home and journey back to the tents of your people.'

'And my quest?'

'Will continue without my aid.'

'I am not ready for a wife. I have dedicated my life to the pursuit of revenge and the Day of the Uniter. But even were I to consider marriage, then as the son of a chieftain it would be my right to choose my own woman. It would certainly be my wish that she be Nadir. I have great respect for the Chiatze — but they are not my people.'

Chorin-Tsu leaned forward. 'Leaders have no rights; that is one of the great secrets of leadership. However, you miss the point, young man. Zhusai is not to be your wife. She is pledged to the Uniter; she will be the Shul-sen to his Oshikai.'

'Then I do not understand,' admitted Talisman, relieved. 'What sacrifice is required of me?'

'Do you accept Zhusai into your custody? Will you protect her with your life?'

'If that is required, so be it,' promised Talisman. 'Now what is the sacrifice?'

'Perhaps there will be none. Zhusai, show our guest to his room.' The young woman bowed once more, then rose silently and led Talisman from the chamber.

At the end of a short corridor Zhusai opened a door and stepped inside. Rugs were set around the room, and blankets had been spread upon the floor. There were no chairs, nor ornaments. 'This is your room,' she said.

'Thank you, Zhusai. Tell me, have you ever been into the desert?'

'No, Lord.'

'Does the prospect of our journey cause you concern? We will be travelling through hostile lands and there will be many dangers.'

'There is only one danger I fear, Lord,' she said.

'And that is?' As he asked the question he saw a gleam appear in her eyes, and a tightening of the muscles of her face. In that moment the quiescent, agreeable Chiatze girl-child disappeared, replaced by a hard-eyed woman. Then, just as suddenly, the girl-mask fell back into place.

'It is best not to speak of fears, Lord. For fear is akin to magic. Good night. Sleep well.'

The door closed behind her.

* * *

Sieben's laughter was rich, the sound filling the room, and the Drenai ambassador reddened. 'I think you'll find that this is no subject for humour,' he said coldly. 'We are talking here about international diplomacy, and the whims of individuals have no place in it.' The poet sat back and studied the ambassador's thin face. His steel-coloured hair was carefully combed and delicately perfumed, his clothes immaculate — and very costly. Majon wore a white woollen cloak, and a blue silk tunic edged with gold. The ambassador's fingers toyed with his crimson neck scarf and the ceremonial brooch — a silver horse rearing — that denoted his rank. The man was angry, and allowing it to show. This, Sieben decided, was a calculated insult. Diplomats were masters of oily charm, their expressions endlessly amiable when dealing with superiors. 'Do you disagree?' asked Majon.

'I rarely disagree with politicians,' Sieben told him. 'It seems to me that the worst of you could convince me that a horse turd tastes like a honey-cake. And the best would leave me believing that I alone in all the world had failed to enjoy its flavour.'

'That is a highly insulting remark,' snapped Majon.

'I do apologize, ambassador. It was meant as a compliment.'

'Will you seek to convince him — or not? This matter is of the highest importance. I swear, by the memory of Missael, that we could be talking of war!'

'Oh, I don't doubt that, ambassador. I saw the God-King, remember?' Majon's eyes widened and he swiftly raised his hand to his mouth, holding a finger to his lips in warning. Sieben merely grinned. 'An inspired leader,' he said, with a wink. 'Any ruler who would sack a politician and raise his pet cat to ministerial rank has my support.'

Majon rose from his chair and walked to the door, opening it and peering out into the corridor. Swinging back into the room he stood before the poet. 'It is not wise to mock any ruler — most especially when in the capital city of such a man. The peoples of the Drenai and the Gothir are at peace. Long may it remain so.'

'Yet in order to ensure that peace,' said Sieben, his smile fading, 'Druss must lose against Klay?'

'Put simply, that is indeed the situation. It would not be. . appropriate. . for Druss to win.'

'I see. You have little faith, then, in the God-King's prophecy?'

Majon poured himself a goblet of wine and sipped it before answering. 'It is not a question of faith, Sieben; it is simply politics. The God-King makes a prophecy at this time every year. They come true. There are those who believe that, since his prophecies generally concern the actions of men, the men themselves ensure their accuracy. Others simply accept that their ruler is divine. However, in this instance the point is academic. He has predicted that Klay will take the gold. If Druss were to win it would be seen as an insult to the God-King, and interpreted as a Drenai plot to destabilize the administration. The consequences of such an action could be disastrous.'

'I suppose he could put his cat in charge of the army and attack Dros Delnoch. A terrifying prospect!'

'Is there a brain inside that handsome head? The army you speak of numbers more than fifty thousand men, many of them battle-hardened by war against Nadir tribes and Sathuli raiders. But that is not the point. Here in Gothir there are three main factions. One faction believes in the divine right of the Gothir to conquer the world. The other seeks to conquer the world without concerning themselves with the question of divine rights. You understand? For reasons best known to themselves, each faction hates the other. This nation stands constantly on the brink of civil war. While they are thus fighting among themselves, the Drenai are free from the appalling cost of resisting an invasion.'

'Cost? Are we talking coin here?'

'Of course we are talking coin,' said Majon, his jr-ritation flaring. 'Mobilization of men, training, new armour, swords, breastplates. Food for the recruits. And where do we find the recruits? The land. Peasants and farmers. When they are soldiers, who gathers the crops? The answer is that many fields are left unharvested. What happens to the price of grain? It soars. And, at the end, what has been achieved? The fortress will hold, and the men will go home to find their taxes have risen to pay for the war. Fifty thousand trained soldiers angry at the government.'

'You didn't mention the dead,' said Sieben softly.

'A good point. The threat of disease from corpses, the costs of burial. Then there are the cripples, who become an endless drag upon the benevolence of the state.'

'I think you have made your point, ambassador,' put in Sieben. 'Your humanity does you credit. But you mentioned three factions, and you have described only two.'

'Lastly there is the Royal Guard — ten thousand men, the elite of the Gothir army. They placed the God-King on the throne after the last Insurrection — and they keep him there. Neither of the other two factions is yet powerful enough to be guaranteed victory without the support of the Guards. Therefore everyone stands frozen, unable to move. Ideally that situation should be encouraged to continue.'

Sieben laughed. 'And meanwhile a madman sits on the throne, his reign punctuated by murder, torture and enforced suicides?'

'That is a problem for the Gothir, Sieben. Our concern is the Drenai, of which there are also close to three thousand living in Gothir lands whose lives would be forfeit if any general hostilities were announced. Merchants, labourers, physicians — aye, and diplomats. Are their lives without meaning, Sieben?'