"Let us leave this hellish land. Let us return home and breathe good demon air. If we make haste there's just enough raiding time remaining in the season to make all our purses heavy. We've searched every gully, every trail for nearly six hundred miles, Sarn. I don't believe there is such a place as Kyrania. Or any way at all over the Gods Divide. And if there is, it's so well-hidden we'll never find it in a hundred years. We'll wander these hills the rest of our days. It'll be our ghosts who earn the king's bonus. And gold is no good to a ghost."
Sarn thought a moment, then nodded. If that's what you and the others want, he said, I won't stand in your way. I'll tell you what. We'll cast lots in the morning. If the majority wants to return home, that's what we'll do. You'll hear no argument from me. I'll add one more thing. No matter what the vote, at least ten of our fiends should return home with the goods and slaves we've already gathered. That's all I can spare, although it ought to be enough. The slaves are quite docile with the spell I cast over them. Then the rest of us shall proceed as quickly as we can, taking no more slaves and carrying away only gold and silver and other easily-transportable goods."
Sarn stretched out a paw. Agreed? he asked.
Giff nodded, rasping talons against his leader's claws. Agreed, he said. With one provision. If the vote is for our return I want the pleasure of killing the human."
Sarn laughed. Do what you want with him, he said. But do it in public. It's been a long time since we've enjoyed a really good entertainment."
Sarn was an artful chief. Giff's protestations of brotherhood didn't fool him. Giff always had his eye on the main chance. But Sarn knew his lieutenant represented a point of view among his band that must be dealt with. For a bandit chief Sarn had a unique ability to appear to shift with the prevailing winds and still get his way in the end. More importantly, he had magical powers much greater than the normal talent for sorcery all demons possessed.
In the morning he gathered his band together and carefully spelled out the two choices. He weighted no side heavier than the other. But he'd prepared well for the vote, casting a mild spell none of his demons would notice that would temporarily make the dangers and unpleasantness ahead seem of no consequence.
Badawi watched the proceedings from a distance, knowing his fate hung in the balance. For the whole time Sarn spoke Giff stared at Badawi, hate and hungry longing in his demon eyes. The night before Badawi had suspected something was up because of the intensity of the conversation between Sarn and Giff. The horse dealer had gone on a frantic, all night search for something, anything, to assure his survival.
Now he held what he prayed was that item in his hand and after the demons had cast their lotsvoting to continue on King Manacia's missionhe was waiting with it at the pavilion when Sarn returned.
"What do you want, human? Sarn demanded.
Badawi stilled his trembling limbs, doing his best to ignore Giff's stares of unrequited hate.
He held out an old firepit-encrusted bowl for Sarn's inspection. I found this, master, he said.
Sarn struck it away. Rubbish! he said. You present me with rubbish!"
Badawi grabbed the bowl up again, which had remarkably had not shattered. Please, master, he said. This isn't rubbish at all. Look at this bowl. See the rich glaze beneath all the filth? Touch the clay, Master. Feel the quality. And old as this bit of pottery is, notice the artfulness of the design. Why, if this were new and we had its twin, we could get a pretty bit of silver indeed at any marketplace."
"Don't insult me with silver, pretty or not, Sarn said. I'm through with pots and jars and bolts of cloth. That's no way for a decent bandit to make a living."
"Ah, but master, Badawi said, I'm not suggesting we look for more of this. But I am suggesting we find out where it came from. I've seen this type of pottery but once in my life, master. It's very rare. And therefore highly prized in human markets. The place this pottery comes from is secret to all but the richest caravan masters.
"The story is told in the marketplaces that there is a family of master potters who live in a valley high in the mountains. And in those mountains is a holy lake surrounded by beds of the purest clay. Clay that is used to form pots and dishes and brewing jars fit only for kings and their most royal kin.
"That family of potters, Master, is know as the Timuras. And this is a Timura pot, Merciful One. It could be no other!"
"My ears are growing heavy just listening to you, human, Sarn said. Say what you came to say and be done with it. What do I care about this tale of lakes and beds of clay and grimy potters who grub in the earth?"
"Yes, master, I'll hurry, master, Badawi babbled, but frightened as he was, he stuck to his point.
"That valley I spoke of, master, he said, sits on a caravan route that leads over these mountains. At least that's what the stories say. And those same stories also claim the caravan route is the same ancient trail Alisarrian took when he invaded Walaria. It was said that to his enemies it seemed Alisarrian and his entire army suddenly appeared, pouring out of the mountains. They said it was magic, master. Sorcery. However, it wasn't magic that was their undoing, but a secret passage across the Gods Divide."
Badawi waved the bowl in front of the demon. The same place this bit of pottery was made."
Sarn used a talon to pick a bit of food from between his fangs. If you aren't speaking of Kyrania, human, find a good dull knife and slit your throat for me. I grow wearier by the minute."
"Yes, Master, immediately, Master, Badawi said, scrapping and bowing. I am indeed speaking of Kyrania. This bowl is proof that Kyrania is near."
"You've said that more than once, human! Giff snarled.
Badawi shivered, but held his ground. Forgive me, master, he said to Sarn. This low worm you call your slave admits he stretched the truth a bit when he had the immense honor of first meeting you. I don't know exactly where Kyrania is. But I do know how to find it."
He saw the two immense demons exchange a look that did not bode well for him. So he hurried through his logic.
"Listen to me, please, he said. I'm a merchant. I know things. I know you can't hide something as large as a caravan route. So we must assume it is still to our west. How far I can't say with certainty. However, I can guess, master. The route would by necessity go from Caspan, the largest city on this side of the mountains, to Walaria. Which, as you know, is the most important kingdom on the southern side."
Badawi crouched down and scratched a map in the dust. Caravan masters are secretive, but they wouldn't waste time covering their trail. Time is money and money is time and the length of the shadow between is feared by all men of business. So I think we can assume the route is fairly direct."
Badawi kept scratching until he had the mountains sketched in and the two cities of Walaria and Caspan. Then he drew a circle. It's only reasonable to assume, master, he said, that the place you seek is within this circle. Perhaps two or three hundred miles distant at the most."
Sarn turned to his lieutenant, snout stretched in what demons considered a smile. You see, Giff, the bandit chief said, this human has been some use to us after all."
Giff peered at the greasy little human, measuring… A vote is a vote, he said with some reluctance. I'll let him be for now. But remember your promise."
Badawi was alarmed. Promise? What promise, O Merciful Masters?"
"Just find us Kyrania, human, Sarn commanded. And know that your miserable swinish life depends on it."
CHAPTER THREE
Despite Iraj's prediction Safar didn't immediately embrace him and call him milk brother.