Andrew R. Clark
In summer, if any rain remains in the few parched clouds that reach the steppe, grass is resurrected from the dust and nomads wander its vastness in search of fodder. In the cold there is nothing. He’d started out on a strong pony, but now his own feet trod the iron‑hard earth. “Atar!” he cried into the storm. “Ashi! I don’t believe in you but help me if you’re there.” The gods of his people did not answer, and snow blew between his squinting eyelashes and down his collar.
His choices were poor, being only one: get as low as possible and try to shelter there. Hands thrust into coat pockets, the thief stumbled down a rocky slope. Dry weeds clung to a shallow cleft at the base of the hill—little protection from the wind, but it was all there was. On hands and knees, he pushed into the desiccated stalks, preparing to sleep or die.
Too cold to govern his body, his thoughts receded to another place and time. Here, too, he was curled up in a ball, not to preserve heat but to protect his head and groin. “Pig!” shouted the caravan boss. Although talented in physical cruelty, he had no flair for insults. “Why shouldn’t I run you through with this blade and be done with it? You cheat at tiles. You disgrace the lady we’re supposed to protect. And where’s my gold?! I’ll split you open and have your guts searched in case you’ve swallowed it.”
Spitting blood between chipped teeth, the thief responded, “The master’s concern reveals a greatness of heart. It’s true this unworthy servant has had an unusual run of luck at tiles, but who can explain the whims of Fate? And although it’s also true the honored lady going to the aged patriarch at Magdi appears to have made a mistake with a man, it surely must have happened before she joined this well‑run procession.
“As to the whereabouts of the master’s esteemed gold, what faithful servant would not gladly have his bowels inspected for his overseer’s comfort? Though perhaps there is a less bothersome method. But humbly, what hope would such a low person as myself have to rob one of the wise? An ant would have better chance felling a tree. This one regrets his ignorance of these important matters, and may the master’s hand move to justice.”
Filtering back into his frozen body, just at the edge of awareness, the thief heard tapping. It grew into pounding and cracked the numb shell around his mind. Rising onto an elbow, his eyes just above the dry vegetation, he saw the source of the racket interrupting his death—men with horses, setting iron stakes and raising canvas. Before losing consciousness altogether, he managed to stand and shout, “The charge for camping here is reasonable!”
#
Spectacular are the sensations of not being dead, of not freezing to the ground to be found in spring by scavengers—a mat beneath you, a fire somewhere near, the smell of food in the air. But a boot in the small of the thief’s back brought him more fully awake.
“Arise!” A big man loomed over him. “I am Temur. Do you understand what I’m saying, or do you come from a hole where the animals don’t know speech?”
“I understand you, Master,” the thief said, sitting up but almost spilling himself into the fire. He was weak.
“I’m not your master but listen to me and be careful how you answer. Where do you come from? Not here.”
“I’ve been traveling. I’ve lost count how many days.”
“But what is a fool doing alone in the wasteland? Wait, don’t tell me. I can guess. You made the mistake of feeding it, and now a gallows follows you around wherever you go.” The big man reared back, bellowing at his own joke. This Temur was really quite stout, like a boulder or a tree trunk or someone who might start hitting you with the stick he’s using to poke the embers.
“Attempting to obscure vision as clear as Your Majesty’s would be futility.”
“And a toady,” said the big man, still chuckling. “Alright, before we use you for sword practice, have a drink.” Temur took a pot from near the fire, poured steaming liquid into a mug, and handed it to the thief. He sniffed the cup—poison mushroom, an interrogation potion of powdered moonflower? Tea. Warmth infused his blood and body with each gulp.
“Now, my friend, I’m not much for words, but if you lie to me I’ll know it.” The thief wasn’t sure this was true. “I pity the local vultures. What can there be to eat in a place such as this? And is it not a virtue to feed the hungry?” The thief was skeptical of the man’s piety. “Who would begrudge the poor beasts if they found an offering here after we’ve gone?” There was no doubt, however, of his sincerity.
“Tell me the truth,” the big man continued, changing tone. “Is not our lady splendid?” The thief remembered a woman, imperious on her horse. He could not disagree. “She spared you against my council, but that is her will. She is master here. Do you understand?” The thief nodded.
“While you’ve been strolling through the desert, I wonder what you’ve seen besides the frost on the end of your nose. Game? Camel trains? Men on horseback?”
It’s difficult to ask questions without showing something of your own needs. “I’ve seen no one for weeks, but I once worked the southern roads. If what you seek is making west, you’ll go that way.”
“So you collected dung for the caravans? What of it? If I wanted to go west, why shouldn’t I simply follow the setting sun?”
“You’d soon encounter a marshy forest, a dangerous maze even when frozen. Lands to the south are open and passable.”
The big man made a show of mulling over the recommendation, his face screwed up in thought. “Alright, we won’t kill you tonight. Have the rest of the water in that kettle, and one man to another, use some for washing.” Before ducking under the flap, Temur spoke to someone seated on a bedroll near the tent’s entrance. The man got up and rummaged through the baggage then brought the thief a wheat bun.
Retaking his position, the man retrieved a bundle from under the saddle he used for a pillow. Unwrapping a flat stone from a cloth, he spat onto it, and withdrawing a dagger from his belt, slid the edge across it. Scraping steel and howling wind mingled together as the thief slipped back into oblivion.
#
He awoke, again not dead, dawn illuminating the walls like panels of a paper lantern. Getting up to relieve himself, the thief heard a note of bird song added to the breeze. Lifting the tent flap, he saw her on the crown of a nearby hill, black hair loose in the wind, facing east, a flute held with bent arm. As the first beams of light broke the horizon, the song ended, and she descended the hill, disappearing into one of the other tents.
The camp was stirring, and the thief walked off to do as was needed. Back in his tent, the men—there were four of them—were munching on bread, rolling up the beds and clearing out. One of them gave him a kick over to the blankets he’d slept on. The thief drank the last of the water from the cold pot and rolled it up in the blankets.
Tents were already coming down. “Ah, beggar, there you are.” The big man came over, leading the reins of a honey‑colored mare with a gray muzzle. “You may ride one of my horses, unless you care to continue on foot. I’ve already asked her forgiveness for having to carry you, so get on and stay close to me. Do I need to make colorful descriptions of what I’ll do if you should try to disappear with her?” The thief knew he couldn’t leave, even if he wanted to.
He remembered little from his first encounter with these people—only yesterday? But now he saw there were some thirty men, hard and well equipped, a regal lady and her captain, and good horses. This wasn’t a group of travelers or traders, it was a small army. The party moved away at a brisk pace, the thief finding a place in line, trying to pull his coat tighter against the cold morning than it agreed to go.
#
Sky over the steppe is jealous neither of tree nor mountain, possessing full half the world. A crow in flight sees land roll like swell on a stopped sea. She hopes to beat the fox to winter dead, but better yet, she follows the caravans. Regardless of season, the great snake that is animals and men, salt and gold, rich fabrics and prized spices, slithers between cities, east and west. In some places there is a road, in some places even paved. In open country wind often obscures the track, but most routs are so well lined with garbage and skeletons there’s no doubt of the way.
They rode south, the company occasionally stopping while the big man and one or two other riders dismounted to inspect the ground. There was a canteen hooked to the mare’s saddle and grain in the saddlebag. The thief shared both with her when, at spells, the horses were rested. Finally, his backside having become reacquainted with the exercise, they turned west, facing the setting sun.
In the shadow of a line of hills, they made camp, and the thief was again with the four grinning killers for dinner. With kicks and grunts, they made their wishes known to him—they seemed not to understand the trade language—but soon there was food in his bowl, and he couldn’t complain. As they were bedding down, the big man entered the tent. He nodded to the soldiers and came to where the thief sat cross legged on his bedroll.
“You enjoyed your ride today?”
“Yes, yes, enjoyable. Your horse is falling in love with me.”
“Come.”
Shimmering in the twilight, bright jewels of the Bride’s Necklace arched from horizon to horizon. The tent they stopped in front of was identical to the rest, but this one had a guard posted at its door. “You’ll behave yourself in front of the lady.” So that was it, he would meet the woman. As they ducked inside, a kick prompted him to remove his hat.
“Sit,” came a soft voice. He kneeled down on a rug, across the fire from the lady. She was dressed in a fur‑lined tunic, blue and yellow silk at her throat, hair gathered in a long braid. Her eyes were dark and calm, her beauty a presence pressing against the walls.
“What’s that terrible scar on your forehead?” she suddenly asked.
The thief put his hand to his face reflexively, rubbing the disfigurement. “In trader’s tongue this is the first symbol of the word that means thief.”
“That’s barbarism,” she stated flatly.
“All in all, I feel lucky branding was the method in that particular caravan and not the cutting off of a hand.”
The lady bowed her head in sympathy.
“Your compassion is as great as your allure,” said the thief. Another boot caught him from behind, this time in the kidney.
“Temur, please!”
“Forgive me, lady.” The big man receded toward the entrance.
“Perhaps your tongue sometimes gets you into trouble,” she continued, a smile at the corners of her lips. “Be glad they did not cut that out.”
“Your Splendor is correct. I’m glad to retain my tongue.”
“Temur thinks you know these lands. Is this true?”
“I was born far away, but the world is endless, so I can’t say where. For a time, I worked the southern roads.” The thief ventured, “But you follow men on horseback, not camels.”
Something moved behind the lady’s eyes. “You pay attention and use your mind. How many horses? How many men?”
“A force close the size of your own, a few days ahead,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
“We’ll speak again tomorrow. Thank you … What is your name?”
Redonning his hat, his hand again went to his forehead. “Ever since this, I’ve been called thief.” He didn’t wait for the big man’s foot to encourage him to stand up and leave.
Before handing him back over to his guards, Temur said firmly, “The lady seems to like you, but I’m skeptical.” But then the big man slapped him on the back. “Remember, my mare is a dignified matron and won’t put up with any amorous nonsense.” The thief had to join in, laughing at the crude jest.
#
Rising wind drawing an amber curtain of dust across the sun, Temur and the woman came to him.
“How far is the next city?” asked the big man.
“On this track, two days west, a town at the edge of a lake.”
“Ride by me today,” said the woman. Temur only grunted.
They mounted—the captain on a large stallion with mean eyes, the woman on a fine gelding, soldiers with war horse and pack horse. He maneuvered the old mare in beside the lady, trailing a length behind. For an hour little was said among the band.
A covey of desert hens flushed from a hump of dry grass and flew away together, darting from side to side and hugging the ground. “Do you hunt?” the woman asked.
He prodded the mare forward and replied, “When I was a boy, I hunted deer with my father. We also set traps.”
“A mother does not hunt in the land of my husband, but when I was a girl, I took many fowl on the wing.”
“My father was disappointed with my aim, but I was good at trapping. It takes no special skill, just stubbornness.”
“Perhaps that is a skill.”
“Perhaps.”
“We are hunting now.”
“Yes, lady.”
“They took my children, my girl and my boy, stole them from me.” A minute passed in silence before the lady continued, “Compared to this, I won’t call you thief. Last night I asked your name. Tell me now, truly.”
“My mother called me revata,” he said, “but that just means willful.”
“All right, Revata. If you help us find the men who carried off my children, I’ll see you are rewarded.”
“I was almost dead when you found me, so it could be we’re already even. But I submit to your wisdom in such matters.”
“Good, we may need a stubborn trapper before we’re done.” The lady trotted her mount ahead, leaving the thief in the line of soldiers.
#
At noon on the fourth day since his rescue—capture?—the trail descended from the hills, emptying into a huge dish of sand and hard‑baked crust. At the horizon, above a distant ridge, white and black specks spun in the air like dust in a whirlwind, birds over the as yet unseen lake. The big man circled his stallion back to where the thief kept place.
“Come with me, beggar.”
The line halted at the captain’s signal, and the man he thought of as the Knife Sharpener joined them. The three rode out into the flatland. In an hour they had gained the ridge and climbed a trail to the top of the pass.
“Is this the town?”
Shimmering water stretched away beyond sight, buildings and groves clustered on the near shore.
“This is the lake. This is the town.”
“How well do you know it?”
“Somewhat.”
“Is there a slave market?”
“Yes.”
“You and Nohai will go there and take a look around. Find out when the next auction is and what’s for sale.”
The thief and the Knife Sharpener headed their mounts downhill. As they approached the outskirts of town, the Knife Sharpener, Nohai, pulled on his reins and stopped. The man attempted a few fruitless utterances but gave up and drew a finger across his throat. Although they lacked a common language, the message was conveyed well enough, any tricks would be met with professional pleasure.
The road entered onto a district of dockside warehouses, but the thief waved to Nohai and turned the mare up a side street. They tied their horses to a post outside an inn, its weathered door squeaking loudly as they pushed through. A small sitting room led off the main hallway, where a lethargic man leaned on a counter. The thief, speaking in trader’s tongue, said to him, “My friend here wants to buy a woman. I told him he’d be happier if he stayed married to his goats, but he’s stubborn, and I don’t like to argue.” Nohai, seeing the man’s eyes turn toward him, nodded encouragingly. “When’s the next auction,” the thief continued, “and where’s my drink?”
The man took a clay jar from under the counter and poured clear liquid into two small cups. “Money first.”
The thief pantomimed to the Knife Sharpener that he should bring out his purse. Nohai’s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing him, as though inventorying body parts for later reimbursement. Information was served with the acrid liquor. The large building near the foot of the main pier housed the slave auctions, and the schedule and list‑of‑sale were posted there.
A door wide enough to accommodate wagons fronted the warehouse. Inside, an open enclosure was lined with gated pens, a mix of animal smells thick in the air. An old man on a stool just inside the door sat up sputtering, “What? What?”
The thief countered, “Where? Where is the sale list?” Grudgingly, the old man got up from his stool and slapped a wall whereon curling lines of script were painted. The spies studied the list—one intently, one pretending he understood what he was looking at.
Riding back along darkening lakeshore, hasty winter sun fleeing below the horizon, the thief motioned to get Nohai’s attention. Waving his hands he produced a small bottle as though from out of the air. Uncorking it with his teeth, he handed it to the soldier. After downing his share and returning it, the killer pulled a cured shank of meat from his coat pocket, brushing it off on his sleeve and handing it over in kind. The two were singing different words to the same melody by the time they rejoined their fellows.
#
The following day broke calm and clear, the rising sun flanked by two glowing attendants. Yesterday, after he’d reported what they’d seen in town, the troop left the road, setting up camp amid the dunes. The auction would begin at halfnoon. A boy of nine and a girl of eleven were listed on the day’s rolls. When all was ready, two men rode away north with the pack horses, and the rest of the party headed back toward the caravan road. They stopped at its edge, and one of the captain’s men dismounted and kneeled beside him as he drew marks in the sand.
The big man stood again, stretching his back, and said to the thief, “Stay close to me.”
The group split in two; they would approach from different directions. The thief’s half followed the main road, the rout he and Nohai had scouted the day before. As they neared town, some of their number slowed, pulling up before reaching the square. The vanguard advanced and tied off in front of the auction building, and keeping close behind Temur, the thief entered the front door.
The broad room was already occupied by fifteen or twenty preceders. Some appeared to be tradesmen, some fisherman, and one, with a capable‑looking man at his side, wore finer cloth. Presently, a man dressed in a leather apron and long gloves came out from the back stalls.
“Greetings, gentlemen. The list is posted, and you know the rules—cash in gold or silver, and all sales are final.” A pen door slid back, and two workers dragged a young man to the center of the room and attached the chain around his neck to an iron loop set in the floor. Several of the buyers drew closer to inspect. “Three silver pieces” someone shouted, and the auction began. Amidst the commotion, more of their men slipped into the building.
The attendants brought forward a boy. He had dark hair and dark, frightened eyes that didn’t leave the floor. After some preliminary bids, the big man barked, “Two gold.” At the sound of the captain’s voice, the boy looked up but remained mute as he was pulled back to the pens. A woman of middle years was brought forth, and the bidding resumed. Emerging from a side door, a tall man in a heavy cloak scanned the crowd, and in a few seconds, his gaze met the big man’s eyes.
Like a cup slipping from his fingers, time seemed to float suspended a moment before shattering. In a chaos of screams and swinging steel, fighters burst from the pens and engaged the captain’s men. Scurrying back from the melee, the thief found himself momentarily unattended. He turned on his heels and walked to the door as though the hall were empty. On the street riders were jumping from saddles and thrusting reins at him. He tied their mounts and hopped onto the mare, spurring her to gallop out of the square, out of town, and into open desert.
#
Hungry and cold, dozing at times and waking in starts, he rode through the night. Resting the mare behind a spur of rock, trying to get out of the wind, he slept an hour or two. Riding again, the thief hunched down over the mare’s withers, man and horse met icy dawn.
As they wound between hummocks of dry grass, it occurred to him he recognized the spot. Bewildered, he turned at a sound and saw the big man a few yards off, atop his fierce stallion. “I did warn you not to steal my horse.”
Too late, the thief realized the mare had circled all night and returned to the previous day’s camp. “Why are you surprised I have your horse?” he spat the words out bitterly. “Thief is burned on my forehead.”
“That mark does mean thief, but you didn’t get it for stealing horses. Take off your coat.”
“It’s very cold, Your Majesty.”
“Take it off,” the big man said again, his voice as frigid as the morning air. The thief removed his coat. “—and the shirt.”
“You are cruel.” Tears of rage and shame stung the thief’s face. He removed his shirt, revealing his thin torso. A brand like the one above his eyes marked his shoulder, and across his back, scars from the whip.
“Cover yourself,” the big man said. “When I was young, I too, worked the caravans and learned the ways of the masters. The brand on your shoulder is the first symbol of the word slave. They only ever burned a slave’s face if he ran away, if he stole himself. So thief maybe, but that offense might be overlooked under the circumstances. The raid was successful. Everyone is waiting on the eastern shore.”
The woman had regained her children, now bearing the same scar as on his own shoulder. And what noble lady would travel alone with a band of cutthroats but one that had been discarded? The big man won the woman’s favor he so clearly desired, and with the help of his Thirty would no doubt be a successful bandit or warlord in no time. The lady got her children, the captain got the lady, and his men got to chop other men into smaller bits, which seemed to make them happy. But what of himself? What had the thief gained from a world that hated him at its cold heart?
“Come with us, man. What can you do alone in this wasteland but freeze to death?”
“But I did take my master’s gold when I escaped.”
“Well, no one’s perfect.”
They rode away together, winding through the dunes, dawn light reflecting off the lake and stinging their eyes.