LITMIR.BIZ

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into little bursts of unintelligible babble. That was not what happened, however. Faran’s gait became impossibly smooth. The big horse seemed almost to flow across the ground – or, more properly, the ground seemed to flow back beneath his hooves. Sparhawk swallowed hard and looked around at his companions. Their faces seemed blank, wooden, and their eyes half-closed.

      ‘They’re sleeping just now,’ Aphrael explained. ‘They’re all quite comfortable. They believe that they’ve had a good supper and that the sun’s gone down. I fixed them a rather nice camp-site. Stop the horse, father. You can help me get rid of the extra food.’

      ‘Can’t you just make it vanish?’

      ‘And waste it?’ She sounded shocked. ‘The birds and animals have to eat too, you know.’

      ‘How long is it really going to take us to reach Basne?’

      ‘Two days. We could go faster if there was an emergency, but there’s nothing quite that serious going on just now.’

      Sparhawk reined in, and he followed his little daughter back to where the pack animals stood patiently. ‘You’re keeping all of this in your head at the same time?’ he asked her.

      ‘It’s not that difficult, Sparhawk. You just have to pay attention to details, that’s all.’

      ‘You sound like Kurik.’

      ‘He’d have made an excellent God, actually. Attention to detail is the most important lesson we learn. Put that beef shoulder over near that tree with the broken-off top. There’s a bear-cub back in the bushes who got separated from his mother. He’s very hungry.’

      ‘Do you keep track of every single thing that’s happening around you?’

      ‘Well somebody has to, Sparhawk.’

      The Zemoch town of Basne lay in a pleasant valley where the main east-west road forded a small, sparkling river. It was a fairly important trading centre. Not even Azash had been able to curb the natural human instinct to do business. There was an encampment just outside of town.

      Sparhawk had dropped back to return Princess Danae to her mother, and he was riding beside the carriage as they started down into the valley.

      Mirtai seemed uncharacteristically nervous as the carriage moved down toward the encampment.

      ‘It appears that your admirer has obeyed your summons, Mirtai,’ Baroness Melidere observed brightly.

      ‘Of course,’ the giantess replied.

      ‘It must be enormously satisfying to have such absolute control over a man.’

      ‘I rather like it,’ Mirtai admitted. ‘How do I look? Be honest, Melidere. I haven’t seen Kring for months, and I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.’

      ‘You’re lovely, Mirtai.’

      ‘You’re not just saying that?’

      ‘Of course not.’

      ‘What do you think, Ehlana?’ the Tamul woman appealed to her owner. Her tone was a bit uncertain.

      ‘You’re ravishing, Mirtai.’

      ‘I’ll know better when I see his face.’ Mirtai paused. ‘Maybe I should marry him,’ she said. ‘I think I’d feel much more secure if I had my brand on him.’ She rose, opening the carriage door and leaning out to pull her tethered horse up from behind the carriage and then quite literally flowed onto his back. Mirtai never used a saddle. ‘Well,’ she sighed, ‘I guess I’d better go down there and find out if he still loves me.’ And she tapped her heels into her horse’s flanks and galloped on down into the valley to meet the waiting Domi.

Chapter 9

      The Peloi were nomadic herders from the marches of eastern Pelosia. They were superb horsemen and savage warriors. They spoke a somewhat archaic form of Elenic, and many of the words in their tongue had fallen out of use in the modern language. Among those words was ‘Domi’, a word filled with profoundest respect. It meant ‘Chief’ – sort of – although, as Sir Ulath had once said, it lost a great deal in translation.

      The current Domi of the Peloi was named Kring. Kring was a lean man of slightly more than medium height. As was customary among the men of his people, he shaved his head, and there were savage-looking sabre scars on his scalp and face, an indication that the process of rising to a position of leadership among the Peloi involved a certain amount of rough-and-tumble competition. He wore black leather clothing, and a lifetime spent on horseback had made him bandy-legged. He was a fiercely loyal friend, and he had worshipped Mirtai from the moment he had first seen her. Mirtai did not discourage him, although she refused to commit herself. They made an odd-looking couple, since the Atan woman towered more than a foot over her ardent suitor.

      Peloi hospitality was generous, and the business of ‘taking salt together’ usually involved enormous amounts of roasted meat, during the consumption of which the men ‘spoke of affairs’, a phrase with many implications, ranging in subject matter from the weather to formal declarations of war.

      After they had eaten, Kring described what he had observed during the ride of the hundred Peloi across Zemoch. ‘It never really was a kingdom, friend Sparhawk,’ he said. ‘Not the way we understand the word. There are too many different kinds of people living in Zemoch for them all to come together under one roof. The only thing that kept them united was their fear of Otha and Azash. Now that their emperor and their God aren’t there any more, the Zemochs are just kind of drifting apart. There’s not any sort of war or anything like that. It’s just that they don’t stay in touch with each other any more. They all have their own concerns, so they don’t really have any reason to talk to each other.’

      ‘Is there any kind of government at all?’ Tynian asked the shaved-headed Domi.

      ‘There’s a sort of a framework, friend Tynian,’ Kring replied. They were sitting in a large, open pavilion in the centre of the Peloi encampment feasting on roast ox. The sun was just going down and the shadows of the peaks lying to the west lay long across the pleasant valley. There were lights in the windows of Basne a half mile or so away. ‘The departments of Otha’s government have all moved to Gana Dorit,’ Kring elaborated. ‘Nobody will even go near the city of Zemoch any more. The bureaucrats in Gana Dorit spend their time writing directives, but their messengers usually just stop in the nearest village, tear up the directives, wait a suitable period of time, and then go back and tell their employers that all is going well. The bureaucrats are happy, the messengers don’t have to travel very far, and the people go on about their business. Actually, it’s not a bad form of government.’

      ‘And their religion?’ Sir Bevier asked intently. Bevier was a devout young knight, and he spent a great deal of his time talking and thinking about God. His companions liked him in spite of that.

      ‘They don’t speak very much about their beliefs, friend Bevier,’ Kring replied. ‘It was their religion that got them into trouble in the first place, so they’re a bit shy about discussing the matter openly. They grow their crops, tend their sheep and goats and let the Gods settle their own disputes. They’re not a threat to anybody any more.’

      ‘Except for the fact that a disintegrated nation is an open invitation to anyone nearby with anything even remotely resembling an army,’ Ambassador Oscagne added.

      ‘Why would anyone want to bother, your Excellency?’ Stragen asked him. ‘There’s nothing in Zemoch of any value. The thieves there have to get honest jobs in order to make ends meet. Otha’s gold appears to have been an illusion. It all vanished when Azash died.’ He smiled sardonically. ‘And you have no idea of how chagrined any number of people who’d supported the Primate of Cimmura were when that happened.’

      Something rather peculiar happened to Kring’s face. The savage horseman whose very name struck fear into the hearts of his neighbours

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