with mossy branches she had picked up in the garden. A thick smoke rose from it, to be sucked into the mantle above.
Rakhsar said not a word, but shoved his sister aside, grabbed a fire-iron, and began raking the burning wood out of the hearth. He stamped upon it and beat it with the iron until the kitchen was filled with smuts and sparks and they were choking on it.
‘Where is Ushau?’
Roshana was bewildered. ‘I sent him for more wood.’
‘Get out of my way, you stupid bitch.’ Rakhsar grabbed at a pot of water, which was full of peeled onions, and threw it on the last of the coals. A billow of steam went up. He stood, panting. Roshana cowered against Kurun.
‘What is wrong — what did I do?’
‘We cannot have smoke. Are you stupid? How many times have I told you; if you must have a fire in the day, the wood must be powder-dry. You’ve just signalled our presence here for pasangs all around.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think — ’
‘It was not burning long, master,’ Kurun said.
‘Long enough.’ Rakhsar stood, looking into the ruined fire, still breathing heavily. ‘We have been here too long. We are forgetting our fate.’
Roshana began to sob silently, and Kurun put his arm about her shoulders.
‘Stop crying, sister. It will not do anyone any good.’
‘Do we have to leave? Can’t we stay here?’ she wept.
Rakhsar lifted his head, incredulous. He spun round, pushed Kurun out of the way and took his sister by the upper arms. He shook her like a terrier worrying a rat.
‘Is that what you thought — that somehow we could set up home here? My dear sister, I credited you with more wit — even this boy knew better.’
‘I’m tired of running,’ Roshana said brokenly.
‘Are you tired of living?’ He released her. To Kurun, he snapped, ‘Get her out of here, and then clean this mess up.’
‘Yes, master,’ Kurun murmured.
‘And keep your little paws off her, boy. You may have no balls, but I see what’s in your eyes. Now get out.’
They were afraid again. For a short time they had dared to believe the worst might be over, but they all recognised the truth of Rakhsar’s words. That afternoon they began methodically to pack up food and bedding and anything else they could glean from the house which would speed their onward journey. The hearth remained cold and black, and the weather took a turn for the worse in the early evening, a long slew of thunderclouds edging east over the world, and then congregating on the wide plains west of the Bekai River.
Rakhsar did not let them light so much as a single clay lamp, so agitated had he become. He stood and stared out at the silver sheets of the rain, the patient horses standing under it with the bags already packed upon their rumps, and whatever peace they had all known in the last few days entirely gone. The house seemed dank and cold in the rain, streams of water pouring through the threadbare roof and puddling on the floors. It was as though it knew they were leaving, and was turning its face from them.
It was the middle hours of the night before the rain stopped, and Rakhsar herded them out into the dripping garden. Roshana was lifted up onto one of the horses by Ushau, and then the little company went in single file around the drenched, dark building, the overgrown trees and bushes snatching at them with wet fingers. They were soaked before they had gone fifty paces, but finally they were at the front of the house, and here the rest clambered on the horses, Ushau behind Roshana on her horse, Rakhsar and Kurun on the other. It was dark as pitch, with not a star showing; but in the clouds to the west there was a faint red glow as Firghe, moon of wrath, rose far above the swollen thunderheads.
They did not look back. The path ahead was a slightly paler bar between black overhanging trees, a tunnel of growth that smelled of dank earth and wild garlic in the dark. The rain had subdued all sounds of life save the frogs, which were burping to each other in the ditches, a mindless chorus.
They disappeared into the tunnel, the horses clopping along through fetlock-deep puddles, and the water streaming down on them from the trees above — everywhere, the sound of gurgling water, the whole night awash.
Rakhsar reined in and set his hand on his sword-hilt, stiffening like a downwind deer.
‘Kurun,’ he whispered, his lips close to the boy’s ear. ‘Listen.’
It was the merest tangle of distant noise, but it rang out, clear of the dripping water and the frogs and the breathing of their own animals. There was a click of metal on metal, like a spoon clattering against the bottom of a pot. Or a spearhead on armour.
And all at once a horse neighed, high and clear in the night, the sound as startling as a horn-blast.
Rakhsar’s own horse, a mare, began to reply, and he punched it between the ears. It threw its head up but was silent, knowing better than to argue the point.
Roshana’s mount crowded up against them, the animals abreast in the narrow lane. ‘What is it?’ she demanded in a low hiss. For a second she sounded just like her brother.
‘Trouble. Back away, Roshana — back to the house. We cannot leave this way.’
They turned the horses round. The darkness pressed close on them now, and everything was soaked and awkward, twigs poking their faces, leaves slapping them derisively. Firghe broke through the clouds for a few moments, and his red light streamed down on them, bloodying the puddles.
There were men standing in the lane behind them.
Roshana cried out, a dark wail. Rakhsar drew his scimitar.
‘Do not try it, Rakhsar,’ a voice said, in good Kefren. ‘I have my people all around you. There is nowhere to run.’
Feet splashing in the water, the flicker of movement. The wind had begun to pick up, and the limbs of the trees moved in mockery of their fear, mimicking the shapes of the hunters.
‘I’m not running,’ Rakhsar said clearly. He shoved Kurun off the horse with his rein-hand and raised the red-gleaming sword in the other. Then, with a wordless cry, he kicked his mount in the ribs, and the beast whinnied and leapt almost from its haunches into a canter, straight down the lane.
Kurun toppled into the ditch at the foot of the trees. There was reassurance in the undergrowth about him. He felt almost invisible. He drew his knife and lay wide-eyed.
Then Roshana screamed, and he clambered to his feet with a snarl.
They were coming up the other end of the lane also; shadows pelting on foot, weapons raised red in the moonlight. Ushau was off the horse and charging them, an immense shape wielding the gleam of a kitchen hatchet. Roshana’s horse bolted, galloping after Rakhsar with her clinging to its neck. Kurun stood alone in the lane. He saw Ushau scatter the figures to their rear like tailor’s dolls. There was the clang of iron on iron.
‘Forgive me,’ Kurun muttered, and he began to sprint after Roshana and her brother.
‘Hold your ground!’ someone shouted in Asurian. ‘That’s no warhorse. Stand fast!’
It seemed that Rakhsar was going to ride down the figures in his way, the wicked scimitar point questing for their faces, but at the last moment the horse balked and twisted, lost its footing in the muck underfoot, and fell heavily in a spray of water. Then it was all flailing hooves, teeth and mane as it struggled to its feet again.
Rakhsar rose with it, his eyes shining red as they caught the moon. He slashed the animal’s flank and it screamed in pain and kicked away from him, bowling over the men before it and sending them flying.
Rakhsar held onto its tail and was pulled with it. The scimitar licked out and one of the men sank to his knees, hands pressed to the streaming slash in his throat. He toppled onto his face and lay gurgling and drowning in the bloody lane.
Roshana’s horse came galloping through a moment later. Someone struck out at its forelegs; it cartwheeled with a scream and she went hurtling through the air, splashed to the ground and rolled like a ball of rags. When she raised herself groggily to her hands and knees, one of the attackers kicked her in the head and she went down again.
