They camped on its eastern shore by an ancient tower and continued south next morning along the remains of a paved road built by the Romans. The lake had no outlet and the rivers that fed it seeped in from the south through a wild tract of reed beds and swamp. They rode on over a flat plain that ended in a sea of shadows beneath a mountain capped with two icy cones. The sun was throwing the slopes into relief when they turned west on a broad highway. They passed other travellers heading in both directions and as the last flush of pink faded on the twin peaks behind them, they clattered through the brick portal of a caravanserai on the Silk Road east of Konya.
They slept in a dormitory with other travellers and were back on the Konya road before dawn. Ten miles further on they left the highway, turning north on the plain along a river lined with poplars. They passed black hair tents and rode through flocks of fat-tailed sheep and shaggy goats guarded by dogs. The crystalline flats of Salt Lake were back in sight when Chinua rose in his saddle and pointed towards a tented city rising from the plain.
‘Suleyman.’
Hero grinned at Vallon. ‘Well, we made it.’
Watching the complex of pavilions and kiosks draw closer, Vallon had the sense of an impending collision. He’d been travelling so long that he’d forgotten that even the longest journey must end.
XLVII
Riders galloped out of the compound and exchanged a flurry of words with Chinua. The captain gave an order and before Wayland realised what was happening, four riders boxed him in. One took his horse’s reins and steered it at a trot down a roadway between the tents. Looking back, he saw that the other Seljuks had separated Syth and Caitlin from the men. His escort led him to a central arena occupied by half a dozen marquees, some of them linked by tented walkways to a huge golden-yellow pavilion. They passed it and crossed a training ground where a group of horsemen tilting at a dummy broke off to watch him pass. On the other side Wayland’s escort pulled up outside a large felt tent and ordered him to get down.
He dismounted with the caged falcon. One of the soldiers pulled aside the entrance to the yurt and motioned at him to enter. Three men stood at the far end and he saw that the tent was a mews and workshop. The men watched without expression as he approached. The central figure had a wispy moustache and calm, hooded eyes. He could have been any age from fifty to seventy. The other two were much younger. Along one wall was a series of booths, each occupied by a pale falcon on a padded block. Wayland studied them in passing. They weren’t much smaller than the gyr, but they were more rakish in build, softer of feather, with shorter toes.
The hawkmaster noticed his interest. ‘
‘Saker,’ said Wayland. He’d heard falconers speak of them.
At the hawkmaster’s bidding he placed the cage on a table cluttered with hawking paraphernalia. He removed the drape and pulled on his glove.
The two assistants frowned. ‘
He glanced up. ‘What’s wrong?’
The hawkmaster motioned him to get on with it. The falcon stepped on to his fist as soon as he reached into the cage. He lifted her out and the assistants sucked in their breath. The hawkmaster narrowed his eyes. Then he said something. One of his assistants went to a shelf lined with what looked to Wayland like upside-down leather purses embroidered with gold. The assistant selected two of these objects and offered them to the hawkmaster. Wayland saw that they had drawstrings around the opening and tassels on top. The hawk-master made his choice and approached the falcon. Holding the purse with the mouth uppermost, he raised it towards the falcon’s head. Her feathers tightened, but before she could bate, the hawkmaster popped it over her head in one smooth movement. Another deft move and he’d tightened the brace. Only then did Wayland realise that the purse was a hood. He’d never seen one before or even heard of such a thing. Noticing his surprise, the hawkmaster looked at him enquiringly. Wayland shook his head and mimed the act of stitching the falcon’s eyelids. The Seljuks shrugged at the infidel’s ignorance.
With the falcon hooded and leashed, the hawkmaster slipped a leather cuff over his right wrist. To Wayland that seemed awkward, but it explained the Seljuks’ disapproval when he’d picked up the falcon with his left hand. The hawkmaster brought his cuffed hand up behind the gyrfalcon’s legs. She stepped back onto it and only a slight tension in her stance showed that she was aware of a different handler. The hawkmaster palped her flight muscles, assessed the amount of flesh on her keel, pinched her thighs. He passed the falcon to each assistant in turn so that they could make their own assessment. The youngest handled her last and when he felt her weight he gave an exaggerated gasp and dropped his fist as though he could hardly support her.
Wayland grinned. ‘She’s a powerful bird, isn’t she?’
The hawkmaster flapped a limp hand and buried his fist in a silk cushion, indicating that the falcon’s muscles were soft and flabby.
He said something and one of his assistants came up behind the falcon holding a silk cloth in both hands. He seized the falcon around her shoulders, lifted her off the fist and held her belly down on the cushion. She struggled for a moment, wailing pathetically, and then she lay still. The hawkmaster fanned out each wing in turn. Wayland winced. All her primaries were broken and jagged, the webbing limed with droppings that had set as hard as mortar. Her train was in the same sorry state. Wayland tried to explain that on such a long journey, with the falcon cooped up in a cage, it had been impossible to keep her in good feather. The hawkmaster responded at some length, mentioning the Emir more than once. From the way he shook his head, Wayland understood that he couldn’t present the falcon to Suleyman in her present deplorable condition.
The assistant lifted her clear of the cushion. The hawkmaster gripped her legs and examined her feet for signs of bumblefoot. The undersides were clear of lesions or inflammation, the dimpled and pleated soles curiously reminiscent of a baby’s palm. Then he opened her beak to check that her mouth was free of frounce or other infections.
One of his assistants had placed a small bronze mortar over a charcoal brazier. While it was heating, he went through pots containing moulted flight feathers, choosing the palest. He brought his selection to the table and laid out about two score wooden needles of triangular section. Wayland knew that the Seljuks were going to imp the falcon’s broken feathers.
At a word from the hawkmaster, his assistant spread out the falcon’s left wing on a board. The hawkmaster picked up a knife, honed the blade on a leather strop and cut the innermost primary well below the broken shaft. He sorted through the moulted feathers, selected one, compared it with the broken one, rejected it, picked another and did another match. When he was satisfied he cut it to length. The other assistant had melted resin in the mortar. The hawk-master took an imping needle, dipped one end in the resin, inserted it into the replacement feather, dipped the other end and pushed it into the hollow shaft of the primary. He waited a few seconds, then pulled. The grafted section held. The repaired feather corresponded to the primary’s original length and was so carefully matched and aligned that only close examination would have revealed the join.
Feather by feather, the hawkmaster restored the falcon’s left wing. Although she submitted calmly enough, Wayland was worried that such a lengthy operation might overtax her. He himself felt faint and queasy from the heated atmosphere. The hawkmaster noticed him wiping his brow and ordered one of his men to bring him a drink.
The ice-cold liquor was sweet and sour, soothing and refreshing. Wayland handed back the bowl with thanks. The hawkmaster, pausing in his work, mimed the fact that Wayland was tired.
‘Very tired.’
The hawkmaster made it clear that the job would take a long time and that Wayland should get some rest. He wouldn’t take no for an answer and one of his assistants led Wayland to a couch covered with a kilim and gently pushed him down. He sat watching the Seljuks working quietly at the table.
‘Ibrahim,’ said the hawkmaster.
Wayland looked up.
The hawkmaster pointed at himself. ‘Ibrahim.’
‘Wayland.’
‘Wellund.’
Black fog began to cloud his vision. The figures at the table seemed to recede down a tunnel. The next thing
