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.
They had little in common. One was the son of a potter, the other that of a warrior chieftain. Safar's people were peaceful and generous to strangers. Iraj's were fierce plainsmen who trusted no one. Safar was contemplative by nature. Even as a child he had tended to think before he acted. Iraj, on the other hand, tended to be ruled by the heat of the moment. He was as intelligent as Safar, but impatient with learning. If he couldn't grasp a thing immediately he became bored and disdainful. Safar was willing, on the other hand, to labor long hours until he could command knowledge as easily as Iraj later commanded men.
There was one great similarity which formed the glue that eventually bound them. Both young men thought of themselves as outsidersapart from the others in the village.
Safar's reason was magic.
Iraj's was a blood feud.
Much time passed, however, before either boy learned the nature of the other's mystery.
It was an idyllic spring. The sun was warm, the first crops bountiful and the herds were blessed with many offspring. During those lazy days Gubadan was hard pressed to hammer learning into the thick skulls of his charges. The young people of Kyrania drove their teacher and their families to distraction as mischief and youthful high spirits lured them from their duties.
Safar soon forgot about the troubling vision and Iraj seemed to have forgotten his dream as well, for he did not mention it again. Although Safar didn't consider him the best of friends, Iraj was his constant companion.
As a stranger, and an object of worry for the trouble he might bring from the outside, Iraj was shunned by all but old Gubadan. On the other hand as an obvious prince everyone was warm and sweet as one of Mother Timura's peach pies when in his presence. Royalty rubs off, as the old grannies said, and sometimes in rewarding ways. So
