In Iraj's most private quarters the king paced the room, fighting to control his emotions and retain his human form. He kicked at the pillows and snarled at a terrified serving wench to fetch him some wine and make it quick or he'd tear her heart out.
The dream was gnawing at him. Although to call it a dream would be an exaggeration, because Iraj never slept. That was one of the things he missed most about his previous life. Sleep, blessed sleep. As a shape changer he only dozed, or, as Fari explained it, he entered a neutral state where he was vaguely aware of his surroundings but was resting.
Iraj knew all this, but he still thought of the experience as a dream. And it had left him with a feeling of great loss. Normally, if normal it could be called, Iraj's neutral state was full of quick, bloody images mixed with snatches of voices; some screaming, some wailing, some babbling, some shouting in fury.
When he came 'awake' he was angry, always angry and the only relief was causing pain. The greater the pain the closer he came to a state of-joy? All that had somehow been welded to his overweening ambition and combined into a ferocious desire to always be on the move-doing something, crushing something, killing something.
It was like a furnace, Iraj thought, an immense furnace straight out of the hells that could never be satisfied.
But the dream, ah the dream, if only he could capture it and make it into a potion then drink it down and quench that angry fire.
Wine was thrust into his hand and he drank and paced and drank some more, letting the dream spill out.
The horse! That magnificent creature, a plainsman's treasure unmatched by any Iraj had ever seen. And the ride! By the gods that was a chase to end all chases! Iraj chuckled, remembering how he and the horse had fooled the soldiers. Most of all he remembered the feeling of being whole and human again-the sense of freedom so strong it was like being lifted up to the skies.
Then he came to the uncomfortable part, the part that had smashed him out of his dream into dismal reality.
He thought of the moment when he'd stared into the pool and seen Safar's reflection instead of his own.
Everyone knew dreams sometimes had deep meaning, but what was that all about? The strangest thing was although seeing Safar had been a shock there had been no feeling of hatred for him. And for certain Iraj hated Safar with passions only a shape-changer could know. Iraj hated him now as he paced and thought and wondered, thinking, if he had Safar in his grasp at this moment he'd rip off his limbs and devour them before his still living eyes.
However, for a brief span, just as Iraj was recovering from his surprise at seeing Safar, there was no hate. In fact, the first thought he had was being glad that he'd met an old friend in his dream.
He was still worrying that bone an hour later when Kalasariz begged an audience. The spy master entered, cool and smooth as ever, with only a few spots of wolfishness to show his inner excitement.
'I bear good tidings, Majesty,' he said. 'Our witches' net has proved itself already. There's still some rough spots, such as communications, to burnish, but I do believe we are on the right path with this.'
'A sighting of Lord Timura?' Iraj asked, nerve endings burning with interest and he remembered his bargain with the strange witch known as Old Sheesan.
'Better than that, Majesty,' Kalasariz said. 'A witch over in Naadan not only sniffed out Lord Timura in a festival crowd of thousands, but she was able to alert the authorities in time so he could be captured.'
Caught by surprise, Iraj's wolf snout erupted from his face. 'You mean, we have him?' he snarled.
Kalasariz sighed. 'Unfortunately, he was able to escape, Majesty,' he said. 'His magic was too strong and his kinsmen were too clever for the local king. Disappointing perhaps, but only when looked at from a certain angle.'
'And how should we look at it?' the king growled. 'How can Lord Timura's escape be viewed as anything other than abject failure?'
Kalasariz had been ready for this. 'Why, Majesty, Old Sheesan only just set up the witch network. And already we have proof that no city in your kingdom is safe for Lord Timura.' He shrugged. 'Nest time we'll get him! We only have to improve the response of the local authorities. They have no experience in dealing with wizards.'
'You'll see to that?' Iraj demanded.
Kalasariz smiled. 'Gladly, Majesty,' he said, 'except I fear I'd be treading on Prince Luka's territory.
He's in charge of dealing with local authorities, if you recall.'
Iraj looked at him coldly. 'You've certainly managed to wriggle off that hook,' he said.
Kalasariz acted hurt. 'Why, Majesty,' he said, 'you've misconstrued my intent. I was merely reporting what I thought was the best news since this whole exercise began.'
Iraj decided to ignore this large chunk of dissembling, saying, 'Tell me the details. Exactly what happened in Naadan?'
Kalasariz reported as fully as he could, from the tavern encounter to Safar's strange challenge of the wrestler, Ulan, to his capture and eventual escape.
'Now, here's where it really gets interesting, Majesty,' he said. 'We nearly had him twice. The Naadanian messenger was on the road to this camp and luckily encountered one of your scouting parties a few miles from Naadan. They went in pursuit.'
'Yes?' Iraj said.
Kalasariz took a long breath. This was another dangerous area to be bridged. Then, 'Well, I can't say what happened exactly after that. The soldiers never returned. I suspect they were ambushed by Lord Timura's forces.'
Iraj was rocked by the news, his features becoming more wolflike. Not at the defeat. He was thinking of the dream, the mad chase into the desert. The soldiers-his soldiers! — in pursuit. Could this be true? Had it been a vision, not a dream?
'There's another way Prince Luka can aid our cause,' the spy master went on. 'We should post similar scouting units in each city, backed by sufficient troops to prevent another ambush. Then we don't have to leave things to chance.'
Iraj was drifting now, not really paying attention. He was thinking of the dream in a completely different light, which had an odd calming effect on him.
It was a human hand that he waved at Kalasariz, saying, 'Yes, yes, tell Luka to do all that.'
'And the witch, Majesty?' the spy master asked. 'Old Sheesan? Shall we increase the reward? I'm a great believer in financial incentive.'
'Fine,' Iraj said absently. 'Double it if you like.' He paused. 'And send for the witch. I want to speak with her.'
'Yes, Majesty, it will be done, Majesty, just as you say.' Kalasariz hesitated. He'd won every point thus far and was willing to try his luck once more. 'One other thing, Majesty.'
'Say it.'
'Prince Luka informs me he plans to punish Naadan for allowing Lord Timura to escape.'
'Whatever he decides,' Iraj said.
'Yes, Majesty,' Kalasariz said, 'except Naadan is such a rich area-one of the few bright spots in your kingdom that can pay real taxes, instead of chickens and scrawny goats. And the king who was responsible for letting Lord Timura get away-King Quintal-suddenly died. He was probably scared to death. Ulan the wrestler is king now.'
Iraj shrugged. 'Luka knows my views on that issue. I assume he took them into account when he made his decision.'
'Yes, I'm sure he did, Majesty,' Kalasariz said, 'and I meant no criticism.'
He slipped an object out of his sleeve and held it up for Iraj to see. 'However, I don't think he took this into account, Majesty,' he said.
Iraj goggled at the object. It was the horse amulet he'd given to Safar long ago! Hurled it at him, actually, in his anger at Safar's defiance over the woman, Nerisa.
'King Ulan sent this to you as a gift, Majesty,' Kalasariz said, 'and he begs you to spare his people.'
Iraj took the amulet with trembling hands. He had no doubt the spy master knew the tale behind the amulet.
