The night air was crisp as he ran up the short steps to the western courtyard and on to the ornate wall, scaling it swiftly and dropping into the cobbled street beyond.
It was well after curfew, so he hugged the shadows all the way to the inn, then climbed the outer trellis to his room, rapping on the shutters.
Belder opened the window and helped him inside.
‘Well?’ asked the old soldier.
‘I got the jewels,’ stated Scaler.
‘I despair of you,’ said Belder. ‘After all the years I spend on you, what do you become? A thief!’
‘It’s in the blood,’ said Scaler, grinning. ‘Remember the Earl of Bronze?’
‘That’s Legend,’ replied Belder. ‘And even if it’s true, not one of his descendants has ever lived a less than honourable life. Even that Nadir-spawn Tenaka!’
‘Don’t speak ill of him, Belder,’ said Scaler softly. ‘He was my friend.’
2
Tenaka slept and the familiar dreams returned to haunt him.
The Steppes rolled away from him like a green, frozen ocean, all the way to the end of the world. His pony reared as he dragged the rawhide rein, then swung to the south with hooves drumming the hard-packed clay.
With the dry wind in his face Tenaka grinned.
Here, only here, was he his own man.
Half-Nadir, half-Drenai, wholly nothing – a product of war, a flesh-and-blood symbol of uneasy peace. He was accepted among the tribes with cool courtesy, as befitted one in whose veins ran the blood of Ulric. But there was little camaraderie. Twice the tribes had been turned back by the strength of the Drenai. Once, long before, the legendary Earl of Bronze had defended Dros Delnoch against Ulric’s hordes. Twenty years ago the Dragon had decimated Jongir’s army.
Now here was Tenaka, a living reminder of defeat.
So he rode alone and mastered all the tasks they set him. Sword, bow, spear, axe – with each of these he was skilled beyond his peers, for when they ceased practice to enjoy the games of childhood he worked on. He listened to the wise – seeing wars and battles on a different plane – and his sharp mind absorbed the lessons.
One day they would accept him. If he had the patience.
But he had ridden home to the city of tents and seen his mother standing with Jongir. She was crying.
And he knew.
He leapt from the saddle and bowed to the Khan, ignoring his mother, as was fitting.
‘It is time for you to go home,’ said Jongir.
He said nothing, merely nodded.
‘They have a place for you within the Dragon. It is your right as the son of an Earl.’ The khan seemed uncomfortable, and did not meet Tenaka’s steady gaze. ‘Well, say something,’ he snapped.
‘As you wish, Lord, so let it be.’
‘You will not plead to stay?’
‘If you desire me to.’
‘I desire nothing of you.’
‘Then when shall I leave?’
‘Tomorrow. You will have an escort – twenty riders, as befits my grandson.’
‘You honour me, Lord.’
The Khan nodded, glanced once at Shillat and then walked away. Shillat opened the tent-flap and Tenaka entered their home. She followed him and once inside he turned to her and took her in his arms.
‘Oh, Tani,’ she whispered through her tears. ‘What more must you do?’
‘Maybe at Dros Delnoch I shall truly be home,’ he said. But hope died within him as he said it, for he was not a fool.
*
Tenaka awoke to hear the storm hissing and battering at the window. He stretched and glanced at the fire – it had faded to glowing coals. The girl slept in the chair, her breathing deep. He sat up and then moved to the fire, adding fresh wood and gently blowing the flames to life. He checked the old man; his colour was not good. Tenaka shrugged and left the room. The corridor was icy, the wooden boards creaking under his boots. He made his way to the old kitchen and the indoor well; it was hard to pump, but he enjoyed the exercise and was rewarded when water jetted to the wooden bucket. Stripping off his dark jerkin and grey woollen shirt, he washed his upper body, enjoying the near-pain of the ice-touched water on his sleep-warm skin.