Garen-Tsen’s colour deepened. ‘You have made the most unfortunate error, for now you will have to make the acquaintance of the Royal Torturer. Is this what you truly desire, Chorin-Tsu? He will make you speak; you will scream and babble, weep and beg. Why put yourself through such agony?’
Chorin-Tsu considered the question carefully. All his long life he had cherished Chiatze teaching, most especially the laws governing the subjugation of self to the rigours of an iron etiquette. This alone was the foundation of Chiatze culture. Yet here he sat seeking an answer to a question no true Chiatze would dream of asking. It was obnoxious and invasive – indeed the kind of question only a barbarian would utter. He looked deeply into Garen-Tsen’s eyes. The man was waiting for an answer. Chorin-Tsu sighed and, for the first time in his life, spoke like a barbarian.
‘To thwart you, you lying dog,’ he said.
The ride had been long and dry, the sun beating down on the open steppes, the strength-sapping heat leaving both riders and ponies near to exhaustion. The rock pool was high in the hills, beneath an overhang of shale and slate. Few knew of its existence, and once Talisman had found the dried bones of a traveller who had died of thirst less than fifty feet from it. The pool was no more than twenty feet long and only twelve wide. But it was very deep, and the water winter-cold. After tending to the ponies and hobbling them, Talisman threw off his jerkin and tugged his shirt over his head. Dust and sand scraped against the skin of his arms and his shoulders. Kicking off his boots he loosed his belt, stepped out of his leggings and walked naked to the pool’s edge. The sun beat down upon his skin, and he could feel the heat of the rock beneath his feet. Taking a deep breath, he launched himself out over the sparkling water in an ungainly dive that sent up a glittering spray. He surfaced and swept his sleek black hair back from his face.
Zhusai sat, fully clothed, by the poolside. Her long, black hair was soaked with sweat, her face streaked with dust, and her pale green silk tunic – a garment of bright, expensive beauty back in Gulgothir – was now travel-stained and dirt-streaked.
‘Do you swim, Zhusai?’ he asked her. She shook her head. ‘Would you like me to teach you?’
‘That is most kind of you, Talisman. Perhaps on another occasion.’
Talisman swam to the poolside and levered himself to the rock beside her. Kneeling, she leaned over the edge, cupping her hands to the water and dabbing her fingers to her brow and cheeks. In the two days they had been together Zhusai had not initiated a conversation. If Talisman spoke she would respond, with typical Chiatze politeness and courtesy. Replacing her wide straw hat to her head, she sat in the stifling heat without complaint, her eyes averted from him.
‘It is not difficult to swim,’ he said. ‘There is no danger, Zhusai, for I shall be in the pool with you, supporting you. Also it is wondrously cool.’
Bowing her head, she closed her eyes. ‘I thank you, Lord Talisman. You are indeed a considerate companion. The sun is very hot. Perhaps you should dress now – or your skin will burn.’
‘No, I think I will swim again,’ he told her, jumping into the pool. His understanding of the Chiatze people was limited to their methods of warfare, which were apparently ritualistic. According to Gothir reports many campaigns were conducted and won without bloodshed, armies manoeuvring across battlefields until one side or the other conceded the advantage. It helped not at all with his understanding of Zhusai. Rolling to his back, Talisman floated on the cool surface. Her good manners, he realized, were becoming hard to tolerate. He smiled, and swam to the pool’s edge, hooking his arm to the warm stone.
‘Do you trust me?’ he asked her.
‘Of course. You are the guardian of my honour.’
Talisman was surprised. ‘I can guard your life, Zhusai, to the best of my ability. But no-one but you can guard your honour. It is something no man – or woman – can take. Honour can only be surrendered.’