‘Possible – but not likely. They are not carrying supplies, and they are making no effort to disguise their tracks. We will avoid them if we can.’
‘I have two throwing-knives – one in each boot, Lord,’ she said, bowing her head. ‘I am skilled with them. Though, of course,’ she added hurriedly, ‘I have no doubt that a warrior such as yourself can easily kill three Notas.’
Talisman absorbed the information. ‘I shall think on what you have said, but I hope there will be no need for bloodshed. I will try to talk my way through them. I have no wish to kill any Nadir.’
Zhusai bowed again. ‘I am sure, Lord, you will devise a suitable plan.’
Talisman pulled the cork from the water canteen and took a sip, swishing the warm liquid around his mouth. According to Chorin-Tsu’s map, the closest water was half a day to the east; that was where he intended to camp, though it occurred to him that the Notas were probably thinking along similar lines. He passed the canteen to Zhusai and waited while she drank. Then he took the canteen to the hobbled ponies and, wetting a cloth, cleaned the dust and sand from their nostrils. Returning to Zhusai, he squatted down before her. ‘I accept your offer,’ he said. ‘But let us be clear: you will use your knife only upon my explicit command. You are right-handed?’ She nodded. ‘Then your target will be the furthest man to your left. If we meet the Notas you must draw your knife surreptitiously. Listen for the command. It will be when I say your name.’
‘I understand, Lord.’
‘There is one other matter we must settle. Chiatze politeness is legendary, and well suited to a world of silk-covered seats, vast libraries and a ten-thousand-year civilization. Not so here. Put from your mind thoughts of guardian and ward. We have just established our battle plan, and are now two warriors travelling together in a hostile land. From now on it would please me to have you speak less formally.’
‘You do not wish me to call you Lord?’
Talisman looked into her eyes and felt his mouth go dry. ‘Save that honorific for your husband, Zhusai. You may call me Talisman.’
‘As you command, so be it. . . Talisman.’ The afternoon sun beat down upon the steppes, and the ponies plodded on, heads down, towards the distant mountains. Although the land looked flat and empty, Talisman knew there were many hidden gullies and depressions and the three Notas could be in any one of a hundred different hiding-places. Narrowing his eyes, Talisman scanned the shimmering heat-scorched landscape. There was nothing to be seen. Loosening his sabre, he rode on.
Gorkai was a killer and a thief. Usually – but not exclusively – in that order. The sun beat down upon him, but not a bead of sweat shone on his flat, ugly face. The two men with him both wore wide-brimmed straw hats, protecting head and neck from the merciless heat, but Gorkai gave no thought to the heat as he waited for yet another victim. Once he had aspired to be more than a thief. He had longed to possess his own goat herd, and a string of fine ponies sired from the hardy stallions of the north passes. Gorkai had dreamt of the day when he could afford a second wife, even though he had not yet won his first. And further to this, on those evenings when his imagination took flight, he saw himself invited to sit among the Elders. All of his dreams were like remembered smoke now, merely an acrid aftertaste upon the memory.
Now he was Notas – no tribe.
As he sat in the blazing sunshine, staring out over the steppes, he had no dreams. Back at the camp the nose-slit whore who waited for him would expect some pretty bauble before bestowing upon him her favours.
‘You think they turned off the trail?’ asked Baski, crouching alongside him. The horses were hobbled in the gully below, and the two men were part hidden behind the overlapping branches of several sihjis bushes. Gorkai glanced at the stocky warrior beside him.