The day when Okai had been the prize student was a grim one to recall. What was worse was to know that the man who walked up to the dais was the murderer of his son. He had him close then; he could have reached out and torn away his throat.
Gargan reached for the jug – and hesitated. The captain would be here soon, and strong drink was no aid to planning.
Rising from the table, he rubbed at his weary eyes and stepped outside the tent. Two guards came to attention. Gargan stared out over the camp-site, pleased with the orderly placing of tents, the neatness of the five picket lines. The ground had been well cleared around the camp-fires, dug over and wetted down, so that no spark could land upon the tinder-dry grass of the steppes.
Gargan walked on, scanning the camp for signs of disorderliness or complacency. He found none, save that one of the latrine trenches was dug in an area where the prevailing wind would carry the stench back into the camp. He noted it in his mind. Two Nadir heads had been tied to a pole outside one tent. A group of Lancers were sitting around a camp-fire close by. When Gargan strode up, the men leapt to their feet, saluting smartly.
‘Bury them,’ said Gargan. ‘They are attracting flies and mosquitoes.’
‘Yes, sir!’ they chorused.
Gargan returned to his tent. Sitting down at the table, he took quill and ink and wrote a short letter to Mirkel, congratulating her and stating his hope and his intention to be with her soon. ‘Take good care of little Argo,’ he wrote. ‘Do not rely on wet-nurses. A child draws much from his mother’s milk, taking in not only nourishment but also spirit and courage. One should never allow a babe of noble birth to suckle at a common breast. It dissipates character.’
Travelling carefully, using dry gullies and low terrain, Quing-chin and his nine riders avoided the Gothir patrols. As darkness fell they were hidden to the south of the Gothir encampment. His friend, Shi-da, crept alongside him as he knelt behind a screen of dry bushes, scanning the camp.
The night breeze was picking up, blowing from the south-east. Shi-da tapped Quing-chin’s shoulder. ‘It is done, my brother.’
Quing-chin settled back on his haunches. The breeze was picking up. ‘Good.’
‘When ?’ asked Shi-da, eagerness showing on his young face.
‘Not yet. We wait until they settle for the night.’
‘Tell me of Talisman,’ said Shi-da, settling down alongside him. ‘Why is he the chosen one? He is not as strong as you.’
‘Strength of body counts for nothing in a general,’ said Quing-chin. ‘He has a mighty heart, and a mind sharper than a dagger.’
‘You also have a great heart, my brother.’
Quing-chin smiled. The boy’s hero-worship was a source of both irritation and delight. ‘I am the hawk, he is the eagle. I am the wolf, he is the tiger. One day Talisman will be a war leader among the Nadir. He will lead armies, little brother. He has a mind for . . .’ He hesitated. There was no Nadir word for logistics. ‘A mind for planning,’ he said, at last. ‘When an army marches it must be supplied. It needs food and water and, just as important, it needs information. It takes a rare man to be able to plan for all eventualities. Talisman is such a man.’
‘He was at the Academy with you?’
‘Yes. And at the last he was the Honour Student, beating all others.’
‘He fought them all?’
‘In a way.’ Behind them a pony whinnied and Quing-chin glanced back to where the others were hidden. ‘Get back to them,’ he said, ‘and tell Ling that if he does not control his pony better than that I shall send him back in disgrace.’
As the boy eased himself back from the gully’s crest Quing-chin settled down to wait. Fanlon had often said that a captain’s greatest gift was patience – knowing when to strike, and having the nerve to wait for the right moment.
As the air cooled the wind would increase. So too would the moisture, caused by the change in temperature. All these factors combined to make good timing essential. Quing-chin looked out at the enemy camp, and felt his anger rise. They were not in defensive formation, as was required when in enemy territory. There was no outer perimeter of fortifications. They had constructed the encampment according to the regulations for a peace-time manoeuvre: five picket lines, each with two hundred horses, the tents set out in squares by regiment. How arrogant they were, these gajin. How well they understood Nadir mentality.
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