[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.“You’re not going back down there.”Samarkar smiled.She rose from her squat beside the mares.“I need to see what’s in the city, Tsering-la.Are we going to return to Tsarepheth only to tell Yongten-la and Songtsan-tsa that Qeshqer is fallen, and we—two wizards of the Citadel!—were too frightened to look within? And Temur said it was safe until morning.” How he knows, don’t ask me.She made herself meet Tsering’s eyes as Tsering stood.“I could order you to stay with me.”Samarkar pulled her coat from the back of the mule, where it was draped.It was amazing how secure the fall of the hem against her legs made her feel.“I sort of wish you would.Now, what did you do with my boots?”Silently, Tsering pointed her to them.In equal silence, Samarkar began to put them on.She could feel Tsering watching, but she was still stomping her left foot into the proper place in the boot when there came a sudden, exasperated sigh, and the gray mare shied slightly as Tsering threw her arms up.The grass was too much of an enticement, though, and she buried her nose again by the time Tsering said, “Fine, go on.I’ll start back as soon as I can rig the pony drag.You can catch up if you live.”“I will,” Samarkar said.“Hand me my collar while you’re over by the mule.”“I’ll hide a pack in the tree for you,” Tsering said.* * *It takes a special kind of idiot to walk back into a dead city.And yet here she was, dust rising from each stride, picking her way up from the road to the gardens that surrounded the lowest tier of buildings.She stepped at last onto cobblestones, but the dusty track had already glazed the black silk of her trousers beige.It was cooler in the shade of the rhododendrons, which had been pruned to form an arching bower.The cobbled path mounting the hillside merged into stairs as the slope grew steeper.Samarkar found herself skirting the edge of the walk, as if to make way for downward traffic that never materialized.These were beautiful streets—bounded on each side by the ranks of close white buildings with their scarlet roofs and pillars, overhung with the graceful sweep of pine boughs.There were marks of plainsman conquest and occupation here and there, but not so many—the unfortified city had surrendered without a struggle, and so its people had been spared.It suffered a Qersnyk governor and men-at-arms and paid Qersnyk tribute.The plainsmen conquered for trade and tribute and open roads, not to spread their social or religious hegemony.In this, Samarkar preferred them to the Uthman Caliphate.Qeshqer, despite its name change, remained in many ways a Rasan town.The houses had broad patios and gardens mulched with pine needles, which should have offered inviting refuge in the shade of many trees.But windows on each side were sealed as if against the night; doors bolted closed.She could tell the homes of tradesmen by their wide-shuttered shops, but all those shutters stood closed.There was no scent of fire anywhere—not even cold char.No dogs or hens scattered through the streets.No birds sang in low branches.No prayer bells rang, and where the low bridges of horizontal walkways crossed the stairs Samarkar climbed, no paper flags fluttered.She reached up to touch a prayer-etched stone set below the railing on one of those bridges, expecting to feel the shiver of protective energy.She snatched her hand back as a chill shock jolted her, numbing her fingers to the knuckles.When she pulled her hand down, she was half surprised to see it hadn’t frozen solid, but when she worked it, she saw it fist and extend normally.Pins and needles attended each gesture.She stepped back, forcing herself to straighten up and examine the stones.They were rounded, pulled from rivers, and small enough to rest neatly on the ledge below the railing—but there, any resemblance between them ended.Some were white and some were black, some earthy shades of russet or pink.A few were gray as the mountains, but mostly people chose unusual stones to hold their prayers.Some had been scratched with knives or pins, some etched with expertise and care.Some were merely scribed with charcoal or black or white paint.Each of them, to Samarkar’s trained senses, glistened with a film of sorcerous malevolence.Like the rocks washed by the Tsarethi in the channel below the Citadel, these stones were prayers, meant to impart blessings and good intentions on all that came under their influence.Something had poisoned that, perverted it.And Samarkar had no idea what it might be.Eyes still watering with pain, she reached into one of her many pockets and found a pair of black silk gloves.They were inside out from hasty removal, but that suited her purpose: carefully, she worked one over a small prayer stone and knotted it into an insulated bag [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]