the void might lose its appetite for other things… a water-sworn mage might steer a stream from the Blessing and seek to drown this thing, if we had one.”
Notheen said nothing, only his eyes showed above the veil and beneath his cowl, and yet he managed to look unimpressed. “In the end there will be only desert. My people have always known this.”
“And that’s the total of nomad wisdom on the subject?” Sarmin kept the frustration from his voice.
“Even if the high mage can slow this advance, it is not good to be near this.” He waved his hand at the tomb. “The emptiness spreads beyond the boundary where all things are undone. Djinn will feel its pull and come to haunt this place. The nothing will echo in some of those who serve you, they will fall empty and sicken… There is no good thing here now. The wisdom of my people is in our name. Nomads. Seccan Thaleen we call ourselves, “blown before the storm”. You should find a new place, Sarmin emperor. This one is undone.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GRADA
R orrin and Grada occupied themselves with the stalls outside the Blessing Gate. Many merchants traded within the shadow of the walls, enjoying city trade without the full requirement for licenses and tax. Some said stall-holders bribed the gate guards to keep the queue for entry near stationary so that visitors would buy their wares out of boredom if nothing else.
“It’s copper coloured , I grant you.” Rorrin flipped the pot over in one hand and flicked the base to make it chime. “Doesn’t sing like copper, though. I find its voice sharp and lacking melody.” He shopped with heart although he bought only citronel pods and later some roasted ground nuts sprinkled with the pollen of desert rose. To watch him Grada could believe Rorrin had no greater desire than to bilk the traders of their profit.
Rorrin put the cooking pot back with the others and allowed himself to glance at the approaching caravan. It had been turning heads for a little while, some citizens stopping to stare, little boys clambering up the palms lining the approach to the Blessing Gate.
“Foreigners,” he said, spitting for good measure.
“How can you tell?” Grada wondered if the slave wagons were rumbling 76
along in the wake of this new caravan or whether they had changed course as she feared.
“The covers come to a peak. It’s the style in Fryth and Mythyck. The cloth is faded but hints at blue—which more than hints at Fryth. Someone important going on the size of the escort. Those White Hat are service units in from seeing action, they’re not dressed for show. I’d say we’re looking at royal prisoners, or some kind of envoy.”
They watched the approach. Outriders came in to disperse the queue at the gates, showing no patience with anyone who objected. Close up Grada could see dented shields, torn clothing, rusty blood stains, and short tempers in evidence. “It’s an envoy,” she said. “Our forces must have been repulsed.” Some among the crowd started to hoot, to call down curses upon the Frythian devils. For a moment Grada bristled at the idea of any defeat, her blood rising with the anger of the crowd. Cerani troops driven back by mere Fryth! It took a moment to recall that Sarmin had wanted peace, had demanded this very thing. She took control of herself, shocked at how infectious the mob’s mood was—at how easily people put aside reason in favour of taking sides.
The White Hats dealt out blows with fist and spear haft until the crowd fell into sullen silence. The caravan commander clearly had orders to make this a welcome. Preventing it from being a stoning was perhaps the most he could hope for.
The wagons drew closer now and Grada could see the Fryth wagons with their faded blues and narrow wheels among the Cerani army wagons, and further back along the column, flanked by White Hat spearmen, two carriages, each decortated with angular carvings exotic to her eye, blued and gilded.
That Rorrin
Notheen said nothing, only his eyes showed above the veil and beneath his cowl, and yet he managed to look unimpressed. “In the end there will be only desert. My people have always known this.”
“And that’s the total of nomad wisdom on the subject?” Sarmin kept the frustration from his voice.
“Even if the high mage can slow this advance, it is not good to be near this.” He waved his hand at the tomb. “The emptiness spreads beyond the boundary where all things are undone. Djinn will feel its pull and come to haunt this place. The nothing will echo in some of those who serve you, they will fall empty and sicken… There is no good thing here now. The wisdom of my people is in our name. Nomads. Seccan Thaleen we call ourselves, “blown before the storm”. You should find a new place, Sarmin emperor. This one is undone.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GRADA
R orrin and Grada occupied themselves with the stalls outside the Blessing Gate. Many merchants traded within the shadow of the walls, enjoying city trade without the full requirement for licenses and tax. Some said stall-holders bribed the gate guards to keep the queue for entry near stationary so that visitors would buy their wares out of boredom if nothing else.
“It’s copper coloured , I grant you.” Rorrin flipped the pot over in one hand and flicked the base to make it chime. “Doesn’t sing like copper, though. I find its voice sharp and lacking melody.” He shopped with heart although he bought only citronel pods and later some roasted ground nuts sprinkled with the pollen of desert rose. To watch him Grada could believe Rorrin had no greater desire than to bilk the traders of their profit.
Rorrin put the cooking pot back with the others and allowed himself to glance at the approaching caravan. It had been turning heads for a little while, some citizens stopping to stare, little boys clambering up the palms lining the approach to the Blessing Gate.
“Foreigners,” he said, spitting for good measure.
“How can you tell?” Grada wondered if the slave wagons were rumbling 76
along in the wake of this new caravan or whether they had changed course as she feared.
“The covers come to a peak. It’s the style in Fryth and Mythyck. The cloth is faded but hints at blue—which more than hints at Fryth. Someone important going on the size of the escort. Those White Hat are service units in from seeing action, they’re not dressed for show. I’d say we’re looking at royal prisoners, or some kind of envoy.”
They watched the approach. Outriders came in to disperse the queue at the gates, showing no patience with anyone who objected. Close up Grada could see dented shields, torn clothing, rusty blood stains, and short tempers in evidence. “It’s an envoy,” she said. “Our forces must have been repulsed.” Some among the crowd started to hoot, to call down curses upon the Frythian devils. For a moment Grada bristled at the idea of any defeat, her blood rising with the anger of the crowd. Cerani troops driven back by mere Fryth! It took a moment to recall that Sarmin had wanted peace, had demanded this very thing. She took control of herself, shocked at how infectious the mob’s mood was—at how easily people put aside reason in favour of taking sides.
The White Hats dealt out blows with fist and spear haft until the crowd fell into sullen silence. The caravan commander clearly had orders to make this a welcome. Preventing it from being a stoning was perhaps the most he could hope for.
The wagons drew closer now and Grada could see the Fryth wagons with their faded blues and narrow wheels among the Cerani army wagons, and further back along the column, flanked by White Hat spearmen, two carriages, each decortated with angular carvings exotic to her eye, blued and gilded.
That Rorrin
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