The Lions of Al-Rassan. Guy Gavriel Kay
hard to believe it was the same day.
She was a physician before she was anything else, it was her holy island, her sanctuary. She had already caused one man to be killed tonight. It was enough. It was more than enough. She stood up and took a single step towards Garcia de Rada. She saw him look at her, register the Kindath-style drape of the stole about her head and shoulders. She could read contempt and derision in his eyes. It didn’t matter. She had sworn an oath, years ago.
She said, “Wash that wound in the river. Then cover it with a clean cloth. Do that every day. You will be marked, but it might not fester. If you can have a doctor salve it soon, that will be better for you.”
She would never have imagined it would be so difficult to speak such words. At the perimeter of the open space, half in the ruined shadows, she suddenly saw her patient, Abirab, with the two little girls held close to her. Their brother, Ziri, had stepped forward a little and was staring at her. Enduring his gaze, Jehane felt her words as the most brutal form of betrayal.
She turned away and, without looking back, without waiting for anyone, began walking from the village, between the burning houses and then out through a gap in the fence, feeling the heat of the fires on her face and in her heart as she went, with no prospect of anything to cool her grief.
She knew Velaz would be following. She had not expected to hear, so soon, the sound of a horse overtaking her.
“The camp is too far to walk,” said a voice. Not Laín Nunez this time. She looked up at Rodrigo Belmonte as he slowed the horse beside her. “I think we each did something that cut against our desire back there,” he said. “Shall we ride together?”
She had been awed by him at first, by the scale of his reputation, then, briefly, afraid, then angry—though unfairly so, perhaps. Now she was simply tired, and grateful for the chance to ride. He leaned over in the saddle and lifted her up, effortlessly, though she wasn’t a small woman. She arranged her skirts and undertunic and swung a leg across the horse behind him. She put her arms around his waist. He wasn’t wearing armor. In the silence of the night, as they left the fires behind, Jehane could feel the beating of his heart.
They rode in that silence for a time and Jehane let the stillness and the dark merge with the steady drumming of the horse’s hooves to guide her back towards a semblance of composure.
This is my day for meeting famous men, she thought suddenly.
It could almost have been amusing, if so much tragedy had not been embedded in the day. The realization, though, was inescapable. The man she was riding behind had been known, for almost twenty years—since the late days of the Khalifate—as the Scourge of Al-Rassan. The wadjis still singled him out by name for cursing in the temples at the darkfall prayers. She wondered if he knew that, if he prided himself upon it.
“My temper is a problem,” he said quietly, breaking the silence in remarkably unaccented Asharic. “I really shouldn’t have whipped him.”
“I don’t see why not,” Jehane said.
He shook his head. “You kill men like that or you leave them alone.”
“Then you should have killed him.”
“Probably. I could have, in the first attack when we arrived, but not after they had surrendered and sued for ransom.”
“Ah, yes,” Jehane said, aware that her bitterness was audible, “the code of warriors. Would you like to ride back and look at that mother and child?”
“I have seen such things, doctor. Believe me.” She did believe him. He had probably done them, too.
“I knew your father, incidentally,” said Rodrigo Belmonte after another silence. Jehane felt herself go rigid. “Ishak of the Kindath. I was sorry to learn of his fate.”
“How … how do you know who my father is? How do you know who I am?” she stammered.
He chuckled. And answered her, astonishingly, in fluent Kindath now. “Not a particularly difficult guess. How many blue-eyed Kindath female physicians are there in Fezana? You have your father’s eyes.”
“My father has no eyes,” Jehane said bitterly. “As you know if you know his story. How do you know our language?”
“Soldiers tend to learn bits of many languages.”
“Not that well, and not Kindath. How do you know it?”
“I fell in love once, a long time ago. Best way to learn a language, actually.”
Jehane was feeling angry again. “When did you learn Asharic?” she demanded.
He switched easily back into that language. “I lived in Al-Rassan for a time. When Prince Raimundo was exiled by his father for a multitude of mostly imagined sins he spent a year in Silvenes and Fezana, and I came south with him.”
“You lived in Fezana?”
“Part of the time. Why so surprised?”
She didn’t answer. It wasn’t so unusual, in fact. For decades, if not centuries, the feuds among the Jaddite monarchs of Esperaña and their families had often led noblemen and their retinues to sojourn in exile among the delights of Al-Rassan. And during the Khalifate not a few of the Asharite nobility had similarly found it prudent to distance themselves from the long reach of Silvenes, dwelling among the Horsemen of the north.
“I don’t know,” she answered his question. “I suppose because I’d have expected to remember you.”
“Seventeen years ago? You would have been little more than a child. I think I might even have seen you once, unless you have a sister, in the market at your father’s booth. There’s no reason for you to have remembered me. I was much the same age young Alvar is now. And about as experienced.”
The mention of the young soldier reminded her of something. “Alvar? The one who took Velaz with him? When are you going to let him in on the stirrup joke you’re playing?”
A short silence as he registered that. Then Rodrigo laughed aloud. “You noticed? Clever you. But how would you know it was a joke?”
“Not a particularly difficult guess,” she said, mimicking his phrase deliberately. “He’s riding with knees high as his waist. They play the same trick on new recruits in Batiara. Do you want to cripple the boy?”
“Of course not. But he’s a little more assertive than you imagine. It won’t harm him to be chastened a little. I intended to let his legs down before we went into the city tomorrow. If you want, you can be his savior tonight. He’s already smitten, or had you noticed?”
She hadn’t. It wasn’t the sort of thing to which Jehane had ever paid much attention.
Rodrigo Belmonte changed the subject abruptly. “Batiara, you said? You studied there? With Ser Rezzoni in Sorenica?”
She found herself disconcerted yet again. “And then at the university in Padrino for half a year. Do you know every physician there is?”
“Most of the good ones,” he said crisply. “Part of my profession. Think about it, doctor. We don’t have nearly enough trained physicians in the north. We know how to kill, but not much about healing. I was raising a serious point with you earlier this evening, not an idle one.”
“The moment I arrived? You couldn’t have known if I was a good doctor or not.”
“Ishak of Fezana’s daughter? I can allow myself an educated guess, surely?”
“I’m sure the celebrated Captain of Valledo can allow himself anything he wants,” Jehane said tartly. She felt seriously at a disadvantage; the man knew much too much. He was far too clever; Jaddite soldiers weren’t supposed to be at all like this.
“Not anything,” he said in an exaggeratedly rueful voice. “My dear wife—have you met my dear wife?”
“Of course I haven’t,” Jehane snapped.