The Towers of Samarcand

CHAPTER EIGHT

ANATOLIA, SUMMER 1398

The days were long and full of dust. Every day, a relentless sun blazed down on the scorched grass of the steppe from the same indigo sky and the rivers began to run dry. It was poor grazing for the herds and the animals had to be taken further and further to find food.

Vast game drives were organised with local tribes across the steppe. Three camps beat the animals to a killing ground in the hills where a fourth would be waiting in ambush among the juniper trees, their bows poised.

There were snakes everywhere. Careless children were bitten and one died. Shulen was out daily with her forked stick, silently looking for them around the camp and bringing them back to make antidotes from their poison. Their patterned skins hung like sullen bunting outside her tent. Luke had not spoken to her since the storm.

He was as happy as he’d ever been in his life. As his reward for saving the tribe’s horses, he’d been given one. By day, he rode where he wanted and thrilled to the challenge of mastering this small, quick animal that could turn on a florin and show bursts of speed beyond anything he’d seen. He taught himself to ride with his legs, to command with his knees, to understand this tough little cousin of Eskalon as once he’d understood Eskalon.

At night, he ate mutton beneath the stars and drank airag. In the early hours, he’d lie awake and listen to the wind outside singing its same, whispered song of distance and freedom. The sound of the camp awakening would comfort him as his mother Rachel had once done in Monemvasia and he’d watch the gathering light seep through the roof above him and think of the day to come. He was, bit by bit, becoming a gazi.

Gomil was his only worry. Luke could feel him watching his every move, the heat of his rage on his neck as he mounted every horse and pulled every rein. He saw how Gomil’s hatred for him was turning into something worse.

One morning, Torguk was waiting for him outside his tent, his daughter Arkal standing next to him.

‘Lug,’ he said as Luke emerged from the ger to wash, ‘I have something for you.’

He was standing awkwardly, his deel wrapped close against the morning chill and his hat in his hands. Arkal was holding something wrapped in lynx-skin and tied up with horsehair. She was flushed with the anticipation of giving pleasure and hopped from good leg to bad.

‘Here!’ said Arkal, thrusting the present into Luke’s arms. ‘Open it.’

Luke glanced down at the parcel. He heard a shout to his right and looked up to see Tsaurig running towards them, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Arkal frowned.

‘Open it!’ she commanded, patting the skin.

Luke sat on the ground, shooing away a dog that had come to investigate. He drew his knife, cut the horsehair and opened the skin. Inside was a bow. It was about the length of Luke’s outstretched arm and its limbs were bent into two deep and graceful curves that ended in ears of horn, angled forward. Its outside was covered in birch bark and had been oiled to a dark and stubbled sheen. It smelt strongly of fish. It was beautiful.

‘Torguk,’ said Luke softly, ‘no.’

Luke knew this bow. Ever since the expedition had returned last year from the southern lakes, Torguk had been working on it. He’d taken two lengths of well-grained maple, steamed them into shape and joined them to a belly of cow-horn, using sinew and glue made from the swim bladders of perch. Luke had watched him score the horn and wooden stave before adding the fish glue and binding them tightly together with waxed intestine. Then he’d watched him set aside the bow for the year it would take for the glue to fully cure, taking it out from time to time to admire it and test its strength and flexibility. It was, as he’d often told him, the best bow he’d ever made. Now Luke had it in his hands and was staring at the man who had made it.

‘Torguk,’ he said, ‘I can’t.’

‘Lug,’ replied the man gruffly, not looking at him, ‘you have saved my family and my tribe. It’s not much in return.’

Arkal stopped hopping and now stepped forward and pushed the bow further up Luke’s arms. ‘Take it, Lug,’ she said quietly. ‘It will make him happy.’

Luke picked it up by its middle, feeling the ribs of hardened sinew beneath his palm. He lifted it and turned it into the light of the new day. The sun threw its first rays high into a violet sky and the curve of the bow glowed in its light.

‘It’s perfect, Torguk.’

‘Then you’ll take it?’ He looked up from his boots, his wide face wreathed in smile.

‘I will take it, Torguk,’ said Luke, ‘but only on one condition. That it is you who teaches me to use it.’

And so Luke’s teaching began and never were teacher and pupil better suited. In his time, Torguk had been not just the tribe’s best bowyer and fletcher but also its best shot. In the annual gatherings of the tribes, no man had yet to beat the Mongol archer Esukhei’s distance of 335 ald, but Torguk had come close. And at 40 ald, he could hit an acorn.

Every morning, Luke would awake at dawn to the banging of his ger door and find Arkal outside it, grinning above a bowl of hot gruel. He would eat and wash and dress and tie up his hair. He’d then strap thick hides to the inside of his legs to stop the chafing of a day in the saddle. Soon afterwards, he’d be riding with Torguk by his side and Arkal not far behind, galloping and whooping over the steppe to the place of his morning lesson.

Torguk began by getting Luke to practise again and again the drawing of the bow until he was able to pull it as far back as his chest and then past his ear. Because Luke was strong, he learnt quickly and what would have taken some men a year took Luke less than a month. Torguk taught him to shoot high into the air and judge, to a distance of three ald, where the arrow would land. Then he taught him how to fire with accuracy, how to keep both eyes open in the aim and to see the target not the arrow, even when it was too distant to see.

Torguk would carry a target on these rides, a piece of wood with something drawn on its front by Arkal, quite often Tsaurig’s face. These got smaller as the days went on and still Luke hit them. He was a Varangian. He had the blood of men who fought for a living in his veins and he’d spent much of his childhood being trained in the use of arms. He took to this new weapon quickly and with a skill that astonished his teacher.

And Arkal sat on her little pony, watching and smiling and glowing with pride for them both.

Soon Luke was shooting at Arkal’s funny faces from the saddle, gripping and steering the pony with his knees while he drew the bow, aimed and fired. The experienced gazi warrior could fire twelve arrows in a minute, the thumb-draw critical to the feat. Within a month, Luke had mastered the thumb-draw and was firing ten. He could fire at the trot, at the gallop and behind him like the Parthians.

One day, when the three of them were resting beneath the shade of their hobbled horses, Torguk paid Luke his first compliment. ‘I have never taught anyone better,’ he said, smiling, cutting a ball of dried curd in two with his knife. ‘You have great talent.’

‘Better than Gomil,’ giggled Arkal, her mouth full of bread.

Luke reached for the gourd of water. The sun was high in the sky but the leather was still cool to the touch. ‘Torguk, it’s the bow that is good,’ he said. ‘It’s better than any weapon I’ve ever used. In Greece, we have a longbow, over six feet in length and made from a single piece of yew. It came over from a country called England, the land of my ancestors. Their archers are trained to draw them from childhood, but their bow is not as good as yours.’

Torguk nodded. He’d heard of the English longbow. ‘Perhaps that’s why we win our battles,’ he said equably. ‘Gomil thinks so.’

Luke thought of a battle at a place called Nicopolis and of the rain of arrows that had fallen on the lumbering knights of Burgundy. He thought of a hillside strewn with the flower of Western chivalry. This, thought Luke, was a new kind of warfare, one that was faster, more flexible and, in their pride and stupidity, the Princes of Christendom had not understood it. Nor, it seemed, did they know how to stop it. Luke fingered the goose feathers of the arrow in his lap. He decided to change the subject.

‘When do we move to our winter pastures, Torguk?’ he asked, putting the arrow back in its quiver.

‘Earlier than last year, I hope.’ Torguk broke off some bread. ‘Soon after Gomil’s bride arrives, I should think.’

The tribe had been waiting for her to arrive for the past week. She was late and some thought it rude, possibly deliberately so. The marriage was not popular in the camp.

‘Perhaps she is there now,’ he said, rising stiffly to his feet. ‘We should return.’

*

It was the smell of roasting mutton that told them that Gomil’s bride had arrived, and they lifted their heads to it in pleasure. The sun was low in the sky and poppy-red and touched by wisps of broken cloud.

There was a light canopy of smoke above the gers that spoke of a feast in preparation and birds of prey circled high above it in hope. As they drew closer, they saw that a second pen, safely distant from the camp, now contained horses.

They rode in and it was Berta they saw first: Berta washed and shiny-skinned in the deel she wore to Friday prayers. She gestured to them to dismount. ‘Quick!’ she hissed, holding Torguk’s stirrup as he climbed down. ‘The woman has arrived and we are to feast at sundown. You stink of horse.’

‘Does she have a name?’ asked her husband, tethering his horse to a post.

His wife was now fussing over Arkal, looking with disapproval at the matted mess of her hair. ‘Of course she has a name!’ she retorted. ‘Her name is Khalun.’

‘Is she pretty?’ asked Arkal.

‘Pretty enough,’ said her mother. ‘But she’s not happy. I’ve never seen such a face!’

Then Luke saw Gomil and he, too, looked far from happy. Dressed in his best deel and wearing high boots of red leather, the chief’s son was standing outside his tent staring at a new ger that had been erected outside the camp and around which stood about a dozen supercilious camels. There were garlands of flowers hanging around the tent door. Gomil’s hands were behind his back. Torguk spat.

‘This match is a mistake, Lug,’ he said quietly. ‘Karamanids feasting at our fire? I never heard of such a thing!’

*

They weren’t to see the Karaminids until night had fallen and the tribe had gathered around a huge fire. As was usual, the men sat on one side, the women across from them. Luke, with his intermediate status, sat with the children in between. This gave him the advantage of having Arkal close to his ear to explain what was happening.

Several spits had been erected next to the fire and the sheep were being slowly turned and sprinkled with herbs and oils by women who sat back on their heels and used their free hand to swat away the insects of dusk. The smells of mutton and sage and oregano and rosemary hung in the still air and overwhelmed the familiar stench of the camp. Dogs, tied to the ropes of tents, barked and whined but the people were silent in expectation.

Then there was the sound of bells, tiny bells shaken by women’s fingers, and into the light of the fire wobbled a richly harnessed camel. Behind it came a little tented cart. Leading the camel was a small boy of perhaps fourteen, who threw dark looks to left and right as he walked. He had a jewelled dagger tucked into his belt. Around the camel and cart were perhaps a dozen women of all ages.

‘The bride’s eldest brother,’ whispered Arkal, ‘and her mother, sisters and aunts. They don’t look happy.’

They did not. The women had put up a kind of keening which Luke had last heard at a burial. Each of them wore a shawl and a cape that covered most of their faces and they carried bells at the end of heavily ringed fingers. Even the dogs fell quiet. ‘Where is the bride?’ he asked.

‘In the cart,’ replied Arkal. ‘Gomil will draw back the curtains when she comes to him.’

Luke glanced over to where Gomil sat on a vast cushion, a shawl over his shoulders. On one side of him Etabul was sipping a cup of airag and smiling grimly between sips. The gold of the little cup caught the firelight as his hand rose and fell. On Gomil’s other side was an empty cushion with what looked like lavender scattered across it.

The camel stopped outside the ring of people and sank to its knees while the women untied the garlanded harness. Then the animal rose and was led away and six women took up the shafts and began to pull the cart inside the circle and round to where Gomil sat. They set it down and the bride’s brother placed a set of steps before it.

Luke saw Etabul glance over to Gomil and apply his fly whisk to his son’s ribs. Gomil stood and straightened his turban and walked over to the tent. He lifted an arm and drew aside the curtain. A hush fell over the gathering and hundreds of eyes strained for the first glimpse of the Karamanid bride. But nothing happened.

There was a long, silent wait. Then a deep sigh came from inside the tent and an arm appeared, laden with gold and silver bands that met percussively. Next, a slippered foot emerged slowly to feel for the first step. This was not a bride hurrying to reacquaint herself with her betrothed.

Khalun was heard before she was seen. The chimes of a hundred tiny things of metal told that she was on the move. After the arm and ankle came the rest of her body and it was covered from head to shoulder by a glittering shawl. Her face was veiled and gave little away as to her beauty. Attached to her cape were miniature shapes hung from threads.

‘She’s frightened,’ Arkal whispered.

Luke considered this. He saw Khalun led to the cushion and seated. She turned away from her bridegroom. ‘She doesn’t look very frightened,’ he whispered back. ‘She just looks cross.’

‘No, she’s frightened,’ insisted his neighbour. ‘Look at all the amulets.’

They were indeed many. From her headdress were suspended tiny silver plates of different sizes with writing on them. There were beads shaped like eyes and what looked like a pig’s tooth. Arkal nudged him. ‘See the pouch sewn into her cape?’

Luke narrowed his eyes for better focus. Something had been thrown on to the fire that made it dance higher. It was difficult to see anything for the flames.

‘There is a pouch in her cape. It will have salt in it. It’s there to ward off evil, like the amulets. She thinks we’re evil and she’s frightened.’

Luke wondered what she might feel like when she met Shulen. In fact, where was Shulen? He looked along the faces of the rows of seated women. She wasn’t among them. He looked back to Gomil and his bride. Gomil was helping her remove her shawl. Beneath it was a long, sleeveless robe of the brightest red.

‘Red for good fortune,’ said Arkal. ‘Now they will exchange shawls.’

But Luke had seen something else. The arm that had emerged from the shawl was graceful and strong, its flawless skin glowing in the firelight. Except that it wasn’t flawless. On the upper arm was a scar which was jagged and savage and which had been made, quite recently, by a pointed weapon. Luke frowned.

Arkal continued, ‘They’ll do one more thing and then they’ll eat, but not for too long. Remember the wedding is tomorrow and tomorrow night is the main feast.’

‘What is the final thing they’ll do?’ Luke asked.

‘Show us her face,’ answered Arkal. ‘Of course, Gomil has already seen it but we haven’t. He’ll remove her veil to show us his bride. Look, he’s doing it now.’

Khalun’s veil had disguised her anger. But then, as Gomil removed her cape and unhooked the side of her veil, her mood was there for all to see. Her face was a scowl. She was not many years older than Arkal but her features were more formed. She was dark, with long waves of hair that fell past her shoulders to her breasts. She held her head high and the eyes above her small, straight nose were defiant. She looked around with contempt at the rows of people staring at her.

Then her eyes met Luke’s.

At first she looked surprised and her head tilted to one side. Then she remembered something and for the first time there was doubt in those eyes. They widened and held his for longer than was correct.

I know you.

Luke felt the colour rise in his face. He was the first to look away and when he did he saw at once that Gomil was watching him. Luke wanted to shout out: It’s not what you think.

But he knew that it wasn’t just Gomil who was staring at him. He turned his head slowly, willing it round, and as he did so, the fire leapt up, as if hit by wind, and sparks flew into the night.

Shulen.

She was standing quite far behind the seated women and he wouldn’t have seen her if the fire had not risen. She was wearing white and there was a bird of some species on her arm. It was not a hawk. Then she was gone.

Arkal was speaking to him. ‘Why did she stare at you like that, Lug?’ she whispered.

‘Who?’

‘Khalun. Who else?’ she hissed. ‘You must have seen how she stared at you.’

Luke said nothing. He was not thinking of Khalun.

‘Gomil saw it too,’ continued the girl. ‘He looked as if he would kill you.’

Luke looked back at Gomil and Khalun. A change seemed to have come over her and the new shawl sat on lowered shoulders. Now she had turned to her betrothed and was talking. She even smiled.

Others must have seen it too for the mood of the feast relaxed. Khalun’s sisters and aunts took their cue from the bride and began to talk to their neighbours and toast their health with cups of mare’s milk sweetened with honey. But Luke could neither eat nor drink. His mind had drifted back to a night on the steppe, to a chase which had ended with a single rider, a boy he’d thought, whom he’d stabbed with an arrow.

Whom he’d stabbed with an arrow in the upper arm.

*

Much, much later, Luke lay alone in his ger and stared up at the circle of pale moonlight that hung above him like a shield. He was wondering what he should do.

There was no noise from the camp outside, beyond the sound of animals and the occasional cry of a child. The wind was light on the steppe and its caress was a low, whispered lament. The fire had long since died and the shadows that had danced across the walls of his tent had died with it. Luke’s head was cradled in his hands, alive with thought. It had been an evening of revelation.

Soon after Khalun’s unveiling, the food had been served. Great hunks of mutton were hacked from the spits and placed on wooden platters with wild carrots and bread. Chins and beards soon shone with grease below smiles that broadened as the airag was passed. Arkal chattered to him of marriage and child-bearing and her readiness for both and he’d half listened and thought of what he’d learnt.

It was Khalun behind the mask.

He heard movement outside his door. A dog probably.

But why? Did they just come for our horses because theirs were sick? Or were they looking for me?

He heard the sound again. It was close to the door. If it was a dog, it was a large one. He felt for his sword and brought it beneath the skin covering him.

Why would the Karamanids attack the people they had just agreed a marriage alliance with?

But if there was an answer to that question, he’d not find it that night. Better to consider what to do now.

Etabul. I must tell Etabul.

The sound again. This time he knew that it was human. He rose silently from his pallet and tiptoed to the door, his breath suspended. He held the sword tight in his hand, the dragon head staring up at him.

Whoever it was, was standing on the other side of the door, waiting for something. Luke inched his hand along the inside until he found the catch, drawing it back silently. Then he pulled the door open suddenly and stepped backwards, his sword at the ready. Standing there was Khalun’s brother and he looked terrified. Luke lowered the sword. ‘What do you want?’ he asked quietly.

The boy didn’t answer. He was staring at the dragon head. The moon was large behind him and he looked younger than his years.

‘Who sent you? Khalun?’

The boy nodded. Luke stepped away from the door and gestured for him to enter. The boy shook his head.

‘Do you speak?’ asked Luke.

The boy could speak. ‘Come.’

‘No,’ said Luke.

The boy looked nervously around the camp. It was empty; everyone was asleep, many comatose from the drink. A loud snore from the adjacent ger punctured the silence. ‘My sister wants you to come.’

‘Why?’

The boy didn’t answer the question. He glanced again at Luke’s sword. ‘It is safe. Bring your sword if you wish to.’

‘I asked you why she wanted to see me,’ said Luke.

The boy shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Then I will not come.’ Luke began to close the door of his tent. The boy put out his hand.

‘Wait.’ He looked around again. ‘My sister …’ he whispered, ‘my sister wants to speak of who was looking for you.’

‘Who was looking for me? When?’

‘When she came to take your horses,’ said the boy.

Luke looked at the youth. There were sparse hairs above his lip and on his chin that stood out in the moonlight. He had sallow, greasy skin and his nose was pockmarked. His voice was recently broken. ‘How do I know it isn’t a trap?’ he asked. ‘It would suit your sister to have me dead.’

‘If it’s a trap, then bring your sword.’

Luke was thinking hard. The only retinue of Khalun’s he’d seen had been female, apart from the brother. And if she had information about who’d been looking for him that night, he needed to know it. He could always take the sword.

I need to know who’s looking for me.

‘I’ll come,’ he said.

*

He regretted that decision within a minute of entering Khalun’s ger.

He’d expected the brother to remain. But the moment that Luke’s foot had settled on the carpet, he heard the click of the door closing behind him. It left him in almost total darkness and he wondered if he was alone. He drew his sword from his belt.

‘Khalun?’ he asked into the blackness, turning slowly.

There was no answer beyond the faint rustle of clothing somewhere to his front. He considered escape but knew that the door was locked behind him. He peered around him and realised that there was, after all, some light in the tent. There was the faintest glow coming from a level lower than himself and, as his eyes adjusted, he saw that it came from a candle beneath a shade of horn. Beside it was a figure.

‘Are you going to kill me with that sword?’

Luke didn’t reply.

‘I don’t think I have much to fear from you. If you’d wanted to kill me, you could have done it on the steppe. Why didn’t you?’

Luke lowered the weapon and looked around the tent. ‘Because I needed your horse,’ he replied. ‘Are we alone?’

‘We are alone,’ answered Khalun and she moved towards the candle, lifting off the horn shade with her shawl. ‘See for yourself.’

Luke looked around the tent and saw that they were indeed alone. Apart from the two of them, the tent contained a bed, a low table of carob wood and a metal vase set with yellow coins of jasper, which held a variety of dried grasses.

Khalun was now visible. She was standing on a dead leopard whose head she was stroking with her bare foot. She was dressed in the same red dress that she’d worn at the feast but now the buttons at its front were undone and the shawl on her shoulders open. Luke glanced down at the curve of her breasts and the shadow in between. He cleared his throat. ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ he said. ‘It’s dangerous for both of us. Your brother said that you had something to tell me.’

Khalun laughed. She put the shade back over the candle so that it was almost dark again inside the tent. She’d used the shawl to hold the shade but now she let it slide from her shoulders to the ground. She lowered herself on to the leopard skin.

‘Will you sit?’ she asked.

There was something strange in her voice. The words were too joined, almost slurred. Luke didn’t answer. There was nowhere to sit but the carpet.

‘Well, at least put down that sword,’ she said softly. ‘Can you see the table? Put your sword there. Then we can talk.’

Luke walked slowly over to the table and put down his weapon. He smelt lavender and something else. Airag. She had been drinking.

‘Say what you want to say to me and then I’ll leave,’ he said.

‘So soon?’ She paused and he heard the sound of drink being swallowed. She spoke again. ‘Why are you so frightened? Is it because you’re alone in a dark tent with a woman promised to another man?’

Luke didn’t answer.

‘Gomil didn’t like the way you looked at me tonight. He thinks you desire me. Do you desire me?’

Luke had had enough. He turned.

‘Surely you will want to know why I attacked the camp?’ she asked quickly.

Luke stopped. The girl was no more than five paces from him and he could hear her breathing.

‘Well, I’ll tell you anyway,’ she said. ‘I did it to get out of marrying Gomil. No one was meant to die.’

‘But they did,’ said Luke.

‘Yes, they did,’ she said flatly. ‘That was not my fault. We were joined by others. Men I didn’t know who came out of the darkness at the last moment. They didn’t want the horses, they wanted something else.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes.’

The tent was very quiet. He could feel the dark eyes upon him. She laughed softly in the darkness. He heard the movement of clothes. He heard something tear. ‘How did it feel?’ she asked softly.

Luke knew what she meant. He couldn’t speak.

‘How did it feel’, she said again, ‘to put that arrow into my arm?’

The shape in front of him moved. The body was raised at the hip. He knew what she was doing. He stepped backwards. Towards the door. He heard the call of an owl outside, heard another answer. He’d not heard an owl in the camp before.

Luke peered into the darkness. He knew she was naked on the rug. She laughed.

‘Come to me.’

He turned towards the door. He needed a weapon. He ran forward to the table and seized the sword. Then she screamed. Luke turned and saw the door thrown open and the glare of torches outside. There were the shadows of men at the entrance. And then one stepped in.

It was Gomil. Gomil with a sword in one hand and a torch in the other. Behind him was Khalun’s brother.

A trap.

The torch lit up the tent. It lit the table and the vase upon it. It lit the dull eyes of the leopard and the soft curves of the woman lying naked upon it. And it flashed upon the blade in Luke’s hand.

‘Kill him!’ screamed Khalun.

Gomil was still drunk but he moved quickly. He lunged at Luke with his sword and almost hit him. He recovered his balance and threw the torch out through the open door. The air was thick with the smell of airag. It was dark and the space within the tent was confined. Luke glanced towards the entrance and saw men still there.

‘Gomil,’ he said, ‘I have not touched her.’

But the chief’s son wasn’t listening. With a roar, he kicked over the table, scattering the candle and the grasses across the carpets. He had been waiting for this moment. He sprang forward, aiming his sword at Luke’s heart. Luke sidestepped, parrying the thrust with his own and pushing his assailant away. Gomil fell and his head hit the table hard.

Khalun screamed again. Gomil rose, put his palm to his temple and wiped the blood from his eyes. He shook his head.

Luke tried again. ‘Gomil, I am not your enemy.’

But he was Gomil’s enemy. For two years Luke had humiliated him by his very presence in the camp. Gomil licked blood from his lips, turned his head and spat. When he looked back, there was murder in his eyes. He lifted his sword and charged.

Luke was ready for him. He ducked beneath the first swipe and parried the second. Then, as Gomil raised his arm to deliver the third, Luke struck. It was an upward thrust aimed at the belly but at the last moment Gomil tried to turn. The blade entered the heart. Gomil was dead.

There was a sound behind him and Luke turned. Etabul was standing in the doorway, his sword drawn. He looked dishevelled. ‘What have you done?’

On the floor of the ger, amidst the broken table and scattered candles, lay Gomil: an island of spent flesh in a sea of blood. Khalun was the first to speak. ‘He tried to rape me.’ She pointed at Luke, pulling the shawl up her body with her other hand. ‘He killed Gomil.’

Etabul was staring at the body of his son, the sword slack in his hand. A slight frown contoured his brow. His eyes were blank. ‘What have you done?’ This time it was a whisper.

Luke was shaking his head. He couldn’t speak. The girl shrieked, ‘Look at the sword. Look at the sack of airag. He made me drink it.’

For a moment Luke was in another place at another time. He was in a palace in Monemvasia standing before its archon and another girl was telling lies that would change his life. Now it was Khalun and she was shouting at Etabul. ‘What are you waiting for? Why don’t you kill him?’

Etabul didn’t move. For a long time he looked at the girl and then at the sack of airag and the candle on the floor, and he looked at the red robe strewn across the rug which had been ripped at the front. Finally, his gaze travelled to Luke. ‘You killed my son.’

Luke began to speak but Etabul raised his hand and turned to the men behind him. ‘Bring him.’

Luke waited until he was through the door, a guard on either side, one carrying his sword. There was a crowd of people around the entrance, some with torches. He tried to remember which of the two horse pens was nearer.

He struck to left and right with elbow and fist, bringing both men down. He picked up his sword, lowered his head and charged in the direction of the nearest pen. People scattered as he came, falling over each other. Then he was there and over the fence and a knot of mane was in his hand and he was vaulting on to a back that was already moving. There were shouts behind him and the hiss of an arrow. He was bent over the pony’s neck, his mouth as close to the ear as he could make it. Then he was jumping the fence and before him were gers and open country and escape. He dug his heels into the sides of the horse beneath him.

*

So it was that Luke found himself riding towards the dazzle of a rising sun, alone and with no idea where he was going. The steppe was turning to furred gold and dew was rising in the finest of mists that hung above it like incense. The calls of carrion birds were loud above him as they began their search for what hadn’t survived the night. Hills rose in the distance.

He’d ridden hard at first, assuming pursuit, but none had come. He’d stopped in the darkness again and again, turning his head to listen for the sound of hooves on the hard ground. There’d been none. By dawn he knew he wasn’t being followed. But where to go now?

East. To Tamerlane. But first, some answers.

Once again he stopped his horse and turned in the saddle. He’d heard something. There was a cloud of dust in the distance. Someone was following him.

He wondered if he should ride on for the hills, to find the cover of trees. But if his pursuers meant him harm, why had they alerted him? Besides, it was at least a day’s ride to the hills. Luke saw that it was just one person riding towards him. He wondered why he’d ever imagined that she wouldn’t come.

Shulen.

She rode up to him, her little pony turning as she hauled on the reins. She was dressed for a long ride, with chaps strapped to her bare legs and provisions behind her on her saddle.

For a while they sat on their horses and just looked at each other. Then Luke spoke. ‘Are you finally going to speak to me?’

Her face remained impassive. She looked from him to the distant hills and then up at the sun. ‘Where were you thinking of going?’ she asked.

Luke looked around him at the emptiness that was the steppe. A light wind blew dust into the furred gold that hovered above it. Faraway, a bird called. Further, there might be answers.

‘To Yakub. I’m going to Kutahya.’