Prologue

The nighttime blazed with stars as Durza prayed. He knelt atop the lip of his cliff, his hands clasped together, murmuring over and over again "oh Lord, who is the only Lord, bring them hither. Oh Lord, who is the only Lord, bring them hither. Oh Lord, who is the only Lord, bring them hither…"

Beneath him yawned the savannah, a moonlit universe of cracked grass and acacia trees. How bright the moon was tonight. All knew that it was the eye of Khuda, the Only Lord; a full moon meant that His eye was wide open, that His gaze was fixed directly on His followers. Are you watching me now, oh Lord? Durza thought, staring into the moon. Will you help me do what needs to be done? A murderess rides for my cliff now, a thief and a brigand beside her. My king tells me they have to die, and to me his words are worse than law. Tell me, Lord, must I do it?

The desert wind flicked at his dreadlocks. He wore nothing but the body paint of the ascetic, his face and torso daubed whiter than chalk. The wind was freezing. How good it would be to be inside, within the womblike walls of his cave, a ganja pipe between his lips. How good it would be to lie under his wolfskin and close his eyes, lulled to sleep by the pitter-patter of the stalactites. To polish his old beloved musket, safe in the knowledge that he would never again fire it at a living being.

A boy from Chah Salar arrived at his cliff a week ago. "There's been a message, father," he called, his donkey hawing and stamping its feet. "The three outlaws have been seen in the desert between Lahauri and Multar. You know them, don't you? The ones who stole the relic from right under King Skandar's nose."

Durza's smile drooped. "I have, my son. I know them of old. Are they headed this way?"

"I don't know, father," the boy said, frowning. "Please excuse me. I hope not, by the Only Lord. My mother tells me they rode out of the Icevale in the far north, white-skinned savages who worship idols. I've seen some of them at the slave blocks. They're ugly, father, and heathen too. Have you met them before? Do they really eat mud and termites, or is that just a story?'

"I know nothing of their dietary habits, my son, but they do hail from the north." Durza sighed. "And they are, unfortunately, heathen, may the Only Lord pity them. How were they described? Is one of them a woman?"

"Yes, father, she is, there's two men on white stallions and one woman on a black mare. I heard that from a peddler from Farkhar. He said ugly things about her. That she rides without a veil, that she smokes ganja like a man. Is that the truth, father? You've met her, haven't you?"

Durza didn't want the boy to notice the tension that gripped his skin. "That's not so outlandish. Women may not smoke here or in Farkhar, but they certainly smoke in Kunduz, in Taleqan, in Maraqanda. And beyond, in Uru'baen, the city of Emperor Skandar? The women in Uru'baen drink, can you believe that?" The boy grinned, incredulous. "I've seen it with my own eyes. Saw it many times, long, long ago…but no, my son, this woman is a heathen, be assured of that. Not a Taleqani who lets his wife smoke or sing, but a heathen, a real one, a pagan from the end of the world." His voice hardened. "This is my message to the village. If these three are seen, you close Chah Salar. You bring all the goats and fowl inside, you shut the gates, and you tell the menfolk to arm themselves and wait. If these three try to enter Chah Salar, if this woman shows her face, you tell the menfolk to shoot her down. Do you understand, my son?"

"I understand, father." The boy's frown returned. "Can't we organize a lashkar? Why not raise the menfolk and hunt the outlaws down? That's what we did when the adulterer from Farkhar tried to hide out near the town."

"An adulterer menaces common decency, but these three menace the law, the land, and the Lord." Durza ran his fingers through his dreadlocks. "If they show their faces near Chah Salar, shoot them."

But the men of Chah Salar never saw them. Six days passed, six days spent crouching on his cliff. Waiting. Scanning the savannah, his eyes slitted against the sunshine. He stared into the gaping flatland below him, watching the herdboys lounge amongst their cattle. He sat crosslegged through the sunsets, peering through the incandescent twilights, waiting for the savannah to unsheathe three shapes racing pell-mell for freedom. Praying that they would be caught. Praying that the king's horsemen would ride them down, that a leopard would savage their horses, that through some miracle of mercy, the Only Lord would spare him the prospect of killing yet again.

But this very morning a carrier pigeon had arrived, a little steel bell clinking from its heel. Durza smashed the bell, unraveled the tiny parchment within. On it was scratched the handwriting of an old friend. He still wrote in the third person.

Durza, the letter began.

The Emperor Skandar, praise his name, hopes this letter finds you in good health. It's been a long time, hasn't it? Ten years? Eleven? Not too long of a time for stooped old men like the two of you, perhaps, but far, far too long since you've visited him. The sheikh in Chah Salar writes that you still live in your cave, up in the Hajar Mountains. The king, peace be upon him, envies you, after a fashion. He remembers the starlight, the way that the moon would blaze over the grasslands, the roars of the leopards at night. He's forgotten all the horrors the two of you faced, back when the land was still gripped by tyranny…but he still misses smoking ganja on the cliff and watching the sun go down in the grasses.

The king, peace be upon him, has two requests for you, and one order.

He first requests that a shekel of ganja be shipped to him every two months. It's a stubborn plant that refuses to grow properly anywhere else in the realm. Immigrants from Taleqan and Maraqanda have attempted to rear ganja plants in Uru'baen, but they claim that the climate is not amenable. It seems that the only reliable source of ganja is the soil of the east, and that good ganja only grows on your mountain. The king, peace be upon him, has taken to chewing qat and drinking the milk of the black lotus, neither of which, he fears, are good for his health. Ganja made him a great warrior, back when the two of you were young.

He next requests that you personally visit him in Uru'baen. He believes that you've been closeted in your cave for too long, that you deserve good food, warm bedding, and a variety of women. Once upon a time you were his only friend in the entire world. He misses you.

Durza had smiled at that. He had liked reading Skandar's letters, back in the old days. Just reading his handwriting brought Durza back sixty years, when he wasn't a dreadlocked hermit, just a trader who liked to wander the cliffs. It brought him back to that burning afternoon when he discovered a teenaged Skandar splayed half-dead on the rocks, his white flesh gaunt, his eyes rolling in their sockets. At first Durza had thought him to be an escaped slave, some northern thrall who fled the slaveblocks to die in the mountains. How shocked he had been to see pieces of diamond glimmer from Skandar's earlobes, to see a dwarf-made dagger belted to his waist.

Finally, however, he orders that you face the three fugitives and bring them to justice. He trusts that you know who they are. Two of them, Cerdic the Skuan and Cymric of Prythain, are bandits from the northern snowlands, traitors who followed the White Druid into battle against the empire. The king, peace be upon him, knows that you dealt with them thirteen years ago, and spared them from the rope. You are not to do so again. The other one is Arya Tialdari, is an older enemy. You know her from the Great Betrayal. The king, peace be upon him, cares little about the lives of the northmen, but he demands that you take Arya Tialdari alive. You are to kill her only if absolutely necessary.

A band of horsemen from Maraqanda is driving them towards your cliff. They will not engage the fugitives. The king, peace be upon him, is confident you will be able to handle all three of them. Once, Durza, you fought a dragon and survived. You are more than capable of handling two savages and an elf woman.

Skandar suddenly tired of writing formally. But once you've finished with that, Durza, please come to Uru'baen. Once you've bound Arya Tialdari like a dog and dragged her to Maraqanda, come here, and bring all the ganja you can carry. We'll sit on the balcony and smoke it all in a single night, just like old times.

May Dummanios, god of the full moon, smile on you forever,

Skandar Auliya, Lord of the Four Horizons, Breaker of Dragons, Beloved of the One Lord.

How ugly it was to kill.

Durza slung his musket over his shoulder. "Forgive me, Lord," he murmured. "I swore to you that I'd put my gun away. But I'd risk hellfire before I fail my friend."

On the wind came the whickering of horses, the low, rough voices of northmen. Crunch went the grasses. He could see them. Three incoherent shapes shambling through the savannah forty feet below, swaying in their saddles, their horses panting with thirst. Durza cocked his musket. He could not tell them apart. He wished he had an eyepiece. They crunched their way out of the elephant grass, passed through a neck of moabi trees. A vervet monkey saw them and started screaming. From across the savannah its fellows took up its call, shrieking, hollering, shaking branches, snapping twigs. Their horses flashed their teeth in terror. Old, barbaric curses. Whips to the shuddering haunches, jabs of the spurs, hooves drumming the earth as the horses lunged into a gallop, aiming for the safety of the cliff, forty paces now, now thirty, now twenty—

Durza fired.

The lead horse crumpled. Its rider crashed into the earth, shrieking, his bones splintered by the fall. The woman Arya Tialdari yelled in horror, drew a curved bow, sent three arrows slashing for the clifftop. Monkeys screamed like slaves being flogged, lionesses roared their fury at being awoken. Durza reloaded, fired again, missed. Arrows hissed around him, frenzied wild nighttime shots. The stench of saltpeter filled the world. Hyenas chittered from afar and Arya Tialdari's mare lost its wits, rearing in terror, her coat gleaming blue in the moonshine. Ay Khuda, forgive me. His musket bellowed thunder and flame and burst her guts into black ribbons that tickled the foot of the cliff.

Arya Tialdari groped in the dirt, crawling away from the shattered carcass of her horse. The third rider was racing toward her, his hand outstretched. Durza lifted his musket, aimed for the rider's throat. He cursed as it clicked, misfiring, the barrel whitehot and useless. How badly he had wanted to fell both of the northmen from afar. As vile as it was to kill with a musket, it was infinitely worse to end a man's life with the sword.

He saw them as he sheathed his musket, leaning it against a boulder. The third rider, a northman whose mohawk rose from his scalp like porcupine quills, grabbed her by the arm and swept her onto his horse. With two people crushing its back the horse lurched into the darkness. A hyena giggled at every step it took.

For a moment, Durza was tempted to let the animals have them. The air stank of dying horses and the predators would be mad with bloodlust. Perhaps he should follow them, wait for a lioness to rip the horse's windpipe like paper, for a leopard to disembowel the northman with a swipe of its paw. But what if Arya Tialdari managed to escape? The savannah would devour her. Either a cobra would bite her, or a leopard would maul her, or the sun would wither her until she was too thirsty to sweat.

He could not fail his friend. Not after what Skandar did for him.

Reluctantly he drew his scimitar and clenched it between his teeth. With the night breeze ruffling his dreadlocks, his body paint gleaming bonewhite in the moonlight, he began the downward climb.