The Lady by K. V. Johansen Page B

today.”
    â€œI didn’t know! They shut the gates, remember? I was in the city.” But that was what Talfan would be thinking of him, too, no matter that he had been where he belonged, with her. People had fought the Lady, and he hadn’t been among them. “But I’ve been thinking, I have an idea—I need to talk to some people.”
    And here came one of them, Master Kharduin, surely. Varro knew of him by reputation. Wealthy in camels, trading in silks and spices and drugs of Nabban, master of a gang that travelled hard and fast, taking branches of the eastern road others did not dare. Possibly because he was allied with the lawless folk that plagued the badlands. He was a burly, black-haired man with the gleam of gold in his ears and a beard that curled like a ram’s fleece, blue-eyed and brown-skinned. An exile of the eastern deserts, they said he was, a chieftain’s warleader outlawed from his tribe for some grave crime or betrayal that varied with the gossiper, but there were always such stories about anyone who drew the interest of the road. Even a western road man like Varro had heard those stories of Master Kharduin. Lots of speculation about the meaning of the black scorpions tattooed on the insides of his wrists, which matched those on the backs of his partner Nour’s hands. No tribe’s markings of west or east. Some brotherhood of outlawry, some secret vow of death to be fulfilled . . . probably the scorpions signified nothing more than some personal bond or lovers’ whimsy. Whatever Kharduin had been or done—and maybe it was nothing more than leave his home for the caravans and make a success of it—the caravaneers respected him and the Marakanders likewise. If Varro could persuade him to Talfan’s cause and Talfan’s gods . . .
    Maybe he wouldn’t have to do that much persuading. It was surely Nour’s cause, Nour’s goddess, even more than Talfan’s, given his close kinship with Hadidu the priest, foster-brother and brother by marriage. The pair of grim, dusty, silent men who came with Kharduin were carrying what Varro first thought was a bier of spears and blankets between them. On it lay Nour, whom he had met once or twice at the coffeehouse, though he hadn’t known him for a wizard. The Marakander caravaneer looked dead, his face gaunt, grey, and hollow about the eyes, his lips cracked and scabbed, but he breathed.
    Ivah woke as suddenly as if someone had called her name, stumbled to her feet and went to Nour with only a brief, vague look at Varro, as if she didn’t even remember him.
    â€œHe’s doing better,” she said, like a prayer.
    If that was better. . . . She lifted the blanket from over his chest, touched the hand of his linen-wrapped left arm. Scarlet blood seeped through the bandage. The camel-leech craned to look as well. “Much better,” the Northron woman agreed. “That’s clean. The swelling’s down. I thought the skin of his fingers was going to burst when you first brought him in. Hah, I’ll take a demon’s blessing over surgeons, any day.”
    Mikki smiled faintly.
    â€œUpstairs,” Kharduin said, looking past Varro with little more interest than Ivah had spared him. “Get him to bed. If he wakes up, get some broth into him. Lord of Forests, would you . . . ?”
    â€œI’ll sit with him,” Mikki said.
    They all ended up climbing the stairs together, Holla making an unnecessary point of keeping himself between Varro and Ivah. Mikki was stark naked and nobody seemed to mind. The women politely didn’t even look. Since someone had to do the decent thing, Varro ducked into the first open door he saw and snitched a blanket. Not even Kharduin’s broad shoulders matched Mikki’s; no one’s coat or caftan was going to hide anything. Mikki took it with grave thanks and a wink, and twisted it around his hips as a kilt of sorts.
    Varro gave