I couldn’t help but smile a little in response. “I believe it.”

“Do you have more?” he asked hopefully.

I shook my head. “No. But I do have coin, and I am seeking passage across the desert, the swifter the better.”

“Eh.” He looked disappointed.

The boy tugged at his sleeve. “It’s for Bao, grandfather!” There was a clear note of hero-worship in his voice. “We have to help her. She’s Bao’s Moirin! You are, aren’t you?” he added, glancing at me.

“Aye,” I said ruefully. “I suppose I am.”

The old man sucked his teeth. “Eh, come along, then. If you’re willing to put your bow away, I’m willing to discuss the price of passage.”

I hesitated.

“We’re not going to betray you to the Great Khan!” he said in an irritable tone. “My grandson says you wear the blue scarf of kinship, and I am offering you the hospitality of my roof. We’re desert folk; we honor the sacred laws.”

“Batu’s tribe, right?” the boy asked, his eyes gleaming. “I remember!”

“Vachir’s tribe,” I said softly. “But you’re right, I did wear a scarf given to me by Batu’s wife. It was taken away from me in Vralia.”

“Vralia!”

I nodded. “Bao was misled. The Great Khan sent us in opposite directions. And now I fear Bao is in trouble.”

The boy caught his breath. “The Falconer and the Spider Queen?”

“You know of them?” I asked.

“Everyone knows!”

The old man cuffed the boy’s head without malice. “Everyone knows tales,” he said absentmindedly. “No one knows the truth. Well, child?” He turned his rheumy gaze on me. “Are you willing to trust my word, or do you doubt me?”

I paused a moment longer, then returned the arrow to my quiver and slung my bow over my shoulder. “No, Grandfather. I do not doubt your word.”

“Good.” He sucked his teeth again in a meditative manner, eyeing me beneath wrinkled lids. “You’re sure you’ve none of the dried root to barter with?”

“Very sure,” I said.

“Pity,” he said with regret. “I should have saved more for myself.”

FORTY-NINE

The old man’s name was Unegen, which meant fox-and he was indeed an old fox. The boy’s name was Dash, which meant good luck.

It was appropriate.

It was a piece of luck that he had spotted me, a piece of luck that he recognized me from Bao’s oft-repeated description. A piece of luck that he had developed a boy’s hero-worshipping attachment to Bao and begged so strongly on my behalf.

The bargain we concluded wasn’t a perfect one. I didn’t have enough coin to purchase the sort of exclusive, swift escort Bao had bought with the aphrodisiac tonic of dried Camaeline snowdrop bulbs.

No, I would be travelling across the Tatar desert with a larger, slower caravan under Unegen’s supervision, a group of northern mountain-folk called the Tufani who had concluded a successful trade and were returning home laden with Ch’in silks.

Still, it would get me across the desert.

“After that, you’re on your own,” Unegen warned me. “Just like your young man. You’ll need to find someone else to get you across the Path of Heaven’s Spear.”

“Who did Bao find?” I asked.

Unegen shrugged. “Not my concern.”

So be it, I reckoned. I would deal with the next step when I came to it. For now I would cross the desert.

It was not a pleasant journey.

To spare the horses, we rode on tall camels, which also carried the bulk of the Tufani’s cargo. That part I didn’t mind once I grew accustomed to the strange, swaying gait of the camels. They weren’t the friendliest creatures I’d ever met, but I had a good rapport with animals, and mine carried me willingly enough.

But I was not a child of the desert, not by any means. I was a child of the woods and forest. So very, very little grew here, it made the grasslands of the steppe seem lush by comparison.

And it was dry, so dry.

During the day, a hot, dry wind blew endlessly, scouring the barren rock and coating everything with dust. If there is one memory that defines that harsh passage for me, it is the memory of dust. Dust in every fold of my clothing, dust in my hair, dust making my eyes gritty, the taste of dust on my tongue, gritting between my teeth.

Washing was seldom an option. There was no water to spare. The river we followed at the outset quickly vanished. From time to time, it would resurface, and when it did, it was cause for rejoicing. We would water our animals and replenish our stores, and wash the ever-present dust from our hands and faces, even though we’d be coated anew within half an hour’s time.

Mostly, though, when we came upon water, it was brackish little pools seeping to the surface. Sometimes it was fit for the camels to drink, for they were built to survive in the desert and had hardier systems than most creatures, but neither horses nor humans could stomach it. I tried washing in one once, and once only. The foul, brackish scent that clung to my skin wasn’t worth a few dust-free minutes.

It wasn’t entirely devoid of life. In places wild onion grew, and a kind of low scrub-grass. There were birds, little plovers that ran on long legs and hunted for insects on the desert floor.

My young companion, Dash, took great pleasure in telling me about a legendary worm that inhabited the desert, a bright red segmented creature that resembled a cow’s intestine. He cheerfully informed me that it could grow up to five feet in length, and spat acid that would eat one’s skin.

That had me in a state of trepidation for days. Even after Dash admitted that no one he knew had ever seen one of these fabled insects, I kept a wary eye out for the sight of anything creeping and scarlet.

As we travelled, I did my best to make use of the time and learn what I could about the Falconer, the Spider Queen, and the Lady of Rats.

The Tufani traders were my best source of information, and I found them a cheerful, friendly folk. During the day, it was too hot and dusty for conversation-only Dash managed to find the energy to chatter-but we spoke at night around campfires of dried camel-dung gathered along the way, gnawing on strips of dried meat and hard cheese, softening both with judicious sips of water.

“Oh, yes.” Dorje, one of the traders who spoke fluent Tatar, nodded when I first inquired. “The Falconer in his eyrie, he is real. Ten years ago, he stole a great jewel from Tufan.”

“What kind of jewel?”

Dorje smiled with sorrow. “The human kind. A young woman named Laysa who was born to a family of yak-herders. She was very beautiful, and so gentle that it seemed as though a light shone from her face. Everyone who saw her said she must be a reincarnation of a great saint, one of the Enlightened Ones come back to guide us.”

“Did you ever see her?” I asked him.

“I saw her,” he said quietly. “It was true. She had a grace that one cannot put into words. Surely, she was meant to accomplish much on the Path of Dharma. But the Falconer heard of her, and sent his messengers to fetch her. She refused to go, and her father and brothers said that they would fight anyone who tried to take her.”

One of the other traders, following the conversation, drew a hand across his throat in a slitting gesture.

I winced. “They were killed?”

Dorje nodded. “One of the Falconer’s assassins came the next night, a dark-skinned southern Bhodistani warrior. He fought with a battle-axe in each hand. He killed all the men, and took Laysa away. No one has seen her since.”

“He takes real jewels, too,” the second trader offered. “Did you hear of the famous Phoenix Stone?”

I shook my head.

“A ruby the size of my fist.” He held out a clenched fist to illustrate. “Flawless, with a heart of fire. It belonged to the Maharaja of Chodur, who gave it to his bride on their wedding night. When the Falconer’s spider-wife heard of it, she wanted it. He sent his messengers to demand it. The Maharaja laughed, sent them away, and doubled his palace guard. The next morning…” He made another throat-slitting gesture. “The Maharaja and his bride were dead in their beds, and the Phoenix Stone was gone.”