Tashi wrinkled her nose. "I'm used to it."

"Come then. Let's ride."

Zaradan's tent was larger than Zeliph's, but like his it had separate quarters for men and women.

The interior was brightly decked with rugs and

hangings all with the horse motif. It was cool in the tent, thanks to the kilted-up sides that

allowed a breeze to keep the air moving. Zaradan left Tashi in the care of his son's wife, a shy

woman who responded to her attempts to make conversation only with nods and nervous

laughter. Two big-eyed girls hung at the entrance, staring transfixed at the strange-looking

foreigner. The woman offered her a fine turquoise tunic, decorated with seed pearl, and loose-

fitting trousers. She then brushed Tashi's hair for her, murmuring to her children as she admired

the color.

Zaradan invited Tashi to dine with him that evening, an invitation she accepted with trepidation.

She had realized that he must be some kind of king

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among his people as Ramil's mother had been referred to as a princess. Yet it appeared that the

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notion of kingship here was different from any she knew; what she had witnessed at Zeliph's

tent suggested Zaradan was more like a chief of a series of subordinate tribes with fluctuating

loyalties. Ramil had never mentioned his grandfather, so she did not know how Zaradan would

regard her presence here.

When she entered the men's side of the tent, she found the Umni was not alone. A man in his

middle years, of similar build and coloring, was reclining at the table at his side. Both rose as she

approached.

"This is my son, Resphir," Zaradan said. "And this girl appears to be Ramil's betrothed, though what her true name is we have not yet established."

"Ramil calls me Tashi," she replied, bowing Crescent-style to the two men.

Zaradan waved her to a cushion and offered her a plate of meat and couscous. She helped

herself to a small portion, not feeling very hungry.

She sipped nervously on a tiny cup of mint tea.

"Where is Zarai's boy?" Resphir asked her bluntly before she could even swallow a mouthful of food.

"He's . . . I'm not sure. He was captured, I think, about three days' ride south from where the

road divides to Tigral." An idea occurred to her. "Can you help him? Do you know where they

would have taken him?"

"The slave market in the city, that's plain enough," said Resphir with a frown.

Tashi had the impression he did not approve of her. "I told you, Father, that you

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should never have allowed Zarai to marry that Gerfalian. Her child in slavery--it is an insult to

the whole family."

Tashi felt a rush of annoyance. It was easy for him to criticize when he hadn't been the one

fighting for his life. "It was hardly Ram's fault!" she protested. "I don't know how many came for us, but there were three alone after the other woman and me, so they must have come in force.

No man, not even Resphir of the Horse Followers, could've escaped them."

Zaradan held up a finger to stop her tirade. "But you have not yet told us how you avoided the

indignities of being auctioned in Tigral."

Tashi pushed her plate away. Once again she was being made to justify her choices. "I jumped in

the river."

"I do not believe you could have done that and survived," said Resphir dismissively.

"Would you like to see the scars?" Tashi asked. "Because the river was not kind to me and left plenty of marks." Tired of being doubted and scorned, she turned to Zaradan. "I don't know

what you think I am doing here, sir, but for some reason our paths have crossed. You have a

choice: either to believe me and aid me in my mission, or thwart me and make Fergox

Spearthrower very happy."

Zaradan crumbled up a piece of bread as if he had not heard her. His face was impassive.

"All right," she said in exasperation, "even better, hand me over to the warlord. He'll either make me his fifth wife or burn me at the stake, but never mind that! You'll be able to disappear

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into your desert knowing

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that you did not lift a finger to save the land your daughter loved, nor the woman Zarai's son

chose."

"You are passionate, little one," said Zaradan calmly.

Tashi felt like throwing her plate at him. "I think you would be too if you had been been

kidnapped, shot at, beaten, accused of witchcraft, and I don't know what else for the last few

months."

"And you've fallen in love."

This brought her up short.

He smiled. "1 would have made a sorry use of my years on this earth if I could not tell when a

young girl is in love. It always gives them a certain sparkle." He fluttered his fingers in the air.

"So what do you want from us, O

lover of Ramil?"

His tone made her outburst seem childish.

"I ... I want to take a ship home. And I want you to help Ramil because I cannot," Tashi said, feeling her cheeks burn. Zaradan made her feel all the inadequacy of her own sixteen years

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against his decades of experience.

"I think we can do that," said Zaradan with another smile. "Now eat your food. My grandson will not want a scrawny wife in his bed when we get him home."

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Chapter 18

The slave revolt acted like a spark to dry tinder. By the end of the second day, Ramil had more

recruits than he could easily accommodate in the makeshift barracks around the square. Slaves

were simply walking out on their masters and presenting themselves at the market to have their

chains struck off. Nursemaids left their charges on their mistresses' doorsteps, cooks abandoned

the stoves and let the bread burn, gardeners picked up their shovels and headed to the harbor

side.

Ramil's pretense that this was all about ransoms for the rich people had worked. What he feared

most--an immediate assault by trained soldiers--had not materialized as the influential families

were concerned for the lives of their hostages. The authorities held back from a counter-attack,

believing the slaves could be bought off, separated, defeated in dribs and drabs, then executed

at their leisure. They were already devising a spectacular demise for the ringleader, something

to make all slaves in the Empire tremble. But Ramil was not worried about

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their plans; his main problem was keeping his troops focused: too many yearned for revenge

and had no vision beyond making the masters suffer.

He needed something to hold them together and raise their spirits before he attempted to take

more of the city. Sitting in the market, watching the ships at anchor down by the water only a

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few streets away, he thought he had the solution.

"So, Melletin, what do you think about taking on the pirate fleet?" he asked casually at

breakfast.

The Brigardian choked on his mouthful.

"They're sitting there like fat ducks," Ramil continued, gesturing to ten vessels tied up at their moorings. "It would be a brilliant stroke if we could sink them."

"But what about the galley slaves?" Melletin pointed out once he had found his voice. "We can't just burn them--we'll be roasting a lot of innocent men if we do that. And if we just march upon

them, the sailors will massacre us from their decks."

Ramil shook his head. "You're thinking like a soldier. I'm thinking like a devious slave trying to get even with his master."