Swords From the West
and the air had grown bitter cold-he felt the ache of hunger, and went swinging through the dusk toward the shop of Ku Yuan, who, being a man of Cathay, would have meat in the pot about that hour, and perhaps part of a tea brick boiled.
    Ku Yuan's shop would have given pause to one who did not know it. A narrow door opened into dimness and smells unmentionable. A snarl and then a bird's scream greeted Mardi Dobro, and a long chain clashed as a black panther leaped from one end of it to the other. Livid eyes fastened upon him and blinked as he made his way familiarly through the caged beasts and the roped hawks sitting their wall perches. Ku Yuan kept a fine selection of hunting stock, leopards, cheetahs, and falcons. The shaman smelled broiling mutton among the other odors, and pushed past a screen to find an old Chinese squatting beside the hearth, dipping into a steaming pot.
    In silence the shaman knelt beside his host and pulled part of a fat tail from the grease, seasoned with tea. He stuffed himself expertly, pausing only to belch, until he sat back and wiped his hands on a sleeping dog.
    "It is true." Mardi Dobro nodded, while he filled his cheeks with lumps of mastic. "More and more Moslems come from the boats with arms."
    Ku Yuan dipped a cup into the pot.
    "They are like wolves gathering together. And they are taking the road to Sarai."
    "What seek they?"
    "What seek the wolves? I have warned thee."
    The sorcerer thought for a moment in silence. He was a Mongol from the Gobi, and he served Barka Khan faithfully after his fashion. He knew that Barka Khan, the lord of the Golden Horde, was far to the south with his army. So there would be only a small garrison in Sarai, the khan's city. These Moslems were going there for no good. He had observed that Yashim, the slave merchant, had landed a few days ago with a boatload of White Sheep Turkomans-excellent fighters but no kind of guards for women slaves.
    "What hath Shedda to say of Yashim?" he asked finally.
    "I sold her to the Bokharian only four days ago. Am I able to change my shape like thee and go among the swords of Turkomans to ask what her ears have heard? Go thou! She may not find it easy to escape again to me."
    Mardi Dobro grunted.
    "Have I not listened with the ears of a ferret? The men of Islam know not that I understand their talk. Certain ones came from Sarai to sit down with Yashim and Ahmed the Persian, who hath an escort of cavalry. The ones from Sarai bade them make haste before the ice breaks up in the rivers. Others await them in Sarai."
    Sipping his greasy tea, Ku Yuan closed his eyes indifferently.
    "The camel men in the serais know as much," he said.
    "Look upon this." The shaman drew from his girdle sack the white sheep's bone and laid it on his knee. "Today I took the omen of the fire and the bone. This sign is a strange sign. First appeared the mark of water, so large it must be the sea. Then-look upon it-the sign of a sword coming from out the sea. Then here is traced the sign of war."
    "Aye," muttered the Chinese, "a sure omen, when thou knowest the armed men are coming in from the sea."
    But when Mardi Dobro thrust the bone into his hand, he stared curiously at the network of cracks. No human hand could have traced them.
    "But at the end," he whispered, "there is good."
    "True." The shaman nodded. "Ignorant ones, knowing naught of the powers of high and unseen places, questioned me. I led them astray. But I went to search out the one who might be the bearer of a sword. For the sword is one, not many." He shook his head moodily. "First I beheld a merchant of the West, a man of authority. I followed him and led him to Shedda, so that she might see him. But then I beheld a young warrior with a sword drawn in his hand."
    He replaced the bone in his pouch and crouched over the fire.
    "A foal, a colt untried. Still, I watched over him. He hath a lion's head on his shield and he turns his feet toward Sarai. What if he be the one of the omen?"
    Ku

Similar Books

The Wrong Rite

Charlotte MacLeod

Whatever You Like

Maureen Smith

1955 - You've Got It Coming

James Hadley Chase

0692321314 (S)

Simone Pond

Wasted

Brian O'Connell

Know When to Hold Him

Lindsay Emory