A ragged cheer went up and Barkav announced that it was time for tea. Five minutes later, after using a bit of the precious water to rinse their mouths and eyes, they were all sitting around the stove, cracking jokes about how Calima, the wicked wind, was getting old and toothless. Kyra sipped her tea and listened in disbelief. Aram had a cut lip and Ishtul had a nasty gash on his cheek where a flying piece of rock had hit him. Shurik had cut his hands in protecting her, but he grinned at her foolishly as if they were at a courting party.
Finally Kyra could not bear it any longer. She got up, tore her face cloth into strips, and wet them. She didn’t have any ointment and there wasn’t much water to spare, but it was essential to keep wounds clean or they would fester. Even the Marksmen ought to know that, for all that they didn’t consider healing important enough to merit a full class.
The elders looked up suspiciously as she approached. Ishtul protested that he didn’t need her help, but she ignored him. She wiped his cheek until the grit and sand were gone, and tied a clean strip around his face.
“There,” she said, stepping back. “That should do until you can see a medicine woman in Kashgar.”
“I thank you,” said Ishtul, patting his cheek and looking more hook-nosed than ever.
Aram took a couple of strips from her for Barkav and Saninda. Kyra glanced at Shurik, and he held his hands out to her with a pathetic look. She bit back a smile and bent over them, examining the cuts and cleaning them as gently as possible. Shurik winced several times but didn’t complain, even though it must have hurt.
The moon had risen when they finally resumed their journey. They had lost half a day and half their provisions, but this was little compared to what might have been.
Swaying on her camel under the moonlight, feeling the stillness of the night like a blessing, Kyra thought how close she had come to death. All of them could have died that day, their bodies preserved by the desiccation for some unsuspecting nomad to find years later. And there would have been no one left to avenge the death of Shirin Mam.
But the Goddess had decided their fates otherwise. Kyra was still alive, and her story wasn’t quite finished yet.
Chapter 27
In Kashgar
They arrived in Kashgar the next day, late in the afternoon. The change from the silent emptiness of the desert was abrupt, almost shocking. One minute they were riding between dunes and towering black rocks with the sun beating down on their bowed heads. The next minute they crested a dune and Kashgar lay before them, a vast jumble of adobe buildings dotted with blue-green domes, surrounded by ten-meter-high mud walls. Kyra gawked while Shurik explained that Kashgar was the biggest and oldest town under Khur jurisdiction. It had been settled soon after the Great War ended, eight hundred fifty years ago.
They passed through the walls by the main gate, a massive arched doorway with iron spikes on top. Burly Kushan guards dressed in ceremonial red and gold robes stood on either side of them, bowing deeply, clearly recognizing the group of Marksmen. Barkav and the elders called out greetings, but Kyra kept her face and katari hidden, though she longed to stare at everything. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself. Several clans and tribes had gathered in Kashgar ahead of the annual clan meeting, and it wouldn’t do to start rumors of a strange Markswoman in the company of the Marksmen of Khur.
They dismounted outside a large, rectangular two-story building near the main gate with the grand name “Jewel of Kashi” painted on the arch of its entrance. This, Kyra guessed, was the guesthouse where the men of Khur stayed when they were in Kashgar. Certainly they were expected. The proprietress, a middle-aged woman dressed in sober gray, hurried forward to greet them with cups of fragrant mint tea. Two young boys led their camels through the entrance to the open courtyard inside the walls.
Kyra followed the Marksmen into the vast courtyard, stunned by the size and beauty of the blue and white building. The courtyard was surrounded by dozens of stables, housed between elegant arches. The arches were decorated with a mosaic of glazed blue tiles that gave the effect of intricate floral patterns. The courtyard itself was paved with stone, but in the center was a square garden with a well, overhung with olive trees. Sandstone benches lined the garden on all four sides.
Most of the stables were already occupied by horses, mules, or camels. The guest rooms, Kyra deduced, must be on the floor above, arranged along a gallery facing the courtyard. The spicy, fruity smell of the olive trees mixed with the earthy smell of the animals, and Kyra inhaled deep, feeling herself relax.
The courtyard was crowded with people—merchants and traders for the most part, but clan elders were present as well. All talk and laughter faded as the Marksmen walked past, Barkav in the lead. Everyone fell back and gave space for their little party to pass, bowing and murmuring respectful greetings. Kyra could feel their curious eyes on her, and hear some loud thoughts:
Who is this strange girl with the untidy hair?
What is a woman doing with the Marksmen of Khur?
And, worst of all:
What are the Marksmen coming to, dragging their floozy to a respectable guesthouse like this?
Kyra’s cheeks burned with anger but she kept her eyes down. She wished she could disabuse the idiot who had thought that, but now was not the time to reveal herself.
They climbed a marble staircase to the gallery on the first floor, the proprietress bobbing up and down as she showed them their rooms, urging them to call her if they needed anything. Kyra could make out elaborate gold letters painted on each door. Although she couldn’t read the script, Shurik told her that each room was named after a fruit or a flower. Kyra’s room was called Shisqa, a type of date.
It was a relief to enter the snug little room she had to herself, and warm her cracked hands in front of the small fire that had already been lit for the evening. Kyra sat on the wooden chair by the fireplace and regarded her room with pleasure. The arched ceiling was of brown sandstone, and the floor was covered with crimson patterned rugs. A narrow bed was pushed against the wall; it had a thick red and yellow patchwork quilt that looked very welcoming. Here the cold and discomfort of the journey could be put aside, the sandstorm forgotten like a bad dream. Kyra wished she could stay longer than the three days that were left before the clan assembly in Sikandra.
Dinner was a delicious bowl of steaming hot noodle soup, loaves of freshly baked bread, ripe cheese, olives, and roasted nuts. They ate in the dining hall downstairs, attended by a dour and capable old man, who refilled empty plates and bowls without being asked. Everyone ate without speaking, so intent were they on their food, although Shurik managed to wink at Kyra across the table when none of the elders was looking. Kyra ignored him. After a week of millet stew and potatoes, this tasty food deserved all of her attention.