her chest loosened. She had deserved his rebuke. She should have known better than to think the Commander of the Zhayedan wouldn’t have planned for every possible contingency before he summoned his council.
“You would mount a rescue of refugees? To what end?” Maysam rolled up the map and tossed it to one side, dismissing the idea. Unfazed by this show of disrespect, Arsalan smoothed it out again, pointing to the area where the Talisman had taken prisoners to use as shields.
Only then did he let his anger show, a cloud darkening his brow. He leaned forward, his face within inches of Maysam’s.
“To this end. We do not abandon the people the Black Khan claims as his own.”
When the council had disbanded in resentful silence, Arsalan called Cassandane back. She turned to face him, her hands clenched on her helmet, steeling herself for a thorough dressing-down. Her shoulders squared, she stared at the Commander’s insignia: a small onyx rook mounted on silver at his neck.
“Forgive me, Commander,” she said quietly. “I know I spoke out of turn.”
His strong hand tilted up her chin, the hint of a smile in his eyes.
“It was a tactic, Cassandane. To pacify Maysam’s pride.”
He dropped his hand, giving her a moment to puzzle his actions through. Startled, she made the connection.
“You aren’t certain of the extent of the Nizam’s influence. But do you suspect traitors within the ranks of the Cataphracts?”
“Especially within the Cataphracts. If we are betrayed, it will be at their hands.”
“Do you also suspect the Teerandaz?” She was an experienced soldier, but Arsalan’s air of authority coupled with his physical presence made her second-guess herself. She couldn’t help the note of diffidence in her voice or her desire for reassurance.
She drew a silent breath when he brushed his hand against her cheek, a gesture of comradeship, just as he had pressed Maysam’s shoulder in affection.
“Of course not,” he said. “I’ve known you far too long.” His words were grimly pragmatic as he added, “The Nizam held you in disfavor.”
She gave a grim smile of her own. “He thought the Teerandaz should be disbanded. Until he spoke so harshly of our competence, the Zhayedan were wont to treat us with respect.” Then, not wanting to sound as if she pitied herself, when she’d been fortunate enough to have been given Arsalan’s attention, she went on briskly, “Were you serious about the rescue?”
“It stands a greater chance of success than the sortie Maysam had in mind. It will also end any doubt as to where his loyalties lie.”
Cassandane worked through this. “Because he’ll choose his own men, and if he wishes, they’ll be free to defect. We won’t be able to stop him from joining forces with the Talisman.”
Though his eyes were gentle on her face, Arsalan’s response was pure steel.
“I have faith in your aim, Captain, so do not let me down.”
ARIAN SHOOK BACK HER CLOAK TO SHOW THEIR CAPTORS HER CIRCLETS. At once, Sinnia mirrored the gesture. Both women wondered if it would matter, and if there was any hope for Khashayar, their sole remaining escort.
The man in the burnoose paused, his eyes skirting the golden bands. He called another man to stand beside him, his voice rough with command. There were eighteen others gathered on the sand, nineteen including the one who’d spoken. They were dressed in sand-colored cloaks worn over long white thobes, their heads wrapped in red-and-white headcloths. Dark-eyed to a man, their skin was a golden-brown deepened by desert sun, weathered from exposure to its relentless heat. They stood at their ease, their eyes as clear as a desert falcon’s. Nothing in their appearance suggested they were men to fear … save for the whipcord readiness with which they had struck down Khashayar’s men.
“Traders,” Sinnia murmured in Arian’s ear.
The man in the burnoose heard her, his eyes wandering over Sinnia’s face, over the clustered curls that had begun to grow out from her head in tiny spirals. To Sinnia’s surprise, his eyes warmed, as he gave her a slow nod.
“Najashi,” he said with respect, to a murmur from the men behind him. “Companion from the land of the Negus. I do not know the other.”
Arian gave her name. After a pause, she added, “First Oralist of Hira.”
Another murmur, different in tenor than the first. It held a tinge of fear in it.
Arian observed the thick leather belts that cinched the cloaks these men wore. Each belt was inscribed with the words Over this are Nineteen.
She pondered the significance of the nineteen men who surrounded them; perhaps they were the commanders of the army at their back. If the man in the burnoose was the leader of the Nineteen, then the man at his side must be his lieutenant. His stance was poised, his hand holding an iron glaive, a staff with a blade that curved up at shoulder height, just above a spike that pointed outward. The lower half of the glaive was overlaid with damasquinado, a pattern of gold incised on black steel, in contrast to the naked shaft.
The man who held it glanced at Arian’s circlets, then looked up to meet her eyes.
She suppressed a shiver. Though the temperature had fallen, it wasn’t the night that chilled her. It was the man’s gaze—amber eyes with stiletto-sharp flecks of blue and green. He held himself like a weapon, lethally honed and muscled, with an air of quiet command. His leather belt carried a complement of knives, each with a jeweled haft, as if he specialized in killing, and each of the blades he’d chosen was dedicated to a task. Beneath his cloak, he wore a fitted uniform in a color that echoed the sienna of the desert. He watched Arian with a focus that warned her he wasn’t an ordinary soldier.
He was a killer who looked at her like prey.
The man in the burnoose held one hand high to dismiss the soldiers on the dune.
“Gather the horses; return to camp.”
The men who remained fanned out around what was left of Arian’s group to the sound of horses’ hooves behind them. To distract them from her attempted theft, Arian said, “I would welcome the courtesy of your titles.”
The older man spoke first. “Shaykh Al Marra.” He indicated the man with the glaive. “This is Sayyid Najran, my second.”
Arian considered their style of dress. Their headcloths were native to the tribes of the Empty Quarter who made their home in the boundless sands of the Rub Al Khali.
“You are far from your homes, then. What brings you here?”
“What brings you here, sayyidina? You have traveled far from Hira at some risk to yourself.” It was a reasonable question, but it was also a dismissal of Khashayar’s escort, the Shaykh’s shrewd black eyes measuring the impact of his words.
Arian looked over her shoulder to the vanguard
