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even think of desert crossings or stealing silkworms." She waved her hand for
the company to start again. "Haraldr, at my back. You, Father Basil, if you
will, ride at my side. And pass the word that every man and horse in my
service should walk and look as proud as he can.
Let's enter Kashgar as princes, not as castaways!"
From somewhere, a groom unfurled a banner and handed it by its pole to
Haraldr. Purple silk-the color and pride of Byzantium-fluttered in the wind as
Alexandra and her train entered Kashgar. A
majesty was on her, Haraldr thought, and enjoyed the sight of it, which
reminded him of ceremonies in
Miklagard in which the leader of the Varangians, who had the privilege of
following the Emperor into battle, rode behind His Majesty on a white horse,
and the entire Guard marched, clad in crimson, axes burnished, behind them.
Perhaps now they would all come back into their own again. In that case, Thor
would have the white stallion he had already pledged, and a mare beside. There
were guards at the outskirts of the city, more of them, and more suspicious,
than the Northerner would have expected. Many peoples passed through Kashgar;
surely it was to the advantage of all to keep it safe and prosperous. When the
guards hailed them, Alexandra stared them down, then silenced them with the
purse she threw with superb arrogance to their captain.
So small, and yet so very strong, Haraldr thought, like the chain that bound
the real
Fenris wolf. Her head was held high, her hair streamed down her slender back,
and she wore the distant, haughty look that all the Imperials could summon.
Heads up, Miklagard's pride rode through a bazaar that shone with burnished
copper, fine
Susan
Shwortz embroideries, and glistening fruit, while people of all the races that
thronged the city fell silent to watch.
Alexandra stretched out, and let the serving women finish drying her long
hair. Fruit glowed on silver dishes, and sherbet in the Persian fashion
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frosted a fine glass pitcher. Equally Persian were the inn's blue tiles and
its standard of luxury for guests, fresh either from the mountains or the
Takla
Makan desert, and eager to pay for it. She might have deduced from the armor
and weapons of the guards that
Persians and Abbasids dominated the trade city;
the number of mosques, and the bazaar clamor at her arrival, a woman leading
her own train, told her even more.
She had anticipated that particular problem, had hoped that Bryennius would
serve as a second self for those dealings where a prince would be more welcome
than a princess. But now she would have to be both. She backslash rose and
pointed. With obvious reluctance, the servingi women helped her into the coat,
boots, and trousers she' had insisted upon, instead of the women's garments
they had offered her. They were dark silk, so finely cut that she suspected
they had been made for a prince-or a catamite. She shivered at the
feel of the fabric against her greater-than skin; she had missed it since
leaving Byzantium.
Father Basil was waiting for her in the outer rooms.
"I hope you said a prayer for me too," she greeted him.
He nodded'as if that had not needed to be said. Waving away an offer of wine
pressed from the mares'-teat grapes grown in the Turpan oasis-the inn kept a
fine stock for nonbelievers-both were silent while more sherbet was brought.
Once the room was empty. Father Basil moved his cushions closer to her.
"You saw the guard," he began in Greek.
"Kashgar is Muslim now, but it's had several masters in the last few years,
ever since the people of
Ch'in were forced from their westernmost prefectures.
We saw it in Samarkand, which they used to rule.
Warriors from the Land of
Snows, Uighurs, the Hsiung-nu. It's frightening. Andwiththe city under Muslim
control-was
"Your people here," Alexandra broke in.
"Safe enough, for now. Heretics or not"-he grinned at her--"they're people
with a Holy Book, and therefore under protection. As are the Jews, the
worshipers of Mani, and the servants of the Buddha.
That's much the same as it is in
Ch'ang-an. But if the rulers here are threatened, they may look about for a
scapegoat."
"So they can't provide us with silkworms."
"Alas no, my princess. After the last wave of trouble, the silk was put under
even stricter guard.
My brethren will help us pay our way across the
Takla Makan, and for that-was
For that, Alexandra realized, they should all be on their knees giving thanks.
She listened to the Nestorian's report with half an ear, thinking that he made
as good a spy as she had ever encountered in a lifetime of dealing with them.
Byzantium appreciated fine spies and rewarded them well.
She was less enthusiastic about the number of priests and holy men in the
City. While some might possess the genuine sanctity of the abbot who had saved
her life, she remembered how "Father
Andronicus" had turned out to be a demon. This close to the desert, other
demons might creep in off the sand. The serving women's jests, half-malicious,
half-fearful, had reminded her that Takla Makan meant "If you enter, you don't
come out." Apparently, it was desolation itself.
Travelers clustered together for protection, not just against the solitude but
the whispers and giggles of demons. Occasionally, a caravan would disappear
from along the desert's edge, victim of a kuraburan, the "black storm" such
demons could summon.
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Along the trade routes lay the bones of man and beast, bleached and dried by
the desert, alongside the remnants of their trade goods. No one wanted
to touch them.
Occasionally bolder travelers came across beams or broken walls, the ruins of
a half-buried town.
But if they
Susan Shtuarfz dug, seeking treasure, sand poured into the hole almost more
quickly than they could remove it, and threatened to bury them too. No one
dared venture into the deep desert, though there were legends of a hidden
spring at its center.
Shambhala!
Alexandra had suspected briefly, then dismissed the idea. Shambhala was said
to lie between snow mountains, not giant, serpentine dunes.
"Thank your friends for me," she told the priest, who had fallen silent,
respecting her thoughts.
He glanced at her men's clothing, then tactfully glanced away. "How else might
I
negotiate with these traders for passage, unless as a prince, not a woman they
can cajole and cheat?"
she asked.
"I heard another story, my princess. They say that a prince of the Imperial
T'ang dynasty arrived some time ago from Samarkand and now prepares to cross
the desert."
"Why is he so far from his home?" Alexandra asked, then laughed at herself.
"Apparently the prince is also a poet. Much of the land we crossed once
belonged to Ch'in, but is now in the hands of Muslims or the warlords from the
Land of
Snows. He wished to see what his Empire has lost. Since one of the things his
Empire lost were the stud farms to the west, if we were to show him our horses
. . ."
"How would you suggest we do that?"
The Persian's round face crinkled into a wide smile. "It's my understanding
that trouble hunts the entire length of the silk roads, from Byzantium all the
way to Ch'ang-an. Ch'in has been plagued by revolts and civil wars for the
past century. Nevertheless, life must go on. Beleaguered, Kashgar may be, but
it is still full of horsemen. There will be a game of polo soon. This
Imperial prince is said to enjoy the game. If we bring our horses, he'll note
them."
Alexandra laughed again. Priest Basil might be, but he was also Persian, and
no Persian alive could resist polo. They had brought it to Byzantium and
everyplace else where nobility or warriors might be able to afford horses for
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