Pārsa was one of the old empires, from the days when Etalus was young and the Narvonni were scattered tribes of barbarians in the forest. They were traders even then, making port in the Bay of Sabs to barter with the desert tribes. They had the trick of navigating by the stars long before the Etalans learned it.

* The Commentaries of Aram ibn Bashear

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16th Day of New Summer’s Moon, 297 AC

The Simorq could not have been more different from its grand name. The first ship to make port in Rocher de la Garde since the siege had been lifted was a Pārsan trading vessel, built for cargo rather than war. Ismet guessed that the captain had probably sailed west long before word of the siege could have reached his home port, or he would simply not have come. In the wake of the battle, however, he was going to find himself making more silver than he would know what to do with.

Ismet swung down from Layla’s saddle onto the beach, and the sand gave beneath her boots. Around her, the Exarchs Guiron and Bors dismounted, as well as Baron Urien and Lionel, and finally Fazil, who had appointed himself her bodyguard. The Narvonnian King offered her his arm.

“There hasn’t been time to build a proper dock,” Lionel apologized. “The sand can be a bit treacherous.”

“I spent my childhood at Eayn Zarqa' oasis,” Ismet pointed out. “I know how to walk on sand, Your Majesty.” But she smiled, and accepted his arm anyway, in the manner of the Narvonnian noble-women.

The sea-breeze was cold off the Circum Mare. Though High Summer had been celebrated the night before, it felt more like late autumn or early spring. Over the harbor, instead of a bright yellow sun, only a cold white ring shone down, and the sky was full of stars. The darkness had forced the men clearing the harbor to work by the light of torches and bonfires, and rest often to warm themselves from the chill of the water.

And yet, Baron Urien’s insistence on clearing a path through the wrecked ships that had littered the harbor bore fruit now. The small party walked down to the strand, where the Pārsan rowboats, along with every small local craft that could be pressed into service, had been ferrying goods to shore for the past hour.

“Baron Urien!” a woman’s strong voice broke across the beach. Ismet turned to watch the speaker approach. Her hair was jet black, bound back in a loose braid, and as dark as the wide legged trousers she wore, drawn close to fit around her calves, and at her waist. She wore a kind of vest of wool, with open shoulders that bared her muscular arms.

“Captain Cyrah,” Urien said, stepping forward to greet her. “You come at a most fortunate time, as if you were blown by the trade winds of fortune itself.” He motioned with an arm. “Your Majesty, this is Captain Cyrah Esfandiar of the trading ship Simorq, out of Siraf. Captain Cyrah, you have the honor of being presented to Lionel Aurelianus, King of Narvonne.”

Cyrah blinked, but recovered herself quickly, and took a knee. “It is my very great honor to meet you, Your Majesty,” she said, lowering her eyes.

“No, the honor is mine,” Lionel said. “For we are sorely in need of the supplies you bring. May I present to you General Ismet ibnah Salah, Exarch of Epinoia, our ally from the Caliphate of Maʿīn.”

“An honor to meet you, as well, General Ismet,” the Pārsan captain said, rising at Lionel’s indication. Ismet exchanged bows with her.

“And I you, Captain,” Ismet said. “I still recall my wonder, as a child, the first time I felt Pārsan silk on my fingers.”

“Silk, I have,” Cyrah said, with the twinkle in her eye of a merchant who sees an opportunity. “Come, let me show you.” She turned to lead them to where wine barrels and crates of all sizes were being stacked nearly on the sand by her sailors.

“What we need more than silk,” Lionel admitted, “Is food. Food, weapons, boots.”

“I did not expect to be trading with an army,” Captain Cyrah admitted. “But I believe I have some things that can meet your needs, Your Majesty. After all, as they say, beggars cannot be choosers, yes?”

“I believe I have heard that expression before,” Lionel agreed.

“Pārsan wine,” Cyrah said, putting her hand on the first of the barrels. “A waste to mix it with river water, but it will at least keep your men from shitting themselves to death on the march. I have barley, lentils, beans, dried figs and dried grapes. I have linen, silk and wool, both bolts of fabric and fine clothing; cedarwood, glass, dye, copper and tin.” As she spoke, she opened crates one by one, letting them get a look at the merchandise stored inside.

“We will take all the food you have,” Lionel said, “Whatever it is. Along with the bolts of wool and linen.”

“And perhaps silk for the General? I see she prefers red veils,” Cyrah pressed, pulling a length of deep red silk out of one of the crates. “Here, feel.”

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Despite herself, Ismet reached out and ran her fingers along the fabric. The smooth feel of it brought a smile to her face, and memories of her father taking her to the night market when the Pārsan traders would come. “I will purchase the silk,” Ismet decided, on a whim. “Something to bring back for my mother, perhaps.”

“Allow me to make a gift of it, to you,” Lionel offered. “Whatever you wish as gifts for your family. Something for your father, as well.”

Ismet turned to Lionel, grinning beneath her veil, the silk still in her hands. “Are you trying to buy your way into my family’s heart, Your Majesty?” she asked him.

“I only want to show them that my proposal is a serious matter,” Lionel answered, “And not to be taken lightly.”

“General Ismet!” a man shouted from up the beach.

Around them, the Exarchs guarding the king put their hands on the hilts of their weapons, ready to defend Lionel. Fazil, as well, made ready to draw, though in truth he could never stand against any enemy which was able to threaten Ismet.

Half a dozen riders dismounted, leaving their horses on the street above the beach, and striding across the sand. They were riding desert horses, Ismet noted, and wearing the armor of the Caliph’s royal guard.

“General Ismet,” the man in the lead began, holding up a rolled, tied and sealed piece of parchment. “I bring you the command of Rashid ibn Umar, Exarch of Isrāfīl and Caliph of Maʿīn, may his wisdom guide us.” He stopped two paces from Guiron and Bors, who barred his passage.

“Let me through,” Ismet asked, and handed the silk back to Captain Cyrah. The two Narvonnian Exarchs made way for her, then closed ranks behind to protect their king. “I receive the command of the Caliph,” she said, reaching out for the message. Ismet broke the seal, unrolled the parchment, and began to read. As she did, the smile slipped from her face.

“The warriors of the Caliphate are our allies against the daemons,” Lionel said, stepping forward and waving aside his guards. “There is no need to be on guard against these men. Baron Urien, see to lodgings for them, and stables for their horses. I am certain you must be tired from your long journey.”

The leader of the messengers inclined his head. “Indeed, it has been a long ride. We thank the Crown Prince for his hospitality.”

Ismet glanced at Lionel’s face. He did a good job of maintaining a pleasant smile, but she knew that he would already be calculating the implications of that statement. “I am commanded to return to Maʿīn,” she said aloud, “And to report to the Caliph regarding the death of General Shadi.” None of the messengers from the royal guard looked surprised by this, Ismet noted. And it was telling that the Caliph had sent his guards - telling and unusual.

“Fazil,” she called, having made her decision. “Go and find your brother, and bring him here now.”

“As you command, General,” Fazil said, inclined his head, and rushed up the beach toward the city.

“I will leave Commander Shīrkūh to coordinate with you in my absence,” Ismet said, turning to catch Lionel’s eyes with her own. There was so much she could not say out loud, and she wished she had spoken to him, just once, in all the days they’d spent together, of the Caliphe’s son, Nasir.

“Shīrkūh ibn Asad has earned the respect of us all,” Lionel said, his tone careful and even. “He will do well in your absence, and the experience can only season him into a better leader. I look forward to your return, and pray you come swiftly, and with reinforcements. I will give you a letter for the Caliph, himself, in my own hand.”

“The troops cannot stay,” the Royal Guard protested. “They have been recalled by the Caliph.”

Ismet broke Lionel’s gaze, and pinned the man with her eyes as easily as she would step on an ant. “What is your name?”

“Omar ibn Ajmal,” the man answered her, “Captain of the Caliph’s guards.”

“The Caliph did not explicitly recall my troops, Captain Omar,” Ismet said, holding up the parchment. “Only myself, by name. Read his words yourself, if you doubt me, but my men will remain in Narvonne, to make war upon our true enemies - the daemons that have risen.”

Captain Omar’s cheek twitched with rage, and Imset smiled to see it. “The General would expose herself to great danger traveling alone,” he said, finally. “It is our duty to offer ourselves as an escort, to ensure that she reaches Maʿīn safely.”

“I am Exarch of Epinoia,” Ismet shot back. “I faced the Sun Eater himself at the Tower of Tears. I assure you, Captain Omar, that anything that poses a danger to me would destroy you as easily as a cat catches a rat.”

“Nevertheless,” Omar ibn Ajmal responded, with a smirk, “My duty to the Caliph is clear. I must be certain you return to Maʿīn.”

“As you wish, then,” Ismet said. It was clear that this summons was, in truth, an order to arrest her. “You may accompany me on the Simorq.”

Behind her, Ismet heard the shuffling of boots in sand. “General Ismet?” Captain Cyrah asked, hesitantly.

“Yes, I find I must request your aid, Captain,” Ismet said, turning to face the Pārsan woman. “I must return to Maʿīn with all due speed.”

Cyrah looked trapped. “My ship is not suitable for sailing the Outer Ocean,” she protested.

“Nor would I ask you to,” Ismet assured her. “No, I require passage to Khalij Alrimal.”

“That is in the entire opposite direction from Maʿīn!” Captain Omar protested.

“We will sail south to Khalij Alrimal,” Ismet insisted. “And from the Bay of Sands ride west across the Maghreb, where I will bring my father gifts and a letter from King Lionel. There, we will pick up additional horses, and his men will escort us to Maʿīn with all due speed. It will be the safest route,” she explained, turning back to the royal guards. “Unless you do not have confidence in my father’s control of his own lands. And I will, of course, see you paid handsomely, Captain Cyrah.”

“Of course, General,” the Pārsan Captain agreed, inclining her head.

“Excellent, it is agreed,” Ismet continued, speaking before Omar could chew on what she’d done and find another objection. “I will leave you, Captain Omar, to see to your men and your horses after such a long journey, while I meet with Commander Shīrkūh and while Captain Cyrah empties her holds. We can leave with the tide, tomorrow, once I have the king’s missive in hand.”

She nodded to Omar, dismissing him, and turned back to Lionel.

“In that case,” the King of Narvonne said, “I will leave Baron Urien to see to matters here, and accompany General Ismet back to the keep. We have, after all, much to discuss and many preparations to make.”

Bors and Guiron placed themselves between the Caliph’s guards and their charge, conveniently blocking access to Ismet at the same time. As the two walked back up the beach to their horses, Lionel spoke in a whisper.

“What in the name of the Angelus is happening?”

“Nothing good,” Imset said. “I have eyes sharp enough to see a trap when it is in front of me. If I must go to Maʿīn, I will not go alone.”