Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [253]
"I was," I said.
"Maybe." He folded his arms. "You are a cunning fighter. You speak Habiru. You come to Vralgrad, you win ben Ximon's ear. You were a Tatar prisoner, you know their ways. You are, I think, the perfect spy.”
He was absolutely right.
I spread my hands. "But I'm not. My lord, if I were a spy, why would I let myself get caught so carelessly? I'd be on my way to join Fedor Vral, not stumbling into the middle of a Tatar horse-raid.”
"I cannot say. Perhaps some misfortune befell you. If you're not a spy, then why are you here?" the Rebbe asked. There was an honest curiosity in his voice. "Here, in Tarkov, on foot. There is nothing to see, nothing to explore. Why?”
It was the one question I couldn't answer. The truth would be worse than a lie. There was no earthly reason for me to be here, except that I was hunting for the man who killed my wife; a Yeshuite pilgrim. "Send to Vralgrad," I repeated. "Micah ben Ximon will vouch for me.”
"Maybe you lied to him, too," the Rebbe said.
"Ask him what we talked about!" I raised my voice. "I don't know or care a blessed thing about his plans. He didn't say, and I didn't ask.”
He conferred with the captain. "If Micah ben Ximon orders it, you will be freed," the Rebbe said. "Because it is possible, you will not be put to the same hard questioning as your Tatar friend. Your things will be kept safe and you will be unharmed. But if ben Ximon does not order it…" He shrugged. "You would be wise to confess and tell all that you know. Yeshua is merciful. If you are willing to cooperate, perhaps Tadeuz Vral will allow your Queen to ransom her spy.”
"He's not my friend!" I shouted. "And I don't know anything!”
"Pity for you," the Rebbe said. "I suggest you pray.”
With that, our interview was concluded. I was led back to my cell. The heavy door clanged shut behind me, the key turning in the lock. I flung myself on one of the straw pallets. Every muscle in my body was knotted with fury. The Tatar bestirred himself and asked me somewhat in his own tongue.
"Shut up," I said to him. "This is all your fault.”
He pointed to his split lip, then a fresh graze over his left brow, miming punches. Pointed at my face with an expression of concern.
"No." I prodded the puffy, tender flesh around my right eye socket. "This is from yesterday. They didn't hit me today.”
He nodded, then screwed up his face and made a universal gesture of apology.
"You damn well ought to be sorry," I said. "I hope they hang you. What the hell are you doing in Tarkov? Shouldn't you be roaming the plains or holed up in Petrovik with Fedor Vral?”
The Tatar pointed to his own chest. "Kebek.”
"I don't care," I said.
"Kebek," he repeated, his expression open and hopeful, gesturing at me to reciprocate. He was young, younger than me. There were a few bristles of black hair growing above his upper lip. All I'd seen when I first looked at him was Jagun's face. Now that I looked closer, I could see an echo of the Maghuin Dhonn; and even fainter, of the Cruithne. His brown skin had the same warm tone as Dorelei's. His black eyes…
I closed mine. "Leave me be.”
He didn't, of course.
Over the days that followed, I learned a few things. Neither the captain or the guards would tell me anything, but I listened to them gossip. I understood enough Rus to gather that their ungentle questioning of Kebek had been utterly futile. He didn't speak a word of Rus or any other tongue but his own. Their speculation was that he and the other Tatars had been part of the group that had helped Fedor Vral escape. Either they had somehow been cut off from the main party, or they had arranged to meet me here in Tarkov.
More depressingly, I learned within a week that Micah ben Ximon was no longer in Vralgrad. He was on the march, leading Tadeuz Vral's army toward Petrovik, a walled city nestled in the Narodin Mountains, where Fedor Vral was prepared to hunker down for the winter.
Vralia was at war.
"I am sorry," the captain of the guard said. "There are Tarkovan