Chapter Thirty-One Merchant People #4
“We have to take some things on trust in this world,” said Ionides, “and perhaps in every other. Dr. Pervani and I have been through the Lop Nor region several times. I have charts of each journey, and extensive notes on the geomorphology of the changing watercourses. Your alternative to a march guided by us is a journey into constant peril on unstable pathways, laced through by a hundred streams that can change in a moment from a trickle in a dry riverbed to a raging torrent that bursts its banks and carries rocks and trees away with it—all depending on rainfall days before in the mountains a thousand miles behind us. Haven’t you heard about the great army of the Cimmerian warrior Skandar, who tried to invade the Golden Empire through Lop Nor?
Ten thousand men perished without a blow being exchanged.
Or the fifteenth Golden Emperor himself, who led a vast body of soldiers through the region as he tried to annex the whole of Dzungaria, with the same result?
No doubt you were told before you entered the Tien Shan mountains of the dangers from the abominable oghab-gorgs, and no doubt you listened, because you had prepared a defense against them.
A wise general does listen to advice. Will you not listen now, as we warn you about Lop Nor? ”
Delamare’s mind was uncomfortably disturbed.
His leadership of the High Council had been marked by success after success; his feat of gathering an army and moving it to this wild region, without any significant losses, had made his generals proud and his soldiers confident and eager to conquer; in his own mind, the President was conscious of a calm mastery of events and a deep clarity of purpose.
So why was he disturbed? Worse than disturbed: something large, something meteorological in scale, was playing havoc in his head.
Lop Nor was the reason.
He had chosen this route because he was sure it would take them safely to Karamakan and the red building.
The account Ionides had given him of the wild variability of the Lop Nor region had woken a number of fears that he had tucked away out of sight, mesmerized by his own successes.
Yes, he knew the stories about armies destroyed by the swamps and quicksands, but they were examples of poor generalship.
He prided himself on his ability to tell the difference between information and imagination: these stories had the taint of invention about them; he could smell it.
There was only one flaw in the visitor’s account, one thing missing from his proposition.
“Why?” he said. “Why would you help us through Lop Nor? What would you gain by it?”
“Access to the red building,” said Ionides simply. “If we go with you, we shall get there. On our own, we shall not, because you will destroy us.”
“You say ‘we’ and ‘our.’ Is your companion nearby?”
Ionides merely smiled.
“So you’ve formally parted company with the men from the mountains.”
Ionides said, “But we have told you this: they are committed to destruction, and we are committed to discovery. If, as it seems, you want to conquer rather than merely destroy, there is a small hope that my colleague and I might have a short time to enter the other world and investigate the things we want to know about, without getting in your way. And I hope that you might find our discoveries valuable, or at least interesting.”
“So you accompany me and my army through Lop Nor, in return for our allowing you into the red building to carry on your research without impeding our project?”
“That’s correct,” said Ionides.
“And what about coming back?”
“Oh, that we can manage for ourselves.”
A little patch of clarity and stillness appeared in the sandstorm of Delamare’s thoughts. He could always kill this man and the woman whenever he needed to, after all. And no one would offer to guide an army into a region where they would face their own deaths.
“I think you could do with some refreshment,” he said. “We can discuss this further over a glass of Tokay. Will you join me?”
“Very kind,” said Ionides, and Delamare poured a glass of the golden liquid from a decanter in the campaign chest.
They toasted each other’s health.
“That young man,” said Ionides, “your secretary or whatever he is.”
“Olivier Bonneville. You said you’d met him?”
“It was a misunderstanding on both sides. No harm done. How did he come to be in your employment?”
“He was the son of a cousin of mine. She died a widow when he was young, and naturally I took him into my household. I am fond of him. I may say I love him like a son of my own.”
“It does you both credit,” said Ionides. “He is clever and enterprising. You know he was sheltering in the house of the nuncio at Aleppo?”
Delamare merely looked at him, his eyes a little narrower.
“And you know that Leila Pervani was staying there at the same time?”
Delamare smiled, but with curiosity.
“If you search his property,” Ionides went on, “you will find a passport belonging to Dr. Pervani in his possession. He stole it from her. She told me she was impressed.” He set his wineglass down and stood up. “Now I must go, my dear Monsieur le Président. I look forward to our joint enterprise.”
He bowed ironically, though it was hard for Delamare to tell, and left. In truth, the President was feeling as though he’d been wound in a cobweb while he wasn’t looking, and it wasn’t a feeling he was used to.