Carnifex

10/7/468 AC, Runnistan, Pashtia

The hieros was carved into the mountain, about a half mile from Rachman's family's home. The trail seemed well-worn, to Cano, as if the people of the village followed it regularly to the rectangularly carved opening in the mountainside. He mentioned this to Rachman.

"We come here often, yes," the Pashtun said. "To commune with God . . . to dedicate the young men to His service . . . sometimes just to be away from people to think."

By the time they reached the carved opening, the sun was down. Rachman took a match from one of the two guards standing by the entrance. With it, he lit a small, oil-burning lamp. It cast a flickering light over what looked to Cano to be brick-sized, carved stones, framing a tunnel perhaps thirty inches wide. With the flame from the lamp Rachman lit a torch lying nearby.

"We took these when we left Old Earth," Rachman explained, gesturing at the stones with the torch. "We had no money to pay for much extra baggage, not unless we were willing to sell off some of our patrimony, which we weren't. So say the legends, anyway. Each man and woman took one stone or one piece of something to rebuild this, here. Come, I'll show you."

The footing was even, if not quite smooth, and Cano, guided by Rachman's torch, felt his way along easily. Seventy-five yards or so into the mountainside the narrow tunnel opened up to . . .

At first, Rachman's torchlight reflected dimly from what Cano judged to be over one hundred dull mirrors. As the Pashtun circled around the room, lighting more lamps as he went, the things Cano took to be mirrors began to appear as round shields, plates, medallions, necklaces and . . .

"Holy shit."

"Very holy," Rachman agreed, "but not shit." He pointed with the torch toward a golden plate, perhaps fifteen inches across. "This is the image of our God."

"Where have I seen that face before?" Cano wondered aloud. "It was in an old book, at the Legion's library . . . an old book from Old Earth . . . Al . . . Alex . . . "

"Iskander," Rachman supplied. "The avatar of our God. God made flesh. It is to Him that we pray. He will come to us again, so say the prophecies." The was no waver of doubt in Rachman's voice. His god would come.

"Ohhh." He thought for a moment about the implications. Then it hit him. "You are not Moslems?"

"We pretend, sometimes," Rachman said. "And give little gifts to Mullah Hassim to make sure he doesn't raise a cry against us. But, no, not Moslems. Which is why—" He raised one eyebrow, waiting to see if Cano could make the connection.

He could. "I would not have to convert to be a suitable match for your sister?"

Rachman was smiling broadly. "Correct, Hektontar Cano."

"She's only fifteen, and she doesn't even know me," Cano objected.

"She is already a woman, ready to bear you fine, strong sons and daughters. And you have two weeks to get to know each other," Rachman answered.

"I am a soldier and I might be killed at any time."

"She is the sister, daughter, granddaughter, great-great-great-great to infinity granddaughter of soldiers. She would understand."

"I don't even know if she likes me."

"I told her and my father about you months ago. They both like you. You don't already have a wife, do you?"

"No," Cano shook his head. "No wife. No girlfriend. I never had time to even look for either since I joined the Legion."

"Well," Rachman said, "let's stop wasting time and get back to my father's home so you can get to know your future one."

In the flaring light of the torch and the lamps, all reflected by the gold and polished stone of the hieros, which Cano now understood to mean "shrine," or perhaps "temple," Cano said, "You are the strangest matchmaker I have ever heard of."

"No, no," Rachman disagreed. "You should see my aunt. She has a better moustache than I do . . . though I think my beard is more manly . . . a little."

Outside, the guards began to laugh so loudly that Cano was sure it was true about the moustache and beard on Rachman's aunt.

"Alena can read, you know," Rachman said, as they made their way back to the entrance. "Father insisted upon it. Me, personally, I think it was a mistake. She's too smart as it is—"

"Way too smart," agreed one of the guards, just as the two emerged from the tunnel.

"Not bad girl," said the other, "just make you feel stupid. Doesn't mean to," he shrugged.

"Good shot, too," said the first.

"Oh, yes, very good. Also good on horse. This important; means she can keep up with husband on campaign."

"Very important quality in wife," the first guard agreed. That guard put a hand on Cano's shoulder. "But better you than me, Hektontar. You see, she has the sight."

"The dowry for my sister will be immense," Rachman warned, changing the subject, and shooting a dirty look at the guards. "Immense! Not that anyone else is bidding, mind you," he admitted.

What the hell, Cano thought, I make more in a month than these people do in a year. Hell, in three or four years. And I never spend it. It might be nice to have a wife to spend it on. To see those beautiful eyes light up . . .

Cano gulped, nervously. "Rachman, you have to talk me through this. How do I propose?"