Her arm was stained red up to an elbow, blood dripped from a deep slash in her upper forearm. ‘Boovu saa!’ spat the wounded warlord in Manchurian,...a dialect of which Fatima understood a bit, ‘we lost the war.’ ‘No, my khan, we shall only lose a horde of imbeciles who have been shaming the legacy of the Great Khan for some twenty years or more,’ the Kara-Khitan girl replied. Her voice was hard and alien, like the drone of a wasp in the air. The rich man swore again. ‘What the fuck do you know. "Is this a single malt story, or Four Roses?" he asked."Well, order the scotch if that's what you want to drink," I told him. "It's a pretty good story, and it's just winding down. But it looks like a happy ending. You be the judge, OK?" With that I swung into my story.It started a few weeks ago, on a Tuesday. It suddenly dawned on me that morning that Alice was really down. She was moving stiffly and acted like she was pretty sore. I asked her what was wrong. She told me she must have slept. More

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