by John Marco
“Food, Figgis,” he said. “Get us some.”
The librarian scowled. “Manners, Lieutenant. You’re not in Koth anymore, remember.”
“I’m hungry!”
“Yes, we all are. Just calm down and don’t make a spectacle of yourself. First we have to find a place to stay for the night. And we’ll have to get clothing.”
“Clothing?” asked Lukien. “What do you mean?”
“For the desert,” said Figgis. “We can’t go across like this. We’ll have to dress like everyone else, in gaka.” He pointed to a group of men, all similarly garbed in long white robes and headdress. “See? Those robes are called gaka. They keep out the sand and reflect the sunlight. They’ll keep us cool.”
“Cool?” Trager laughed. “Wrapped from head to toe like that? You’re joking.”
“Do you think they’d wear it if it didn’t work?” asked Figgis. “Believe me, they’ve lived here long enough to know what they’re doing. We’ll have to wear gaka or we’ll never make it.”
“And a guide,” Lukien reminded him. “What about that? We’ll need someone to guide us to Jador.”
“All the shrana houses have guides, Lukien, don’t worry. We’ll find someone to take us.”
“All right, what’s a shrana house?”
“Like a tavern, you might say. Shrana is a popular drink here. It’s a hot liquor made from roasted beans. You’ll see people drinking it all day long.”
“Hot drinks, hot clothes; what’s wrong with these people?” snapped Trager. “Don’t they feel the bloody sun? What are they made of, leather?”
“You’ll learn, Lieutenant,” said Figgis. ”Come. Let’s find a place to rest.”
Figgis led them through the crowded streets, gingerly maneuvering his horse past throngs of carts and people. Most of the folk were Ganjeese, olive-skinned and dark-haired, but there were northerners in the mix as well, and the knight recognized the crests of Norvor and Dreel in the crowd, carved into the sides of battered wagons that had chosen to trade this far south. They were a welcome sight to Lukien, who was quickly feeling foreign among the southerners. But he didn’t feel unwelcome, for there was a curious easiness about the Ganjeese, as though they had seen it all and outsiders held little interest for them. Curiously, most of the people crowding the streets were men, but there were also women sprinkled through the crowd. All wore robes similar to their male counterparts, and all had a veil of black cloth covering their faces, so that only their eyes could be seen.
“The woman all cover themselves,” Lukien remarked. “Why, Figgis?”
The librarian smiled. “Because Vala has told them to.”
It was another of the scholar’s riddles. “Vala? Is that their king?”
“No, not a king. Remember the Eyes of God? They are called Inai ka Vala.”
“Ah, so Vala is one of their gods?”
“Not a god, Lukien. The god. The Ganjeese and the Jadori worship only one deity, whom they call Vala. It is the will of Vala that women cover themselves.”
“But why?” Lukien spied the women in the street. Young and old alike were hidden behind dark veils.
“The Ganjeese believe that men and women should be modest, and should not show their bodies. This way, they can be judged on their skills and intelligence, and not by the way they look. Women in particular must be modest, and not be flirtatious or corrupt a man. The holy book of Vala instructs women to guard their modesty, and not display their beauty to any but their husbands.”
Trager laughed. “You hear that, Lukien? That’s what the veil is for—to keep sniffing dogs like you away!”
“Still,” said Lukien. “It seems unfair. This would never happen in Liiria.”
“No,” agreed Figgis. “But then what’s in Liiria to believe in?” The librarian regarded Lukien. “Do you have a god, Lukien?”
Lukien thought for a moment. He had never really considered the question. Growing up in the streets hadn’t given him much time to ponder such things. As a Liirian he had his pick of religions. He could believe in the Fate as Baron Glass did, or the Great Spirit of Reec or the serpent god of Marn. But to him they all seemed empty, without truth.
“I believe in this,” he said, patting his sword. “And I believe in myself. Other than that, who knows?”
“That is the answer of a Liirian,” said Figgis. “And it won’t win you any friends here, I assure you. These people are devout. Say whatever you wish, but do not criticize their beliefs. If you do, they will kill you.”
“Figgis, I intend to say as little as possible to these people,” replied Lukien. “I just want to get back home as soon as possible.”
They rode in silence until the road widened into a village square, now converted into an open market. Lukien was stunned by the market. He had never seen such an exotic array of goods, not even in Koth. A young boy with a colorful bird perched on his shoulder caught his attention, as did a shapely young lady walking unhurriedly through the square. His eyes followed her. Like the other women, she was dressed in long white wraps that trailed behind her, but he could make out the curve of her body beneath the robes, and a trace of dark hair falling beneath her veil. She held a basket in her hands, full of bread. Two small boys scurried after her, but to Lukien she didn’t seem old enough to be their mother. In a moment she disappeared through a beaded curtain, entering one of the buildings.
“There,” said Figgis, pointing in her direction. “That looks like a shrana house. I’ll go in and ask around, see if I can find us shelter for the night.”
“And food,” added Trager. “Before we all collapse.”
“And a guide,” said Lukien. He looked at the entrance to the shrana house. “Shouldn’t we go in with you, Figgis?”
“No,” said Figgis. “Stay outside and watch the horses. There’s a lot of thievery in this city. If we lose the horses we’ll have nothing to trade for drowa, and it’s a long walk across the desert.”
Lukien was about to agree when he saw the most amazing creature emerge from the crowd. He stopped his horse just outside the shrana house, staring as the beast rounded the corner. A huge, reptilian head wrapped in leather tack stared back at him, its two black eyes blinking beneath membranous lids. It had four legs and a long, slender tail, and was as tall as a horse but much broader across, its muscles bunching beneath its scaly skin. There was a rider on its back, robed in crimson and black, his face hidden behind a cloth wrap. Dust and sand clung to every inch of him. Lukien’s horse noticed the creature and snorted in alarm.
“Great Fate,” Lukien gasped. “What is that?”
“That,” said Figgis, “is a kreel.” The librarian got off his horse as the beast and rider approached, moving with a graceful gait toward them. Too stunned to move, Lukien and Trager simply watched the kreel in disbelief. They had talked about the great lizards during their ride south. Figgis had said they were not to be feared, but seeing one close up made being afraid easy. Lukien’s hand fell instinctively to his sword. The crowd outside the shrana house parted as the lizard sauntered near, but they did not seem surprised or frightened by the creature. Figgis smiled as if a stray dog was approaching.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said. “It’s been years since I’ve seen one.”
The kreel and its rider noticed Figgis and stopped before him. The rider’s dark eyes studied the old man.
“Uh, Figgis, I think you should get out of its way,” Lukien suggested.
But the librarian held up his hands towards the man and beast in a gesture of peace, then began to say words Lukien didn’t understand, speaking with effort as he pronounced the words.
“Jadori?” Trager guessed.
Lukien shrugged. He didn’t know Jadori from Ganjeese, nor any other of the strange tongues he heard around him. But remarkably the rider seemed to understand Figgis. There was no malice in his eyes, only a sort of surprised humor. Figgis struggled with the language, pausing in long stretches between each sentence as he groped for the righ
t words. The rider waited patiently, amused by the old foreigner.
“Figgis?” probed Lukien. “What are you doing?”
“He is from Jador,” said Figgis. Childlike exuberance shone on his face. “And he understands me!”
“Yes, all right,” said Lukien. “Just be careful what you say to him.” Lukien slid slowly off his horse and went to stand beside Figgis. He whispered, “Remember why we’re here.”
“Of course I remember.” Figgis smiled at the Jadori, then began to speak again. The man nodded. “He says he has come for trade,” said Figgis. “He’s only just arrived from Jador.”
“Will he be staying long in the city?” asked Trager. “Maybe he could take us back with him.”
“I’m afraid not. He says he will be going east from here. We don’t have the time to wait for him.”
“Agreed,” said Lukien. “Then we’ll find a guide in the shrana house.”
Figgis kept talking to the Jadori, asking questions. The man answered each one, patiently waiting for Figgis to form his sentences, and when he spoke he did so slowly, making sure the old man understood. Figgis had told them during the journey that the Jadori were peaceful people, gracious in every way, and now that seemed true. The rider didn’t even have a sword, and his great reptile seemed as docile as a pony. It lowered its head onto the sandy ground as its rider spoke, oblivious to the conversation.
“Come on, Figgis,” growled Trager. “What are you going on about? Hurry up.”
Figgis ignored the lieutenant. He exchanged smiles with the rider, who then got down off his kreel and looked at Lukien and Trager. Amazingly, he bowed to them. Not knowing how to reply, Lukien bowed, too.
“Lukien, he is thanking you for looking after his kreel,” Figgis explained.
“What?”
“We are going into the shrana house. I’ll buy him a drink and find out what I can about Jador. I told him you’ll be outside looking after our horses, so—”
“So you thought I’d look after this big lizard? Are you mad?”
Figgis tried to cover Lukien’s anger with a smile. “Easy,” he said. “I won’t be long, and the kreel won’t be any trouble. I told you—they’re peaceful creatures. Just stay out here and look after it, all right? Make sure the children keep away.” Figgis turned toward the beaded curtain, parting it for his new friend. “I’ll bring you back something to eat.”
“Figgis!”
The librarian disappeared into the tavern with the Jadori, leaving Lukien and Trager with the kreel. The two soldiers looked at each other, aghast. The kreel had closed its eyes and laid its giant head in the sand. Its broad back rose and fell with easy breathing.
“Well?” asked Trager sharply. “What do we do now?”
Lukien looked at the resting kreel. “Hope it doesn’t get hungry.”
An hour later, Figgis finally emerged from the tavern. The Jadori man was with him, smiling and laughing as the two spoke among themselves. Figgis held two packages of food in his hand. As he approached Lukien and Trager, he held them out.
“For you,” he said, then went back to talking to the Jadori. Lukien looked at his food—a large, flat circle of bread stuffed with meat and spices. He gave it a wary sniff, decided it smelled good, then bit down hungrily. Trager did the same, glaring angrily at Figgis.
“What took you so long?” he asked through a mouthful of food.
“I had things to discuss with Tamaz. I learned a great deal.”
“Tamaz?” asked Lukien. “Is that his name?”
The Jadori looked at him, then pointed at himself. “Tamaz.”
Trager wasn’t satisfied. “You leave us out here starving, looking after that monster?” He gestured to the kreel. “What were you thinking?”
“Easy,” scolded Lukien. The kreel hadn’t been a problem. Only now did it rise, seeing its master return. “No harm done. What did you learn, Figgis?”
“First, I got us passage to Jador,” said Figgis happily.
“Really?” Lukien looked at Tamaz. “Is he taking us there?”
“No.” Figgis looked back toward the shrana house. “He is.”
Coming through the beaded curtain was another man, big and dark-skinned with a weathered face and beard. He was older than the Jadori man, almost as old as Figgis himself, and carried himself with an air of authority that made Lukien stop eating. As the Jadori man mounted his kreel and said his good-byes to Figgis, the new stranger stepped up and gave the trio a slight bow. His drab robes rustled as he moved, but he never took his eyes off the foreigners. Then another figure emerged out of the tavern, directly on the heels of the first. To Lukien’s surprise, it was the young woman he’d seen earlier.
“Who’s this?” asked Trager.
Figgis stepped between them and introduced the man. “This is Jebel. He is the leader of a caravan that will take us to Jador. The girl with him is his daughter, Cahra.”
“Caravan?” asked Lukien. “You mean they’re traders?”
“They are like nomads, Lukien. They travel from place to place, living off the land and bartering for what they need. They live in the desert mostly, but come into Ganjor when they need things. Now they are going to Jador. Tamaz introduced them to me.”
Trager’s face lit with alarm. “What? You mean you told Tamaz we’re going to Jador?”
“It seemed like the thing to do.”
“Figgis, that was very stupid,” said Lukien. “He could have warned them—”
“Stop,” said Figgis, putting up his hands. He took Lukien by the arm and turned him away from Jebel and his daughter. “Watch what you say. Jebel speaks our language.”
Lukien looked at the man, who stared back with a hard expression. “Jebel. Forgive me,” he offered. “I am Lukien. This is Trager.”
Jebel nodded at them. His daughter Cahra did not.
Lukien smiled awkwardly. “You will take us to Jador, Jebel?”
The dark man said, “My family rides in the morning. You may come with us, and we will guide you. But you will need your own drowa.”
“I’ve already explained that to them, Jebel,” said Figgis. “We will trade our horses for drowa. Then we’ll meet you back here and go to your caravan. Agreed?”
“It is agreed.” Jebel looked at Trager, who was still eating with both hands, and cringed in disgust. He said to Figgis, “Teach them something of manners before you return.” Then he turned and went back into the shrana house, calling his daughter after him. Cahra hesitated a moment, studying the three strangers before hurrying after her father.
“What was that all about?” asked Trager. Meat drippings dribbled down his chin.
“It’s my fault,” said Figgis. “I should have explained this to you before I brought the food. We’re in Ganjor now; we can’t eat like we usually do.”
“Bah,” scoffed Trager. “If I’m too messy for them, screw ’em.”
“That’s not it,” said Figgis. “You don’t eat with both hands here, Trager. You eat with the right hand only.”
Puzzled, Lukien frowned. “The right hand? Why?”
“Because that’s your clean hand. Your left hand is for . . . well, you know.”
“No, I don’t know. What do you mean?”
Figgis smiled. “In this culture, the left hand is used for bodily things, Lukien. You know, cleaning yourself?”
Suddenly Lukien understood. He looked down at his hands, then at all the Ganjeese people around them.
“I don’t get it,” said Trager. He continued eating with both hands. “What do you mean, clean yourself?”
Figgis sighed hopelessly. “Forget it. Let’s just get those drowa.”
That night, Lukien and the others rested with Jebel’s caravan on the outskirts of the city. They had traded their horses for three drowa, then had met again with Jebel in the tavern, who took them out to his caravan near sun-down. There they had met with the rest of the desert leader’s huge family, a similarly-featured band of some hundred people spanning mu
ltiple generations. Jebel introduced them perfunctorily to his wife and his brother, then had his youngest children line up for inspection. He explained to them that they had visitors from far away, and that they were to teach them what they could of their culture and their god, Vala. Because they were foreigners, Jebel explained, they could not be expected to know how to eat and clean themselves. Lukien listened to Jebel’s speech in embarrassment, and more than once saw Cahra giggle. Now that she was with her family again she had doffed her veil, revealing her pretty face. She was not glamorous, but she had dark, deep eyes that reminded Lukien of Cassandra.
Jebel’s caravan was an impressive sight, easily seen from the city. There were at least two dozen wagons, strangely designed vehicles with large, wide wheels and a high clearance beneath them. There were also numerous, hump-backed drowa laying lazily around the camp. Torches and candles had been set in the sand, and the moonlight shone on the dunes. Lukien, Trager, and Figgis had all taken their ease at the camp, supping with Jebel and his wife and sharing his water-pipe, a strange but pleasant device that Lukien had never seen before. Now they were full and content as they sat around a fire, listening to the odd music of the desert and gazing at Ganjor in the distance. To the west lay the Desert of Tears, an endless stretch of forbidding sand. The setting of the sun had cooled the world considerably, and all of them wore the gakas that Figgis had purchased. Lukien found the garb remarkably comfortable. He stretched with a yawn, yearning for sleep. Tomorrow they would begin their trek to Jador, making their way along the caravan routes, the well-traveled lanes that Figgis had promised could accomodate the wagons as long as they weren’t swallowed by sandstorms. Lukien wasn’t sure he was up to it. Of the three, only Figgis was eager to break camp. He sat slightly apart from Lukien, talking with Jebel on the far side of the fire. Trager had his eyes closed, half asleep. Around the wagons, children giggled in hushed voices and played with mangy dogs. Lukien watched Figgis converse with Jebel, amazed by his stamina. He knew that without the strange librarian, their mission would have been hopeless.
