Suti al-Suri grinned approval. The contrast with his bronze skin made his teeth gleam.
Trembling with relief as well as weakness, Prince Bifalt handed the cask back to Elgart. The lean guardsman drank again, as did Klamath. The Prince took another long draught before he returned the cask to the waiting scout.
With a second deep bow, the man remounted his horse.
Now Prince Bifalt showed the chief scout a Bellegerin bow. “Suti al-Suri,” he said as distinctly as he could, “accept our thanks. Our need is great. If you have more generosity to give, we will gladly wait for it.”
“More?” The first scout waggled his eyebrows in mock surprise. “With assurance. More comes. Bounty comes. All need aided. Also caravan master eager tidings. All caravan eager. All caravan make welcome. Only wait.”
The King’s son bowed again. Groping among forgotten regions of his mind for courtesy, he added, “I have not named my companions. They are Elgart and Klamath.”
While his men bowed as he did, he scrutinized Suti al-Suri and tried to think. If the caravan and its master were as openhanded as the chief scout claimed, the Bellegerins could afford to accept any offered hospitality, at least for a day. He had too many questions, but none of them were as urgent as life.
To the riflemen’s names, Suti al-Suri gave a nod. Frowning now, he watched the veterans. Some thought had apparently occurred to him, a thought that had not troubled him earlier.
The Prince made an effort to forestall uncomfortable inquiries. “You will understand,” he croaked, “we expected to die. We are far from our lands. We do not know the desert. We did not imagine a trade route here. You are a miracle.” He did not add, Or an effect of sorcery. “Where have you come from? Where do you go? Who are your people? Who is in your caravan?”
As the Prince spoke, Suti al-Suri’s frown became an exaggerated scowl. Instead of answering, he countered with an air of pugnacity, “You hold strange stick, king son. Why? Weapon? Scepter? Magic?”
Prince Bifalt considered lying to conceal his one advantage, but falsehoods did not suit his nature—or his situation. Perhaps knowing that he and his men were still dangerous despite their condition might provide a measure of protection from the uncertain motives and impulses of strangers. He glanced a warning at Klamath and Elgart, then addressed the chief scout.
“It is a rifle, Suti al-Suri.” He held it out, still pointing nowhere. To the scout’s look of bafflement, he explained, “It is like a bow that looses leaden arrows.”
The chief scout assumed an air of skepticism. His companion stared in bewilderment.
Sighing to himself, the Prince asked, “Will you watch a demonstration?”
“Yes!” snapped the scout. “Show bow. Show leaden arrows.”
Over his shoulder, Prince Bifalt commanded, “You, Elgart. You are our best marksman.”
Elgart nodded. While the Prince struggled to stay upright, the scarred guardsman moved a few paces away from his comrades and the scouts. There he picked up a loose rock the size of his fist and pitched it to the far side of the track: a small target at twenty paces, one the Prince would not have been confident of hitting. With his rifle in one hand, Elgart removed the clip and held it up. “The arrows,” he announced. Then he reset the clip, worked the bolt.
Klamath put his hands over his ears, encouraging the horsemen to do the same; but they ignored him.
In one smooth motion, Elgart brought the stock to his shoulder, aimed, and fired.
The bang lifted an echo like a flicker of shadow from the hard stone of the track. Dramatically, both scouts flinched, startled by the sound of the gun, or surprised by the way the target shattered. The animals shied until their riders controlled them.
When the horsemen had steadied themselves, and the report of the shot was gone from Prince Bifalt’s ears, he said, “Our rifles keep us alive. Perhaps they can perform some service for you. Do you have enemies?”
In response, Suti al-Suri unleashed a spate of language like invective. Then he and his companion wheeled and left, galloping hard.
The Prince swallowed an impulse to shout after them. His need for their help was absolute. But what purpose would shouting serve? If the scouts ran because they were afraid, no word of his would call them back. Had his demonstration been a mistake? Perhaps it was. But if so, he could not correct it now. Like all of his misjudgments, this one would haunt him until it was swept away by another. The next would probably be worse.
“They took the water,” muttered Klamath unhappily. “That was cruel.”
Elgart snorted. “They will come back. They have never seen a rifle before. They need to warn the caravan. Get new orders.
“They have to pass this way. There cannot be another road through the dunes. But they may try to capture or kill us before the caravan comes in range. That is our real danger.”
“I agree,” said Prince Bifalt, thinking aloud.
“Then we should move,” groaned Klamath. “Try to hide. Guess how they will come at us.”
“No,” answered the Prince. If he was doomed to make poor decisions, he would continue to make them. He could not cease to be himself. “Our only hope is to remain here. Let them see how helpless we are, despite our rifles. Let them see we are willing to be at their mercy.
“Scouts who know this desert can outmaneuver us easily. We cannot pretend otherwise. It will be useless.”
Responding to Klamath’s chagrin, Elgart nudged his comrade’s shoulder. “Take heart, Klamath,” he said sourly. “Sorcerers have preserved the Prince so far. They will do so again. And they may preserve us as well. They may think he needs us.”
That thought made Prince Bifalt shiver despite the heat and his still-avid thirst. He agreed with Elgart, but he dreaded the implications.
An hour later, a horseman resembling Suti al-Suri appeared on the crest of a dune beyond the trade route. A slide of sand above and behind the Bellegerins suggested the presence of another rider.
The Prince and his men kept watch from under their shirts, holding their rifles across their knees. They did not rise.
He expected more signs of scouts gathering to surround his position, but he saw none. Instead, a team of four horses came around the bend to the south, drawing an immense and ornate carriage with iron rims on its wheels and heavy springs supporting its axles. To him, it looked as big as a mansion. Its sides were carved with vividly painted symbols edged in gilt. Silver lanterns hung over its doors. Its occupants were shielded from the sun by supple leather window shades. King Abbator himself did not travel in such luxury.
The old ruts enabled the horses to pull the carriage with comparative ease despite its size and bulk. The man driving the team lifted a hand in greeting when he spotted Prince Bifalt, Klamath, and Elgart, but he did not alter his pace.
From one window of the carriage, a woman’s shapely hand fluttered a silken scarf for a moment, then withdrew.
Prince Bifalt resisted the impulse to stand. He allowed himself only a brief wave to acknowledge the driver, and another to answer the scarf.
After that, he was too busy staring to lift his arms.
Behind the carriage, the first wagon of the caravan hauled into view. It was several times the length of the quest’s abandoned wain, and loaded twice as high: a huge-wheeled vehicle drawn by six strange beasts tusked like boars, animals as massive as bullocks and as shaggy as sheep. Tight sheets of canvas concealed its burdens. Perched on their bench, two teamsters kept their beasts close to the rear of the leading carriage.
Another carriage followed, less ornate than the first, but large enough to bunk a family of eight. What it lacked in gilt and carving, it made up for in ribbons and streamers. They fluttered from every available edge and corner, all brightly colored, all different. Riding the ruts, it kept pace with the wagon.
These three proved to be the vanguard of a caravan so
long that it made Prince Bifalt gape in heat-dulled amazement. A dozen or more wagons and wains in a line came next, some piled high with goods and provisions, some wearing tents like homes for nomads, some straining under the weight of elaborate contraptions with no obvious use. Then came five carriages, one after the next, all so plain that their rough boards might have been hammered together on a whim, and so poorly sprung that they were jolted like hammer blows by the unevenness of the ruts. Next followed a long string of wagons apparently belonging to a carnival, although the Prince could not read the gaudy promises written on their sides, or interpret the curious shapes of the wagons themselves. And behind them were more wagons, wains, and carriages as motley as their leaders, too many to count. Some were pulled by horses or oxen, others by the strange tusked beasts.
Together, they conveyed the impression that they were a number of separate caravans which had joined at some mustering point far to the south, traveling as one to protect or guide each other across the desert. This impression was reinforced by the scattered throng of their scouts, at least fifty men, all of whom resembled Suti al-Suri in raiment, weapons, bronze skin, and yellowed eyes.
As the carnival wagons neared Prince Bifalt’s position, the chief scout himself approached on his mount. If he had been the man on the far dune, he had made his descent while the Prince’s attention was fixed on the caravan. His manner was wary, but he no longer scowled.
Clearing his throat, he announced, “Master say not fear rifles. All safe. Welcome ready.” When the Prince, Elgart, and Klamath only stared at him, he beckoned vigorously. “Come.”
Under his breath, Elgart muttered, “What choice do we have?”
“None,” answered the King’s son, “if we want to live.” He could do nothing else until the sorcerers revealed themselves.
Groaning, he climbed to his feet. Unsteadily, he pulled his sweat-crusted shirt from his head and tucked it under his belt. As Elgart and Klamath struggled to join him, he slung his rifle over his shoulder with the last of his burdens: his satchel of ammunition and his bedroll. Hoping that Suti al-Suri would understand the gesture, he slapped the hilt of his saber to set the blade more tightly in its scabbard.
When the chief scout turned to lead the way, the Bellegerins followed, wavering like figments in a mirage.
Suti al-Suri guided them to intercept a wagon behind the carnival conveyances. Although it was tall enough to admit a horse, its unusual length made its ceiling appear low. As the chief scout approached, a wide door slid aside, but shadows prevented the Prince from seeing who opened it.
Beside the wagon, Suti al-Suri dismounted. “Enter,” he instructed the Bellegerins. “Refreshment there. Water. Food. Also rest. Healing. Sleep.” After a moment, he added firmly, “No harm. This Suti al-Suri promise. Caravan master promise.”
Briefly, Prince Bifalt met Elgart’s uncertain nod, Klamath’s glazed stare. Then he obeyed the chief scout.
One by one, their guide helped the comrades clamber into darkness.
At once, the door slid shut against the heat. For a moment, Prince Bifalt was blind. But as his eyes recovered from too much sun, he found a few small oil lamps lighting the long space.
“Highness?” asked Klamath.
The Prince had no answers.
The air was blessedly cool, perhaps because a number of pans filled with water had been set along the walls. Six pallets lay on the floor, one occupied by a man obviously asleep, the others unused. There were several cisterns: if they, too, held water, the Bellegerins might be allowed to wash as well as drink. Bronze trays here and there on the floor were laden with a variety of fruits and roasted meats; with breads Prince Bifalt could not smell through the sand and dust clogging his nostrils. Near the trays were flagons of ale.
Clearly, the caravan master meant what he said about aiding needy travelers.
At one end of the wagon crouched four figures. Prince Bifalt guessed that they were women, although they were hooded and cloaked as if to disguise themselves. Their bent backs and lowered heads gave them the look of crones. They spoke softly in a language he did not recognize—a tongue unlike Suti al-Suri’s—but their gestures made their meaning plain. They were urging the travelers to eat and drink.
Their speech told Prince Bifalt that the caravan had gathered its people from more than one strange land.
With an effort of will, he forced himself to wonder whether he had any cause to be suspicious of the ready feast. But his men did not hesitate. Klamath dropped to his knees beside a tray and began to fill his mouth with fruit. Elgart snatched up a flagon and drank like a man who could not be filled. When he paused for breath, he gasped approval.
Like a man falling, the Prince sat down and reached for a flagon. To his shame, he could not steady his hand enough to lift it. But he did better with a few sections of a fruit that may have been a tangerine. With its sweet juice in his abused mouth and throat, he found enough strength to take up the flagon.
After that, he ate and drank like his men, ravenously, forgetting caution; forgetting the figures at the end of the wagon; forgetting that he did not know where he was being taken, or why. His only thought was to ease his thirst and hunger.
Later, his body’s reaction to prolonged exertion and deprivation asserted itself, and his attention wandered. He did not notice when three of the hooded women rose to their feet. They did not impinge on his attention until one of them knelt in front of him. In her hands, she held a sponge and a basin of water. Wetting the sponge, she began to stroke days of sweat, sand, and grime from his face.
Somewhere in the background of his mind, an imaginary Prince Bifalt stopped her; insisted on tending himself. The real King’s son let her do whatever she wished. When she removed his burdens from his shoulders and began to open his garments, he did not demur. The sensations of moisture and gentle stroking urged him deep into himself until he fell asleep without realizing it.
Yet when he awoke, he was instantly alert—and soon conscious of being both clean and rested. Draped in soft muslin, he lay on one of the pallets with his head pillowed and his limbs outstretched. In ways that he could not identify at first, he felt like he had been made new. Then he realized that the heat and pain of his worst sunburns had been replaced by a tingling freshness. The ministrations of the woman had done more than cleanse him, more than encourage him to sleep. They had treated his burns as well.
Under the muslin, he was naked, a fact that inspired a momentary alarm. When he raised his head to look around, however, he found his weapons, satchel, bedroll, and moccasins beside him. As for his clothing, it hung from a line stretched across one end of the wagon. Even in the soft light of the lamps, he could see that his garments had been washed.
Lowering his head, he relaxed for a little longer while he tried to gather his thoughts. All of his earlier uncertainties remained, and he did not know where the caravan might take him. In a strange way, the fact that he and his men had been rescued did not comfort him. It felt like another implausible effect of theurgy.
Resolved to question the women, he rolled over and rose to his knees, holding the muslin around him. But a cursory glance was enough to assure him they were gone, as was the man who had been sleeping nearby earlier. Prince Bifalt, Klamath, and Elgart were alone.
Then the Prince noticed the wagon was not moving.
Klamath still slept on his pallet, but Elgart was awake. When he saw Prince Bifalt rise, he sat up. “Are you surprised, Highness?” Sleep lingered in his voice. “I am. Men say sun-sickness causes improbable dreams. Maybe this is delirium.”
Prince Bifalt had no use for the guardsman’s question. Instead of answering, he asked, “Did you see the women leave?”
Elgart shook his head. “They were gone when I awoke. But the wagon had already halted. They must have left when we stopped.” After a moment, he added, “The air smells like evening. And I hear voices calling. The cara
van is making camp.”
“Then,” decided the Prince, “we must speak with the caravan master. If he is not more familiar with our tongue than Suti al-Suri, he may have other interpreters. Where is this train going? Our good fortune may be taking us farther from our goal.” He searched for his purse, found it. “Some aid I can purchase. It may not be enough.”
“If,” observed Elgart, “our goal exists.”
“It must.” Prince Bifalt rehearsed old reasoning to help himself think. “Amika used the seventh Decimate against us. They learned that knowledge somewhere. But if they had the book itself, our search would not threaten them. They would not have troubled to ambush us.”
Elgart nodded. “Therefore, the book remains where Amika found it.” The shadows of the lamps seemed to divide down the length of his scar. “Therefore, the library must exist. As you say.
“But that does not aid us.” He chewed his thoughts for a moment, then said, “Is this caravan aware of the library? Our hosts may know nothing of it. If they have heard of it, they may be ignorant of its location. We cannot be sure of them.”
The Prince shook his head. “They know something. They must.
“The world is larger than we knew. This caravan is proof.” Suti al-Suri himself was proof. “Sorcery must be larger as well. How else have sorcerers kept me alive at such distances? How are they able to speak in my mind? Their powers surpass our understanding of them.”
“Therefore—?” asked the guardsman.
“Therefore, these sorcerers have acted to save us. How else could help come to us just when we were on the edge of death?” Of failure? “The desert is vast. The caravan has come a long way. The coincidence is too great.
“Our rescuers were sent. If they were not instructed—or not aware that they were instructed—then they were spurred or slowed to reach us when our need was desperate.”
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