"But don’t mind me," I told them, shrugging. "I’m pretty drunk."
And indeed I was. This morning I had eaten nothing, killed a man, lost the dinner I’d had the night before, and swallowed most of the contents of an unfamiliar liquor under a warm afternoon sun.
"He is the jhihadi," Del declared emphatically. "My brother said so. Was he not your Oracle?" Now it was her turn to be stared at. She blinked, put a hand to her head, then said the words I never, ever expected to hear from her: "Oh, Tiger, I am so dreadfully drunk."
"Sometimes," I said, "this is a good thing." I put my arm around her shoulders, guided her close so she could slump against me without falling over, and smiled fatuously at the Vashni. "And now, if you don’t mind, I think the Oracle’s sister — and very probably the jhihadi — are going to pass out."
SEVEN
I woke up to the sound of retching. Del, I realized, was no longer beside me. And she’d never been drunk before.
Ah.
I cracked an eye and realized the sun was up, filtering down through the trees. This is not a particularly strange discovery to make unless you’ve gone to sleep — or passed out — in the late afternoon, and it appears to be the morning sun.
I opened the other eye, squinted up at arching limbs with their feathery, waving leaves, then girded my loins for battle and managed to lever myself up on an elbow. The world wobbled. So did I. I caught sight of Del several paces away, clutching a tree and looking for all the world as if she’d fall down without it.
Poor bascha.
Belatedly, I became aware of a sense of absence. A sharp glance around the camp showed me no Vashni, no Vashni horses, no skins or carcasses. Only the stud and gelding, still tied to trees but unsaddled, and our belongings piled neatly nearby. Including knives and swords.
As I moved to get up, something shifted against my chest, getting caught on the harness. I looked down, saw a handful of ivory ornaments danging against the burnous. Some kind of necklet had been put around my neck as I slept. Closer inspection showed a string of human fingerbones carefully wired together.
Ugh.
But I elected not to take the necklet off in case Vashni were watching from cover. You never know when the repudiation of a gift might get you cooked. And then your fingerbones would adorn someone’s neck.
There is no cure for the day after a good drunk — or a bad one, depending on your point of view — but there is something that helps. I groped around, found the bota, sloshed it to test for contents, unstoppered it and drank. The bite was just as bad, the smell just as pungent. But adding new liquor to old would improve morning-after miseries.
I raised my voice. "You going to live?"
Del didn’t answer except to be sick again.
I sat up all the way, shut my eyes a moment, kept my own belly down with a massive application of determination, and swallowed more liquor.
Eventually Del made her way back to the blanket, clutching a water bota. I noticed she also had been gifted with a fingerbone necklet but decided against mentioning it just yet. She was very pale — more than usual, that is — and circles had appeared beneath her eyes.
She sat down, leaned her head into her hands, and mumbled, "You must be enjoying this."
"What, seeing you get sick? Trust me, bascha, it’s one of the least attractive sights in the world."
"No. That I am sick. After all the times I reprimanded you for getting drunk." She sighed heavily into the heels of her hands. "I don’t see how you do it. I don’t see why you do it!"
"Well, usually that isn’t the point. I mean, not to get so drunk I feel that bad the next day. Unfortunately, sometimes it is the price you pay."
"I don’t want to pay it."
"You didn’t have much choice. It was the polite thing to do when being hosted by murdering savages."
"You’re not sick."
"I did that yesterday, remember?" I gently slapped the bota against one arm. "Here. I know you don’t want to, but I promise it’ll help."
"I have water."
"It’s not water."
She lifted her head and looked at me. "You can’t mean more of that horrible spirit!"
"I can. I do. Just a few sips, bascha. Then lie down and go back to sleep."
"Tiger —"
"I’ve already had my medicine. Your turn." She looked and sounded desperate. "I don’t want any!" "Well, I could pour it down your gullet for you…" She knew I’d do it, too. Del gritted her teeth, took the bota, winced from the smell, then tipped the skin up to drink. Her hands shook, but she squeezed a couple of swallows into her mouth.
I thought at first she might be sick again, but she managed to keep it down. "Another swallow," I prompted.
She managed that, then thrust the bota back at me. After a moment she lay down on her side with her back to me, one hand over her face. The sun through leaves spread a lattice of dappled shadow across her body.
Smiling, I sorted out her tangled braid. "Sleep. We’re in no rush."
What she replied was unintelligible. Probably just as well.
I knew better than to attempt to go back to sleep myself. Once awake after a session of too much liquor, I stayed that way for a while. I’d sleep again later. Besides, other business called me. I got up, suppressing groans, stood there a moment until the world steadied, then made my way into the brush to find a likely bush. After offering a rather prodigous libation to the gods of alcohol, I set about assessing our situation.
First I checked the horses and found them content, lipping up what remained of the grain that apparently the Vashni had given them. Our oiled canvas buckets were on the ground within reach, and each contained enough water that I knew the horses weren’t thirsty. Our weapons remained on the blanket where we’d put them, though the Vashni swords and knives were gone. Our saddle-pouches were stacked next to them, and there was an extra leather bag. I loosed the thong drawstring enough to discover the contents were more meat, nearly lost my belly then, and dropped the bag instantly. Later. Maybe.
So. They had guested us in their camp, fed us, given us drink, untacked, fed, and watered our horses, left our weapons and belongings, and gifted us with meat and bone necklets. All in all, I couldn’t think of a more polite visit with anyone.
Hmmm. Being the jhihadi has its advantages.
I dug through our pouches and pulled out some dried cumfa. While it’s hardly a delicacy, it was somewhat more appetizing this morning than barely cooked sandtiger meat left for gods know how long in a leather bag, plus it was preserved in salt. Salt in the desert is a must. I grabbed up a water bota and went back to the blanket, settling down to a meager breakfast. Del slept on.
Lucky bascha.
When next I awoke, Del was no longer retching. Or sleeping. In fact, she was up doing what I’d already done: checking the horses, our belongings. She was moving with much less grace than usual but had rebraided her hair and changed into a cleaner burnous, since she had, as I had, used her sleeve to clean her face, and looked altogether more prepossessing than she had earlier. Though there was no question she didn’t feel good.
"It lives," I commented.
Del peered balefully at me, shielding her eyes from the sun with a raised hand. "Barely. I had more of the spirits. What do you call it? — the bark of the dog?"
I grinned. "The hair of the dog. Told you it works."
"Marginally." She hooked a finger under the fingerbone necklet dangling against her harness and displayed it. "What’s this?"
"My guess is it’s some kind of guest-gift. You’re the Oracle’s sister, and I’m the jhihadi. Maybe they’re some kind of safe passage tokens through Vashni territory. Not a bad thing to have."
It was an understatement to mention Del was not happy. "We didn’t even wake up when they put them on us. They might as easily have cut our throats."
"They could have done that while we were awake. Anyway, I think we’d better wear them for a while, just in case."
She didn’
t like the idea, but nodded. Then she pointed at the Vashni sack. "Can we at least get rid of that? I think we should bury it."
I grinned. "Not too fond of sandtiger, are we?"
"It doesn’t taste particularly good going in either direction."
Fortunately I’d only experienced the one direction. I grabbed a bota and sucked down more water, then made the effort to climb to my feet. It was easier this time. "Better take it with us, till we’re out of Vashni territory. You never know what might insult them."
"Then you carry it."
I glanced up at the sun. "Midday," I muttered. "We ought to get moving. Maybe we can make the chimney before nightfall."
"Or not," Del said, "considering how we feel. You said yourself there is no rush."
"That was earlier, when I took pity on you."
"And I’m not deserving of any now?"
"You’re standing, aren’t you? If you can stand, you can ride."
Del said glumly, "I suppose that means I must stay on my horse."
"Well, I could always throw you belly-down over the saddle and tie you on. Of course, all the blood would rush to your head, and I’m not sure that would make you feel any better. I certainly recall how I felt when you did it to me."
She flicked me an arch glance. "That was the Vashni who did it to you. And it was either that or let them kill you. To kill Chosa Dei."
"Well, they were much friendlier this time around," I agreed. Then I scratched my head and sighed, staring at the horses. "I suppose they won’t saddle themselves. Guess we’d better get to work."
And work it was, with a pounding head. Took longer than usual, too, though eventually we did have both horses saddled, repacked, and ready to go. The Vashni had left us two blankets as well, which I found downright neighborly of them.
I led the stud into the center of the clearing, sorry to leave the shade. With great deliberation I stuck a foot into the left stirrup, carefully pulled myself up, and swung my right leg over. Amazingly, everything stayed attached.
"Well, bascha, I guess —" But I didn’t finish, because Del arrived with the gelding in tow, thrust his reins at me urgently, and disappeared with haste behind a clump of trees.
This time I didn’t tease her. I dug out some of the red silk left over from my Skandic clothing, unhooked a water bota, and handed both down to her without comment when she reappeared. Del rinsed her mouth, spat, then washed her face. She looked terrible.
I made the sacrifice. "Maybe we should stay here another night."
"No." Del took the gelding’s reins back from me, flipped them over his neck, and mounted. She was clearly shaky, but determined. "I know how badly you want to get your hands on your jivatma. If it were mine…" She shook her head. "We’ll go on."
The poor, pitiful bascha had reverted to cold-faced Northern sword-singer. I knew better than to attempt to jolly her out of it.
Besides, she needed to concentrate on keeping her belly where it belonged.
I realized within a couple of hours that we were not going to make the chimney before nightfall. Though I was feeling much better as the day wore on, and Del seem resigned to a generalized discomfort — at least she wasn’t sick anymore — a faster pace might upset the balance. Not only that, but footing was tougher as we wound our way closer to the dramatic rock formations in the distance, beyond the foothills. Skull-sized boulders sprouted like shrubbery, abetted by drifts of bedrock peeping above the soil. "The horses had to pay more attention to where they set their hooves, and we had to pay more attention to the occasional misstep, prepared to bring equine heads up to reestablish balance before they went down onto their knees.
Then a sandy area caught my eye. Like water spilled from a pitcher, it wound its way through rocks, then spread into a wider patch.
"Over here," I called to Del, riding behind me. "Footing’s better."
And indeed it was. The sandy area went down a rocky hillock and opened into something very like a shallow streambed, except there was no water. There had been once, before desert took it over. But now it was dry, with an underlayment of hard and uneven stone intermixed with sandy pockets and water-smoothed, hollowed-out boulders. Amazingly, there was a scattering of vegetation here, edging the streambed. Tough, reedy-looking shrubbery of a pallid green hue.
"Look ahead — there." Del pointed. "Are those wagon ruts?"
"Out here?" But even as I asked it, I saw what she meant. A few paces up there indeed appeared to be wheel ruts running across the streambed, visible only when they hit sand pockets. I moved the stud into a faster pace, then pulled up when I reached the ruts. "Hunh," I commented. "Someone’s been out here in a wagon."
Del reined in beside me. "It makes no sense. There is nothing out here for settlers or caravans."
I shook my head. "Not enough tracks for a caravan. One wagon, I’d guess. Two mules. Maybe someone got lost." I marked how the ruts entered the streambed on one side and exited the other. "Let’s follow the tracks," I suggested, reining left. "Maybe whoever we find will invite us to supper."
If they haven’t already been someone else’s supper."
’I’m not sure we’re still in Vashni territory," I said. "Which reminds me…" I untied the increasingly odiferous bag of sand-tiger meat from the saddle and let it drop into the edge of the streambed as the stud climbed out. The gelding followed, white head swinging on the end of his long neck. Gold fringe dangled lopsidedly. "You know, you could always hang your Vashni neck-let across your horse’s face. He’s already wearing axle grease and wine-girl fringe… human fingerbones might give him a little added class."
Del, not surprisingly, did not deign to reply.
We followed the tracks as they wound their way through the rocks and sand. After a while they turned in toward the mountains on our left, gaining in elevation. We wound our way up, and then almost abruptly the crude ruts gave out onto a flat area to our right, opposite the massive boulders skirting the bottom of the mountain on the left. The flat formed a plateau, the chopped off crown of a shallow bluff overlooking where we’d come from, including the streambed. A few straggly trees, low shrubbery, and modest grassy patches skirted the edge near the continuation of the ruts. I pulled up there to give the stud a blow and take a look around. Del’s gelding picked its way slowly up to join us. Del was, I noticed, drinking water again.
"You all right, bascha?"
She nodded as she restoppered the bota. "Much better than this morning. Just thirsty."
"Liquor does that." I glanced around. "You know, this wouldn’t be a bad place to stop for the night —" I broke off, whistling in surprise. "Hoolies — would you look at that?" I pointed. "Up there against the boulders, there. Looks like a shelter to me. And the remains of a cookfire in front of it."
"Where — ? Oh, that?" Del rode past me, heading toward the huge tumbled boulders lining the merging of mountain with flat area. "It is a shelter, Tiger — it’s a little lean-to. The wagon ruts go right past it, but they’re deeper by the shelter, as if they stopped here."
I followed. Del was right. Someone had used one of the larger boulder formations for the back wall and had built a rough lean-to out of branches and canvas. The fire ring hadn’t been used for a while, but clearly this was a regular camping place. No one would sacrifice canvas in the desert unless he intended to return.
"Halloo the camp!" I called. "We’re coming in!"
Del reined in next to the fire ring. "No one’s here."
"You never know." I dismounted and drew my sword. Del had done the same. But there was no place to hide in the lean-to; it boasted only two sides, the boulder for a back wall, and a branch-and-canvas roof. It was large enough for possibly three people, if they were very close friends. "Good enough for tonight," I said. "Let’s get the horses settled, and then we can think about food."
Del recoiled. Her expression clearly announced she wanted nothing to do with food. Possibly forever.
I disagreed. "You need to eat something. You’ve only ha
d water all day."
"Yes, and in fact…" She turned abruptly and headed toward the hillside strewn with tumbled boulders, sheathing her sword.
"Are you sick again?" I asked.
"No. But I have had a lot of water."
"Ah." Grinning, I strode back to the horses. I decided to be a nice, kind, thoughtful man and untack her gelding. "Hold on, old son," I told the stud. "You’re next."
I untied saddlepouches and piled them beside the lean-to, tossed Del’s bedding inside. The gelding gazed at me out of mournful blue eyes, peering through dangling bits of fringe.
"You look ridiculous," I told him, undoing his girth. "No offense, but you do." I lifted saddle and blankets off his damp back, set both by the lean-to. "Amazing what we let women get away with, isn’t it?" His response was to thrust his head against my chest and rub. Hard. "Ah, hoolies, horse —" In disgust, I stared down at the front of my burnous. "Now I’ve got black gunk all over me!" Of course, the gelding also had greasepaint smeared all over his face, like an overly painted wine-girl first thing in the morning. Quite a pair, we made.
I heard the rattle of fallen pebbles high in the rocks and glanced up to see Del picking her way down from one of the piles of boulders. You’d think that since we’d been sharing a bed for several years modesty would no longer matter, but Del was fastidious. She always went off to find privacy, and I’d been ordered to do the same. I just never went as far. Men have a certain advantage when it comes to relieving the bladder.
Her arms were spread for balance as she worked her way down. She was concentrating on her path, rope of hair swinging in front of one shoulder. It’s difficult to look particularly graceful when clambering down over piled rocks and boulders. Even for my Northern bascha.
I drew in a deep breath, preparing to bellow complaints about her horse. But I lost the impulse the instant I saw movement behind her.
Vashni? No —
Movement flowed down the mountainside, disappeared behind rocks.
I dropped the reins. "Del!"
Then it sprang up onto a boulder, and I saw it clearly.
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