by Simon Brown
Gudon thought he had made it through when a second mercenary appeared suddenly from a copse near the river. Gudon did not want to appear like a fugitive, so he slowed and waited for the mercenary to catch up. The rider wheeled his horse in front of Gudon, barring his escape. He was a thickset bruiser with hairy arms and ragged black hair tied back in an ivory pinch. He smiled genially enough and rubbed his chin with a callused finger.
“Early start?” he asked.
“Indeed, master.” He held up his baskets. “I intend to be the first to tempt the markets with my employer’s wares.”
“Who is that?”
“His name is Gatheras; he comes from Sparro.”
The mercenary nodded, then pointed to Gudon’s leg. “Nasty wound. How did you get it?”
“I was bitten by a horse, master.”
The mercenary laughed. “This one?”
“Oh, no. I ate the one that bit me.”
“I heard the Chetts eat those who attack them, even humans.”
“Forgive me, master, but that is a myth. We never eat anything that walks on two legs. So no humans, and no birds.”
“That sounds reasonable.” The mercenary edged his horse closer. “I think I would like you to come with me. My captain would like to talk with you.”
Gudon expressed surprise. “Your captain is interested in pottery?”
“Among other things.” He leaned over to take the reins of Gudon’s horse and never saw the thin bone knife Gudon drove into the nape of his neck. The mercenary gasped once and fell from his saddle. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Gudon quickly reached to grab the stirrup of the mercenary’s horse. The animal whinnied and stamped but did not try to pull away. Gudon tied the reins to his own saddle before carefully dismounting, putting his weight on his left leg. He bent over the mercenary and used his knife to cut out a small square of his cheek muscle, then swallowed it whole.
“In your case, master, I will make an exception about eating my enemy.”
He slipped the knife back into its sleeve behind his neck before quickly tying a rope around the mercenary’s hands and looping it over the saddle of the dead man’s horse. He then hobbled to the other side and used all his strength to pull the mercenary over the saddle. He got back on his own horse, took the reins of the second mount and set off again, singing softly to the paling sky overhead.
“I am starving,” Kumul groaned. He got up from the ground, dusted off the coat he had been lying on and scratched his graying hair.
“Think of all the beef that awaits you at the Oceans of Grass,” Ager said. “Thousands—millions!—of cattle, all waiting to be devoured by a carnivore like you.”
Kumul’s stomach growled so loudly people nearby turned to see what the disturbance was.
“Then again, do not think of it,” Ager suggested. “Think instead of being small, of being invisible. Particularly think of making no sound that will attract attention to you.”
Kumul scowled at the crookback. “I cannot help it. We haven’t eaten properly in days.”
Jenrosa joined them, leading their horses. “The first wagons have set off.”
“Did you see any sign of—?” Kumul began, but Jenrosa shook her head. “Lynan is here. I know it. I can feel it.”
“You are not a magicker, Kumul,” Ager said. “Don’t raise our hopes too high. He may already be ahead of us.” He looked across to the river where the mercenaries were watering their horses. “At least they haven’t got him.”
“I think Kumul is right,” Jenrosa said. “And I am a magicker. I can feel something as well, and I trust my senses in this.”
“Be that as it may, we can’t be obvious about it and go searching for Lynan. We will go with the caravan to the sooq. When the caravan breaks up, we may spot him.”
“The mercenaries are leaving,” Kumul said. The others looked up and saw the company moving out, riding at a trot to get ahead of the caravan and its dust. He wished they could do the same. He noticed that some of them stayed behind. Kumul pointed to them. “They will keep back to keep a lookout from the caravan’s rear.”
“I’ll return soon,” Jenrosa said and left for the river, taking the horses with her.
“What is she doing?” Ager asked Kumul, alarmed when he saw her walking toward the mercenaries waiting for the caravan to pull ahead.
Kumul grunted his approval. “What we cannot do ourselves. With my size and your crookback we would be recognized right away.”
They spent a nervous few minutes watching her water the horses and refill their leather bottles. Two mercenaries were standing not ten paces from her, talking between themselves.
When she returned, they started off, keeping as close as possible to a large wagon that hid them from any casual search.
“Did you overhear them?” Ager asked impatiently.
“They know their captain is searching for someone, but not who he is. They are worried that he is taking them so close to Chett territory. They are scared of them.”
“Did they say who is their captain?”
“No, but it isn’t Prado. They talked about him being with their chief, but they did not seem fond of him.”
“Not surprising,” Kumul noted. “Not after he lost their prize catch.”
“There was something else,” Jenrosa said. “They kept on talking about not going back to Hume. They were upset about it.”
Kumul and Ager exchanged glances. “You were right,” Kumul said. “They are going north.”
“With or without Lynan,” Ager said. “That could mean that if we find Lynan and hide him from them, they will eventually give up their search and leave.”
“I think, as we get closer to the sooq, the mercenaries will become more desperate,” Jenrosa said. “It’s important we find Lynan first.”
“We talked about that and agreed—” Ager started, but Jenrosa cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand.
“No, you talked about it. I agreed to nothing. I am going to find Lynan. You two stay here. And don’t worry, no one will be bothered about me.”
She gave Kumul the reins to her horse, and before either man could stop her, she ducked around the rear of the wagon and disappeared.
“She will get us all killed,” Ager complained.
Kumul shook his head. “No. No, I don’t think so. She will be fine.”
Ager thought he heard something more than respect in his friend’s voice. He looked keenly at Kumul but could read nothing in his expression.
A wind blew up and sent dust into their eyes. They bowed their heads and plowed on.
Lynan was riding on one of Gatheras’ wagons when he saw the lush green circle of growth that surrounded the Strangers’ Sooq. He stood up on the board to get a better view. South of the sooq began the Lesser Desert, its gray rocky ground dull under the bright autumn sun, but to the west and north of the sooq started the Oceans of Grass. It was not the brilliant green he had imagined, but a washed-out green, like thin agate. And it moved. He held his breath in wonder. Breezes played across the grass like invisible hands. It seemed to him that the whole plain was alive.
“It is beautiful,” he said aloud.
The driver beside him snorted. “I have been here during drought. It is dead then, as dead as the desert.”
Lynan did not believe this place could ever be truly dead. This is the greatest life I have ever seen, he thought.
“Sit down, boy,” Gatheras hissed, pulling along side on his donkey. Lynan sat down in something of a daze. The merchant saw Lynan’s expression and chuckled. “Quite a sight the first time, isn’t it?” he said.
“It is beautiful.”
Gatheras looked thoughtfully at him. “The only people I have heard call it that before were Chetts.”
“My grandmother was a Chett,” Lynan said absently, his attention still focused on the plain.
“Indeed? She must have been very short for a Chett.”
Jenrosa had walked as casually as pos
sible from wagon to wagon, trying to see the face of every person she passed without being obvious about it. There were no mercenaries riding with the caravan anymore, but that was not to say they did not have their spies here looking out for anyone behaving oddly. She passed wagons carrying dried fruits, spices, pottery, iron and copper ingots, ropes and cloth; she walked by merchants and servants, fellow travelers and priests. And no sign of Lynan.
Her attention was distracted when the sooq came into view. The sight of the verdant water hole and the vast distances beyond made her gasp. The plains drew out to meet the sky at some distant horizon. The grass seemed to move in time with the scattered clouds that scudded overhead. She breathed in deeply, and smelled grass and air and… and freedom. It was like nothing she could have imagined, but now that she had seen it she knew that somehow it was what she had been looking for her whole life. A new world, she thought. A home.
Angry words roused her from her reverie, and she dodged aside as a wagon loaded with lumber trundled past, its driver still swearing at her. She swore back and was stomping off, pretending high dudgeon, when she saw a youth had also been captivated by the sight of the sooq. He was standing on a wagon hauling pottery. Someone came up on a donkey and said something to him and he sat down, still staring ahead. She noted the livery he wore, and because she became conscious of it was able to imagine the youth’s build without it.
She stopped in her tracks. Oh God oh God oh God… She started running to catch up with the wagon, but then changed her mind and stopped again. A man walking with a long stick swerved to avoid her and muttered something indecent. She ignored him. She could not just go up and grab Lynan and hug him and cry in relief. That would draw more attention than either of them wanted. She thought quickly. She knows where he was now. She had to get the others. They would trail behind and make their move when the caravan reached the sooq. She could barely contain her excitement.
She turned back to find Kumul and Ager, and soon discovered them trudging beside the same wagon she had left them with. She tapped both on the shoulder as she came abreast. She made sure her face was downcast, but it was a struggle.
Kumul glanced at her. “At least you tried,” he said encouragingly.
“True,” she said, sighing.
“I still think it was a dangerous thing to do,” Ager commented, but his voice was concerned, not angry.
“True.”
“I wonder where is right now, and what he’s doing,” Kumul said.
“Sitting on a wagon tending a load-full of pottery,” Jenrosa suggested casually.
Kumul snorted. “Probably.”
They walked on for a while in silence until the sooq came into view and Kumul and Ager saw it for the first time.
“Quite a sight,” Ager said. “I think Lynan would be impressed.”
“He was,” Jenrosa said.
They fell quiet again. A minute later Ager looked sideways at Jenrosa. “What did you say?” Jenrosa feigned puzzlement. “You said something about Lynan.”
“I did?”
Silence again. And then, despite all her efforts, the laughter came. First, just the pressure of air against her throat, then a sort of explosion through her nose, and finally a great guffaw that startled her companions. She could not speak. Eventually, the guffawing weakened to a persistent giggling that hurt her ribs. Ager’s eyes lit up with sudden understanding and he joined in. Kumul looked at both of them as if they were mad. His expression made Jenrosa and Ager laugh more violently. They finally got it under control, reducing their mirth to a hoary wheeze.
“People are looking,” Kumul hissed at them.
“Right,” Ager said tightly, and that set him and Jenrosa off again.
“God’s death!” Kumul snapped. “What’s so bloody funny?”
“Don’t you see?” Ager said, forcing the words between fits of laughter. “Jenrosa found him!”
Revelation made Kumul’s face go pale under his close-cropped beard, and then the broadest smile Jenrosa had ever seen lit up his face, and seeing it, her own heart lifted even higher.
Lynan could now make out among the trees buildings made of white stone. They were all two stories with flat roofs and curved corners. The road ribboned around the sooq and ended in a cleared area to the west. And there, in their brown leather armor and with their glinting weapons, were the mercenaries. Most were dismounted, but there was no pretense of making a camp. They were waiting. Lynan could see some of the locals watching them from between the trees. He hoped Gudon had made it through.
Lynan asked Gatheras if he knew where he could find Kayakun.
The merchant shook his head. “Apparently, Gudon was going to arrange for him to meet us.”
“If Gudon reached the sooq,” Lynan said.
“I do not know this Gudon as well as you,” Gatheras said, “but if he is only half as competent as every other Chett I’ve met, he not only reached the sooq but has probably arranged rooms for us at the only inn and prepared a five-course meal for us as well.”
By the time they reached the cleared area it was already filling up with wagons and merchants putting up covered stalls and tents. Many locals, most of them Chetts, were wandering around to get an idea of the goods being put up for sale and trade. Lynan tried not to look at every Chett that wandered by as he helped unload Gatheras’ wagons. They built small pyramids with the pots so every shape and size could be displayed. Gatheras made sure to ask after the health of every visitor, and Lynan could not help admiring his ability at always turning the conversation toward the necessity of owning pots to carry food and wine and grain and spices—indeed, to carry anything of value.
The work was hard and seemed to go on for hours. When he and Gatheras’ servants had finally finished unloading the wagons, the sun was only a hand’s span from the horizon, and despite a warm breeze starting to blow from the plains toward the mountains, the temperature had dropping noticeably. Some of the servants got a fire going and started cooking the evening meal. Even more locals were visiting the stalls now, taking advantage of the cooler air and drawn by the distractions offered by the visiting caravan.
Lynan noticed that the Chetts, unlike their brethren in the east, all wore traditional Chett clothing: tight-fitting linen trousers and loose shirts with a v-shaped opening for the head; some wore wide heavy ponchos decorated with bright symbols denoting tribe, clan, and family. It was livery of sorts, but much more colorful than the designs worn by soldiers and servants in any of the provinces on the eastern side of the mountains.
By now Lynan could not help wondering what had happened to Gudon. He had seen no sight of him, and no one had approached him on Gudon’s behalf.
As the other servants were about to start their evening meal he was called over by Gatheras. The merchant was standing next to a Chett tall even for his own people, his dark hair streaked with gray and his golden skin as rough as a lizard’s. The Chett looked down his nose at Lynan. “This servant?” he asked.
Lynan studied the Chett closely. Was this Kayakun? He was about to ask when Gatheras grasped his arm tightly in warning.
“I know he is small, sir, but Migam is stronger than he looks. He will carry the three pots without falling behind.” He turned to Lynan. “This noble gentleman is purchasing several of our wares, but he needs three samples to show other Chett buyers who are staying with him while the caravan is here. You will carry them to his home for him.”
Lynan nodded curtly. His stomach was doing somersaults. “Which pots, sir?” he asked the Chett, trying to keep his voice even.
The Chett did not bother speaking to Lynan but merely pointed to the three he wanted. Lynan groaned inside. They were big. He put them one in the other and lifted the lot up to his left shoulder like he had seen the other servants do. The Chett walked off and Lynan followed. They crossed the camp and were soon among tall spray trees, their trunks sectioned in rings; beautiful lion flowers grew from them, nodding in the evening breeze. They reached a dirt track and s
tarted passing homes and shops still open for business. The smell of food was everywhere, reminding Lynan that he was hungry again.
“Do not turn around, but we are being followed,” the Chett said casually. “Five men wearing cloaks, but I can see leather armor underneath.”
Lynan’s heart started racing. “Sir, I think they mean me harm.”
“Probably,” the Chett said, but seemed unconcerned by the prospect. “I would prefer any confrontation not to occur in such a public space.” They passed an outdoor tavern and turned left down a narrow alley crowded on both sides by buildings.
“But this is a dead end!” Lynan cried.
“Walk ahead of me and put down your pots,” the Chett said calmly. As Lynan passed him, he turned on his heel and drew a long knife that had been hidden beneath his poncho. None too gently, Lynan rested the pots against a wall and stood behind the Chett. Five men turned into the alley, shadows against the setting sun. They stopped when they saw the armed man facing them. One of them, the biggest, stepped forward.
“We are not after you,” he said to the Chett. “We want the lad.”
“You can take the pottery, but I am responsible for the boy until I return him to his master.”
The mercenary spread his arms in a wide shrug, simultaneously showing the long cavalry sword hanging from his belt. “We wish him no harm. My captain has business with him.” He reached for a pouch on his belt and shook it. Coins jingled. “We will pay you to leave him in our care. You could tell his master he ran away. No one will be the wiser.”
The Chett considered the offer for a moment. Lynan readied himself to pounce. If he could take the Chett’s knife, he might be able to force a way through the soldiers before they had time to react. Then, to his surprise, the Chett shook his head.
“No, I think not.”
The mercenary sighed and waved for his fellows to join him. The narrow alley forced them into pairs. As one they threw their cloaks over their shoulders and drew their swords. “I am sorry to hear you say that,” the big one said, and he advanced with his weapon held out in front of him. The Chett suddenly leaped forward in a move that surprised Lynan as much as the mercenaries. His knife flicked once, twice, and he sprang back again. The leader fell, hitting the ground facedown with a satisfying whack. Blood seeped from underneath his body. The other mercenaries hesitated and threw each other nervous glances.
