If I Pay Thee Not In Gold

• Chapter 10

Xylina looked back along the dusty, sun-drenched track, at the long string of men and pack-animals behind her. She herself rode a mule at the head of the string, a mule being the only animal she felt she could trust herself on, since she had not ridden since her mother died. Her beast was a tall, gentle, gray-white, with a shaggy coat and a patient nature. While a mule was not exactly a prancing charger, it would not bolt with her, and if danger threatened, it would keep its head. That was far more than she could count on from a horse. Or so Ware had told her when she had been given her choice of mounts from the Queen's stable. She was inclined to believe him. He had not once misled her, either in the kinds of supplies he had advised her to take, or the route he advised her to follow. And he had nothing to gain and no real reason to mislead her, which was the final reason to trust him. He wanted her love as well as her body, and he knew that deceit could never win the former.

Faro and Ware also rode; Faro was on a mule, a big-boned rangy black beast with brown rings around its eyes. Very odd he looked, too, perched uncomfortably on its back. Ware rode the kind of spirited horse she, as the expedition leader, would have been riding, had she followed the Queens suggestions. And, without a doubt, if she had, she would have been thrown a dozen times in the first day. Yes, she looked a little silly on a mule, but she would have looked even sillier falling over her horses tail, or black and blue from spills. She had too much sense to ride something like that when she did not really know how to ride. But she couldn't help but look enviously at the demon out of the corner of her eye. He looked supremely comfortable and elegant on his graceful beast; the horse was a rich chestnut, and he wore brown riding-leathers to match it. This was not a beast out of the Queen's stable, but rather, out of his own. Another indication of his wealth.

The three of them headed up the column of armed men. Amazingly, Adria had granted the entire expedition permission to bear arms within the borders of Mazonia. Xylina had wondered about that; it seemed very strange to allow so many men to carry weapons, with only herself to command them.

But perhaps Adria had a rival for this crystal, one that she had not seen fit to warn Xylina about. If that were the case-well, such a threat had not materialized during the last month. Perhaps a show of force had been more than enough to keep such a rival from attempting to turn the expedition into a failure before it started.

As Ware had told her, all the servants and guards were men, and all were personally bound to the Queen's service. Xylina had appointed Ware as her advisor, and Faro as her chief of staff-telling the former wryly that since she was going to be burdened with him anyway, he might as well make himself useful.

There were two dozen guards, three servants, and three carts bearing supplies, driven by the servants, plus themselves. As she had gone over the supplies they would need, Xylina had been able to point out that there were things they would not need to take with them. Tents, for instance; blankets and bedding, soap, most clothing for herself, in short, anything she could conjure. Ware assured her that conjuring would work for some considerable distance outside Mazonia. They would not need firewood or oil for lamps. They would not need replacement axles for the wagons, or foul-weather capes. Thus, they were able to eliminate some of the bulkiest and heaviest things and replace them with more food for themselves and the mules and Ware's horse, more weaponry, and medical supplies.

She hoped that they would not need the latter.

While they journeyed through Mazonia, they did not need to use many of their supplies. She was able to purchase fresh food wherever they stopped. But once they reached the border, there was no telling what they might meet.

The men seemed tame enough. They responded immediately to her orders, and to Faro's. She had asked him to spend a great deal of his time with them, if he could, to get to know what they were like. She did not think that Queen Adria had planted a traitor amidst them, but it was possible that one or more of them was unreliable.

At least they looked as if they knew how to use those weapons they carried, although as yet that had not been put to the test. So many of the men that Faro had trained had been totally ignorant of how to defend even themselves. Many had been favored house-slaves, or even husbands and concubines, and they had never needed to think about weaponry. They needed only to keep themselves attractive, raise the children properly, and tend to the duties they were assigned within the household. Faro had often said, in disgust, that it was a good thing his pupils had women to protect them, or they would have been helpless against any kind of assault. This did not appear to be the case with Adria's guards.

There were also several dogs, who would be useful on guard duty, and to sniff out devious trails, and perhaps in hunting. They were well trained, and did not run around getting in the way.

It took Xylina a while to realize that there was something odd about the three servants. Finally she broached the matter to Ware. "Those servants-they don't urinate. They never go to the sanitary trench with the soldiers."

Ware smiled. "They are normal for their gender. They prefer to use the trench privately, as the men do when they defecate."

"Their gender?" she asked blankly.

"They are female. I thought you understood."

"Female! The Queen sent other women along?"

"Not Mazonites. These are from what we call the Animal Kingdom, tolerated here in much the manner we demons are, because they serve a need that it might otherwise be inconvenient to accommodate."

Realization dawned. "Like the stripes!"

"Like the stripes," he agreed. "But less obviously different, in the body."

"Different?"

"Let me introduce you." He whistled, surprising her. In a moment one of the servants made an appearance in the tent. Now it was apparent that under the loose-fitting clothing was the body of a fairly well endowed woman. "Pattée, show Mistress Xylina your paw," he said.

The woman put one hand to the other and pulled off her glove. There was a-paw. It looked like the appendage of a dog, with stubby claws and thick underlying pads.

Ware glanced at Xylina. "Do you wish to see more? Her feet are similarly configured. It is done magically in infancy, among her people. Some have bird appendages, or goat hooves. It varies. But their torsos are normal by your definition, and the men don't seem to mind."

"No," Xylina said, taken aback. "No more."

"Pattée, cover and return to your business," Ware told the woman, and she did so without a word. "They can't speak," he explained. "Only with animal sounds. This is the way women are expected to be, in that culture."

"It's appalling!"

He shrugged. "By your definition. They do, however, made excellent sexual company for the soldiers. Such women are standard equipment on missions such as this. Your proper course is to ignore them. Certainly they will not cause you any trouble."

Xylina swallowed uncomfortably. "I'll ignore them," she agreed.

As for the men themselves, while Xylina had not gotten overly friendly with any of them, she had been able, through Faro, to learn quite a bit about some of them.

Most were "surplus" men-too rough and too plain to be desirable as husbands, not graceful or clever enough to learn the skills of entertainers, household servants, or craftsmen. That left them only one possible use: as common laborers or as guards. Faro had told her than these men were only too happy to be spared the lot of the common laborer-men who worked from dawn to dusk, and rarely lived beyond the age of forty.

But of the remainder, there were some surprises. Three of them were what Faro slightingly referred to as "used" men-those who had somehow displeased their mistress-wives. They had not had any skills beyond the ordinary-tending the household and the children. No one wanted them as husbands or even harem-slaves, since they were beyond the young and nubile age. Wanting to be rid of them, their mistress-wives had deeded them to the Queen; the Queen, in her turn, had ascertained that they had a certain talent with weaponry, and so had them trained as guardsmen.

"Somewhat the way you were," she said softly.

He nodded agreement. "They were not angry in the way I was, so were not relegated to the arena. But they do resemble me in having exploitable resources."

And there were two young and remarkably handsome men who hoped by their bravery on this expedition to catch the Queen's attention and be added to her harem-or even given supreme status as her husband. Queen Adria had not yet elevated any of her harem slaves to that position, and the young men of the harem were constantly hoping that she might choose one of them. These two had hit upon the notion that since bravery and strength were the prime Mazonite virtues, the Queen might well prefer a brave and strong man to sire her daughters, as well as a handsome one.

As the expedition traveled across the breadth of Mazonia, Xylina became aware that these two men sought Faro out at every opportunity for long, serious discussions. Finally her curiosity got the better of her, and she asked him why they kept dragging Faro off to consult with him. Neither of these men was a sub-leader, and there should be no reason why they would want to speak so closely with him so very often.

He gave her one of those darkly inscrutable looks from beneath lowered eyebrows. "I'm not certain that you wish to know, little mistress," he said.

She frowned a little. "Whatever is going on among the guards, I think I should know about it," she insisted. "Especially if there is any likelihood that it could signal troubles among the men."

Faro had sighed. "They wanted my advice," he said, with great reluctance.

"Advice about what?" she persisted.

"Ah-" To her immense surprise, he flushed, profoundly embarrassed. She had seldom seen him so discomfited before. "Ah-you are a very brave, very highly regarded Mazonite, little mistress," he said, looking steadfastly at his feet. "They, ah-they wanted my advice on how I, ah-attracted you. Since they feel the Queen's tastes are likely to be similar, you see."

"Attracted me?" she had replied. "But-" Then some of the sly comments she had heard from the Queen's Guard, directed toward her, but about Faro and the other men of the expedition, suddenly came flooding back. And at that moment, although she had not realized what those remarks had meant at the time, she suddenly understood them.

"Oh," she said faintly. Now she put all the pieces together, and she felt just as embarrassed as Faro. It was assumed, of course, that she and Faro were enjoying the same relationship that Elibet and Marcus had; that Xylina would eventually declare him to be her husband, or at least, the head of her harem.She could no more have thought of Faro in that way than she could have thought of her mule- but they didn't know that, and certainly the men of the expedition and those few Mazonites who were her friends, like Lycia, must have assumed the liaison. She wasn't sure if she should be annoyed or if it mattered at all. In fact, she slept completely alone, as she always had, with Faro lying across the threshold. But the fact that he always slept in her tent must have strengthened the assumption.

"Was there anything else?" she asked, since something in Faro's expression told her she had not yet heard all of it.

He coughed, and his flush deepened. "Ah-yes," he had admitted. "They-ah-wanted to know if they could-ah-catch your eye. They told me it would not matter since they were not yet harem slaves, and that if the Queen was willing to release them after this, you might-ah-choose them for your own harem-ah- based on the-ah-sample."

Now it was her turn to stare at her feet. That was a natural question of course; even if she and Faro had been together, he would have no right to deny her if she chose to take one or more men to her bed. It was, in fact, often the case; few Mazonites could afford a harem, and an expedition like this one would offer a chance at variety they might not otherwise enjoy. On a mission like this one, undoubtedly, the leader could take any man she chose to "play" with, and there could be no assumption of commitment. It was the sort of thing that happened, she supposed, without regard to whether the men liked it. That, or so Lycia had hinted to her, was one of the perquisites of such a mission. She hadn't understood the hints at the time, about the "appetite of a younger woman," and the "greater variety available." She had honestly thought Lycia was referring to food.

"And what did you tell them?" she asked Faro, unsure whether she really wanted to hear the answer.

But he smiled, as she looked up again to face his eyes. "I told them that you are a very serious and disciplined leader, and that you will allow nothing to interfere with the discipline of the troupe."

That was a good answer, for indeed, if she chose to amuse herself with any of the men, regardless whether she actually played favorites after that, it would be assumed that she was doing so. That would be very bad for discipline, and she was glad that Faro had thought of the response, for she truly was not interested in any of the men in that way.

"Thank you," was all she said.

Faro smiled. "You have been similarly supportive of my situation," he reminded her.

That was early in the expedition, while they were within a week of the capital. After marching for more than a moon, they came to the border of Mazonia. The terrain turned from lush fields and farms, to huge tracts of grazing-land supporting vast herds of sheep, goats, and cattle, and then to land supporting hardly more than the occasional jackalope. Near her home, the landscape was of rolling, wooded hills and well-watered valleys; it had gradually gotten drier, the landscape flatter, and the population sparser. They had not seen another person for the past two days.

They had been subsisting on their own provisions and whatever they could glean from the countryside for several days, for the landscape was barren of farms or settlements here, bare even of the great cattle and sheep ranches that took up as much land as a dozen of the farms Xylina was used to.

The land was flat for the most part, but rutted with shallow canyons and dotted with occasional tall, barren ridges, orange-red hills whose sides had been eroded even as the sides of those canyons had been, etched with deep grooves by wind or water. A scrubby grass and a tough, aromatic shrub were all that grew here, except where there was water. There, trees and other vegetation flourished, proving that the land was not barren if it had water. But there was very little water here, and Xylina decreed that they must fill their waterskins and barrels at every occasion, saving that real water for drinking, and using conjured water for bathing and washing. She considered herself fortunate that the summer had been cool so far; this land would have been unbearable in the scorching heat of a high summer. As it was, she conjured additional water at every halt, letting the men use it to wash the dust from their faces, and to cool their overheated bodies. The dry air evaporated it so quickly that within moments of sluicing it over their heads, their hair and tunics were already dry. They also used it to rinse away the taste of the flat, stale, real water they drank from their waterskins, pouring it into their mouths after they had drunk their fill. She could have conjured other things-wine, for instance-but she thought it might be prudent not to give them anything intoxicating. In heat like this, they were very likely to get drunk or sick much more quickly. In any event, they seemed grateful enough for just the sweet water.

She called a halt at just about midday, and let the men rest while she peered at the map and tried to reckon their location. Ware walked his horse up alongside her mule as she was staring at the horizon, and pointed a helpful finger.

"There," he said. "You see that flat-topped hill? On the map, it is called The Anvil,' and it sits exactly astride the border here."

"I don't see anything that looks like a boundary," she said doubtfully, straining her eyes toward the horizon. She had expected fences, or a wall, and border guards. There was nothing but cloudless blue sky and red earth.

Ware shrugged gracefully. "Nor will you," he replied. "There is only a low fence of sticks and rocks to mark it. As you can see, there is nothing hereabouts to guard-so the border is only a convenience, recognized by both sides as the place that marks the region where men are subservient, and where they are not. And, not coincidentally, the place where Mazonite conjuration ceases to be the only magic humans possess. Across that border, other rules prevail. Your magic will still be as strong, but there will be other kinds that are just as strong."

She rolled the map, and put it carefully away in the case. "Then what stops men from escaping over it?" she asked.

Ware gave her a sardonic stare. "Really," he said, finally, as his horse stirred restively beneath him. "Xylina, can you in your wildest imaginings picture very many men who had the strength, resources and fortitude to cross the territory we have over the past two days? Alone? With no provisions? And with more of the same awaiting him on the other side? And why would such a man want to endure such privations?"

"But I had thought that there were men waiting beyond the borders for the runaways-" she began.

Ware laughed, softly. "Oh, there are those waiting for runaways here. Tiny tribes of nomadic horse-warriors, who are only too pleased to capture these strays and add them to their own slave-strings. No, Xylina, men who escape this way soon find themselves wishing that they had stayed at home, for if they experienced hardship at the hands of their mistresses, what they find at the hands of these Pacha horse-warriors is near to torture."

Nomadic horse-warriors. No one had warned her about those. She looked back at her little train, and wondered how formidable it would look to barbarian raiders. Were twenty-four men enough? Did they look like hardened fighters? And they were afoot; they could not escape mounted men by running. For a moment, she wavered, and fear crept into her heart.

Ware was continuing to eye her, with a wry smile on his lips. "They will find you just as tempting a prize, my dear," he said softly. "Any of the Pacha chieftains would be pleased to have you in his tent-properly leg-shackled, of course. Your beauty is rare among the Mazonites; among the Pacha you would shine like a moon-flower among chickweed. A chieftain would claim you as his pleasure-slave immediately."

Her head jerked up, and she looked down her nose at him indignantly. "And you would do well to remember who is the mistress here, demon," she snapped. "No unwashed barbarian is going to touch me and live to tell his nomadic kin!"

With that, she gave the signal to Faro to move out, and urged her mule to the head of the column, ignoring Ware's rich chuckle as he guided his horse in behind hers.

She was in the process of conjuring the camp defenses when the first of the Pacha appeared over the horizon.

She had taken into consideration the fact that they were horse-fighters when she built the defenses. The first defense was a tangle of razor-sharp wire all around the camp, waist-high, and too wide (she hoped) for a horse to jump. Immediately behind it was a stretch of pointed metal stakes, slanted outward, no more than a hands-breadth apart. No horse was going to care to approach that! And if for some reason their attackers passed both those barriers successfully, there was an inner defense, a shallow ditch filled with oil, that could be lit to create a final barricade of smoke and flame. Ware assured her gravely that no horse could be persuaded to jump into fire.

For the camp itself, she had conjured silk and very long, flexible poles, which could be bent over to form a dome-shape, the silk stretched over all and pegged to the ground with stakes. The men had already obtained water from a nearby creek, and she had conjured water for washing, fuel for the fire, and oil for lamps and torches. As the sun neared the horizon, the men had been divided into work-parties; some to set up the tents, some to help the cook with the dinner and fire, some to light lanterns and torches, the rest with other camp-chores.

She looked up from her conjurations, alerted, perhaps, by a hint of movement where none had been the moment before, and saw the Pacha watching her. They were lined up on a low ridge, sitting easily on their horses, as if they were on couches.

She had never seen anything like them before; even the attempts by entertainers to ape "barbarians" paled before these men in their wild magnificence. She wondered what kind of magic they had, or if they had any at all.

They rode small, rangy horses, hardly bigger than ponies, but whose manes and tails streamed nearly to the ground. The horses' manes and tails were braided with beads, strips of wildly-colored cloth and ribbons, and feathers. The beasts themselves were painted with markings in red, yellow, black, and white-spots, circles about the eyes, arrows, and lightning zig-zags. They had nothing on their backs in the way of saddles, only bright red and blue blankets, and a simple loop of rawhide rope around the nose seemed to serve their riders for reins and bridle both.

Their riders were naked to the waist, wearing only the simplest of breechcloths of red and blue cloth, their bodies and faces painted with the same symbols as their horses. Around their necks they wore a tangle of myriad necklaces made of bright beads, bones, teeth, and claws. Their hair was as long and wild as their horses', worked into hundreds of tiny braids, each one ending in a bead or a bone. Xylina wondered how they had come up upon her so silently, for they should have rattled like an entertainer’s sistrum. They boasted long, braided moustaches as well. Hair and skin was the same brick-red as the raw red earth of this place. Without the breechcloths, or with one of plainer stuff, one of these warriors would blend into the landscape so well that he could creep right up to the boundary of the camp without being seen.

In their hands they bore long lances, topped with wicked points of black, shiny serrated flint that gleamed with reflected sunlight. She could well imagine the kind of damage those lances could do, for the many "teeth" on each lance-head were made to break off in a wound. These lances were cruel weapons, designed to mutilate if they did not kill. There were quivers of smaller, obsidian-tipped throwing-spears at each rider's knee, and on their backs they bore bows and quivers bristling with white-fletched arrows.

Determined not to show that she had been unnerved by their sudden appearance, Xylina completed her conjurations, and then stood with arms crossed, waiting for them to make a move.

At length, after a long period of exchanged impassive stares, during which the entire camp became aware of the Pacha’s presence, some imperceptible signal passed among them, and they nudged their horses with their bare heels and moved toward the barricade as one.

The men of the camp dropped whatever they had been doing, and moved to stand behind Xylina at the ready. Ware came up beside her on her right and Faro on her left, and they watched with her, as the entire cavalcade made its leisurely way toward her first barrier. They did not move their ponies out of an ambling walk.

Then again, why should they? The Mazonite party obviously wasn't going anywhere.

"I don't suppose they speak Mazonite," she said, doubtfully. "Do they?"

"Hardly," Ware replied dryly. "These are warriors. It is beneath them to speak your language, for their own is so clearly superior. However, I speak theirs."

"As do I," Faro interjected, with a glance that was not quite a glare at the demon. "It was part of my training as a scribe to learn the languages of the nations around Mazonia. I have not had the benefit of speaking with a native, but I would imagine I can at least understand them, and make myself understood."

Ware said nothing, although this was clearly a warning from Faro that if the demon intended any trickery, he had best give the notion up for the present. Xylina almost smiled, for if the situation had not been so tense, it would have been funny. Faro was determined to protect her from Ware's treachery.

As the riders neared, she saw something that astonished her. Some of the riders had small, but well-rounded breasts, the nipples painted with concentric rings! There was no doubt of it, and this was not the kind of deformity that came when a man was neutered. Unless the men were terribly deformed at birth, or were some kind of hermaphrodite, there were women riding as warriors among them!

"Are those women?" she whispered to Ware. "These warriors-do they have women among them?"

He glanced at her for a fleeting second, before returning his attention to the oncoming riders. The setting sun at their backs gilded die entire landscape in rose-gold, lighting red riders and red horses on a red ground against a deep purple sky. The glints of sun on the obsidian points looked like flashes of scarlet fire.

"Of course they are women," he replied. "The Pachas encourage their maidens to ride as warriors, to prove their worth as bearers of future warriors. The strongest and most valiant maidens have the widest choice of suitors. Of course, once a woman bears a child, she must care for her children first, and her days of riding out with the warriors and hunters are over. Still, the women with children provide the main guards for the Pacha encampments, and it would be a foolhardy brigand who would think to make of a camp an easy target, for they continue to practice assiduously all of their lives."

"These are not brigands?" she asked, doubtfully.

"You are in their realm, Xylina," he reminded her. "They are no bandits; they are warriors guarding their land."

Once again, Xylina was forced to revise her preconceptions. She knew he was correct.

"But do not think that because they have women as equals among the warriors, that if they captured you, they would ever use you as other than a pleasure-slave. Foreign women are chattel," Ware continued, "captured Mazonites in particular. Just as foreign men are chattel. All foreigners are dogs; the only difference between a foreign man and a foreign woman is that the woman is likely to be prettier than a man, and a woman can breed children for more slaves. Keep that in mind. The Pacha respect strength, and nothing else; there is a treaty between Mazonia and the Pacha tribes, and you must prove yourself strong enough that they cannot violate that treaty."

So she must demonstrate to them that she was strong, clever, and too difficult a proposition to warrant attacking. Xylina crossed her arms over her chest, and took an aggressive stance. The Pacha halted their ponies just outside the perimeter of the camp. She was quite certain that they had gauged the strength of her defenses, the wire, the stakes, die oil, and the armed men beyond, but they paid no obvious attention to them, staring across the three barriers at her and her entourage.

Finally one spoke, a tangle of liquid syllables.

"He is the leader, or so he says," Ware translated. "There is no telling if that is true; the Pacha sometimes lie about which of them is in charge, to deflect the enemy's attention from the true leader. He wishes to know who the leader of this camp is."

"He knows, of course," Faro added, with a flash of annoyance at Ware. "He knows we've come out of Mazonia, so the only possible leader would be you. But he wants to see if we are going to lie to him. My studies tell me that lying to them is not a good idea, unless it is a lie they can't verify."

Since the idea had occurred to her that she could say that Ware or Faro was the leader, it was a good thing that Faro had added that. She stepped forward one pace, and nodded at the leader of the Pacha, but said nothing. He must know she could not speak his tongue-perhaps it would increase her status to have these translators.

The warrior spoke again.

"He wants to know why we're here and what we want," Faro said quickly, before Ware could translate. "He says the Mazonites have a treaty with his people, as Ware told you, and he wants to know if we're breaking it by raiding on Pacha land."

"What does he mean by raiding?" she asked, thinking that she had better get a more exact translation before committing herself.

Faro asked the question, and was rewarded with another spill of words. "Raiding means hunting for slaves or horses," he replied. "Raiding means stealing from the Pacha the things that belong to the Pacha and to their land."

Again, she pondered the question. "Ask him if the treaty permits hunting only for food as we travel across Pacha land, taking no more than we can eat, and using all that we take."

This time Ware did the translating, as Faro tried to remember the words for Xylina's question. The Pacha responded immediately.

"Hunting for food is permitted by the treaty," Ware said. "But he warns you that if his scouts find the bloated carcasses of animals killed only for horns, teeth, or hide, he will bring down the wrath of his gods upon us for wanton spoilage of his brothers. And it is considered good manners if you leave the hides, bones, horns, and teeth behind where we have camped, for the warriors to retrieve and take back to their people. In that way you prove that you are not a trophy-hunter."

Xylina thought long and carefully before dictating her reply. "Tell him that we are only crossing his land, as permitted by the treaty, that we are not raiding or hunting for trophies, and that I will kill with my own hand any man who destroys one of his brothers for the sake of horn or hide. And to prove that, I will leave the hides and so forth behind at each of our camps."

When Ware translated that, there were slow smiles from the Pacha, smiles quickly covered. She could not tell if those were smiles of pleasure, disbelief, or cynicism. Suppose that they considered her to be a fool for agreeing so readily, instead of rejecting their strictures with contempt?

She also could not tell if there really was a treaty that was so detailed, or if this was something the Pacha had made up to lull her into a false sense of security-that the moment she or one of her men killed a jackalope, they would descend on her. Nor, despite Ware's assurance that the Pacha did not speak her tongue, was she sure that one among them was not fluent in Mazonite. She could afford to take nothing for granted-so she could not say things to Ware or Faro where the Pacha might overhear.

But the Pacha chieftain was speaking again. This time Faro translated. "He wishes to join us for a reaffirmation of the treaty," Faro said. "And he adds that he is very fond of Mazonite wine. I gather this is the Pacha idea of a subtle hint."

The tiny germ of an idea crystallized, and she smiled broadly. "Tell them that the Pacha, our fellow warriors, are welcome within our encampment," she said, spreading her arms wide. "Tell him that we will drink to brotherhood in something better than Mazonite wine. Tell him there will be a feast in their honor, and magic wine, which will leave no sour stomachs and aching heads in the morning."

Ware looked at her as if he doubted her sanity, but obligingly translated. She, in turn, dispelled her conjured barriers at just that point, and the Pacha ponies picked their way across, with dainty steps. As soon as all the ponies had crossed, she re-created those barriers. If the Pacha felt unease at suddenly being imprisoned behind her defenses, they gave no sign of it.

She left Ware in charge of seeing the ponies picketed and the warriors settled, left Faro in charge of setting up the camp for a celebration, and went to the slave who served them as cook. "I need the tubs we bathe and do the wash in," she told him, as he stared past her shoulder at the wild Pacha perching themselves cross-legged around the fire of conjured wood. "I will conjure meat for these barbarians; it will do them no harm to eat a single conjured meal, and it will save our provisions. And, frankly, it will taste better than anything we have with us. I will also conjure you sweet stuff and flour for cakes; if I guess rightly, they will be very fond of desserts and the like. Barbarians often have little access to sweets. You must make as much sweet cake or cookies as you can while they are eating the meat. And I will conjure wine as well-only see to it that none of our men drink anything but water."

"You intend to poison the wine, mistress?" the cook asked, his eyes round with alarm. "You mean to slay them while they are our guests?"

She shook her head. "No, not at all. Two dozen bodies would be very hard to explain to the other barbarians. No, I am simply going to see that they get very, very drunk, and I want our men to stay very, very sober. I want the Pacha to sleep so deeply that when we leave in the morning, they will not even stir."

The cook smiled tentatively at that, and sent one of the men off for the washtubs. While he fetched the two tubs, she set about conjuring great slabs of meat-like stuff, only a thumbs-breadth thick, as wide as a palm, and as long as her arm-food that could cook quickly over a spit. She did not think that the barbarians would be very likely to care how well-done it was, but she concentrated as hard as she could to make certain it was savory. At the longing looks of the men, who were loathe to subsist on dried-beef stew when this tasty stuff was sizzling over the flames, she gave permission for them to eat of it as well, provided they ate first of the real food. They understood why; it was folly to depend on conjured food for sustenance.

When the tubs arrived, she conjured them full to the brim, creating a sweet red wine, full of sugars and stronger than the strongest brandy she had ever drunk herself. These she had carried to the warriors at the fireside, along with whatever was at hand to use as flasks and cups.

By now, the torches and lamps were all lit, and Ware had settled in the midst of the Pacha, making some long speech. Faro joined her as the first of the tubs was carried to the waiting barbarians.

"He's prating about brotherhood and the sacred earth," Faro said, as she shifted her concentration to create the ingredients required for sweet sugar-cookies. "He's been using the biggest words he knows, and describing you as a Valiant hawk of the wild Mazonites,' and 'a wily she-cat, who wins as much by guile as by strength,' but 'one who values honor and oaths more than meat and drink.' It's one of those long-winded speeches the politicians make. They just might appoint him chieftain when he's done, if he's not careful."

She chuckled, as the Pacha lost their interest in Ware's speech when the tubs of wine appeared. The sweet aroma told them this was something special, and they had no patience for speeches when fabulous drink like this awaited them. They snatched cups and bowls, and gathered around the tub with exclamations of delight and wonder, dipping out containers full.

But they waited until Ware had dipped one as well, and had drunk it to the dregs, before the chieftain took his first sip. Xylina wasn't certain whether this was protocol or caution. Perhaps both.

The Pacha warrior exclaimed something that set the others to laughing-and all the rest drank their first cups off as quickly as Ware had downed his. Xylina had to give them credit for strong constitutions;she would not have been able to drink the "wine" so quickly.

"What did he say?" Xylina demanded.

Faro grinned. "Waugh! That is no wine! It is honey-fire! It kicks like an unbroken stallion!"

She sighed with relief. "Good. I hoped they'd like over-sweet wine. Although at the rate that they are drinking, I may test my abilities to the limit to conjure up enough to keep up with them!"

"Your abilities are quite impressive already," he murmured. "And getting stronger, I think. The Queen's warriors are taking note, as is Ware."

She realized that between the defenses and the food, she had done more than ever before. She was getting better with the constant practice of each night's camping. She might do well to try to mask the extent of her conjurations, so that no one would know what her limits were. It could make a difference, if an enemy should try to wait for her magic exhaustion before striking.

The first of the slabs of meat arrived then, and the Pacha set to, eating only with their fingers and their knives, wiping their greasy hands on their chests and hair with every evidence of approval. Evidently Xylina's efforts met with their approval, for they stuffed the boneless "meat" into their mouths as fast as they could chew. They reminded her of hawks eating-happy hawks, for the air filled with their easy laughter. Ware looked relaxed, and even Faro seemed pleased with the way things were going. The empty tub came back to her and she filled it again, then left the camp-kitchen to the cook and joined the others at the fireside.

The Pacha were definitely happy, now, each taking his turn to stop eating and drinking long enough to sing a song. Like their language, their music was surprisingly melodious; they sang without accompaniment other than the drumming of hands on thighs. The firelight shone on their glistening faces and chests, their bright black eyes snapping with pleasure as they ate and drank, dipping their bowls and cups into the tubs of wine. This time, when the tubs emptied, Xylina stood up and conjured them full again before their very eyes, making them exclaim with wonder as the wisps of crimson fog solidified between her hands and turned into a stream of crimson wine that filled the metal tubs. Evidently they saw little of magic, less of conjuration. That comforted her; at least she would not be confronted with alien magic quite yet.

Faro translated as much of their singing as he understood; mostly it seemed to be songs of each warriors personal prowess, or that of his or her ancestor's. There was no differentiation between the male and female warriors; they ate and drank and slapped one another on the back in rough camaraderie, but made no kind of sexual advances toward one another. Xylina had already warned her men that they must treat these barbarians as one would a momentarily quiescent wild beast: with care, and with respect. Even if they had been thinking that a drunken Pacha maiden might welcome one of them, they should dismiss that thought completely. And since the Pacha kept all their weapons well to their hands, her men were only too happy to obey her.

When the sweet cakes and cookies came out, the Pacha were overjoyed. As she had expected, they did not see sweet things very often, and the cakes were a high delicacy for them. Of course, in the afternoon, when they woke up, they would do so with empty bellies-but one night of conjured debauchery would do them no harm, and she doubted that they would know that the food had vanished from their stomachs in a way they were not used to. It would have been a cruel way to treat men and women who were starving-but the Pacha were clearly in excellent shape, and one conjured meal would make no difference to them.

By now, they were very, very drunk; one or two were unable to hold up their cups, and sat staring stupidly at the fire, blinking owl-eyes at the flames, with their cups dangling dripping from limp fingers. The rest had gotten to the stage of happy carousal, where everything was funny, and there was nothing wrong with the world. She conjured more wine, then thick, blanket-like swaths of fabric for each of them, which she had Faro put unobtrusively near to their hands. As she had thought, they mistook the blankets for their own, which were probably still with the ponies, and gathered the fabric about their shoulders against the growing chill of the desert night.

One by one, they drank their last cups, clutched their blankets a little closer, and dropped off into drunken slumber. At last, the entire circle of barbarians lay snoring, cups and bowls dropped from uncaring hands, spilling conjured wine into the sand.

She directed two of the defter men to pick up the cups and move the tubs, spilling out what was left of the wine onto the ground. She conjured water to wash the last of it away. She was weary, and she did not want to dispel the wine left in the tubs only to make the mistake of dispelling all of it and leaving her "guests" sober. She had done a hard job of conjuring, and did not trust her control at this point.

Finally the last of their property was picked up, leaving the Pacha, the ponies picketed nearby, the sole occupants of the fire-circle. And the fire itself was dying down; she did not want to risk an ember popping out and waking anyone, so she did not conjure any more fuel to feed it. Instead, she signaled Ware and Faro to leave their "guests" and follow her to their tent, where bowls of real stew awaited them.

Faro let out his breath as they fastened the flap behind them. "Were you doing what I think you were doing?" he asked. "Getting them drunk enough that they'll still be sleeping like the dead when we leave in the morning? That was better than any notion I had."

She nodded, and reached for her stew. She was absolutely exhausted, and the stew had never tasted so good before. "I have no idea what their capacity for strong drink is, but as the leader said, that was no wine I gave them. It was at least as strong as the best Mazonite brandy, possibly stronger. I wanted to be certain that they slept through our departure."

Ware took his own bowl and smiled ironically. "I nearly gagged on the first swallow," he said. "It is well that my self-control is as good as it is. And it is good that you thought to make that potion as strong as you did; the Pacha drink a strange concoction of fermented cactus that can easily double as varnish-remover. I have only drunk it once, and I can testify that it is a terrible and powerful drink. I do not think that mere wine would have sufficed for your plan."

"I have one guard just on the barbarians all night," she told them both, blinking sore and weary eyes. "The rest will be watching to make certain that their brothers and sisters do not move upon us in the night." She yawned hugely. "That is all that I could think to do. Oh, and I have done my best to make those conjurations as strong as I can. I do not know how long they will last, beyond tomorrow night. If luck is with us, our friends may not awaken until two mornings from now!"

Ware chuckled, and Faro beamed at her with brotherly approval. "Very well, little mistress," the slave said, warmly. "Let us then take care of the rest of the night, while you take your well-earned slumber."

"Thank you," she told them both, with a weary smile for each. "I hoped I could count on you."

And with that, she swallowed the last of her meal, and retired to her pallet just beyond the billowing curtain that separated the dome into front and rear halves. And she was so very tired that she did not even remember lying down upon it-nor did she even think to regret she had left herself too tired to conjure a hot bath.

The Pacha were still snoring in the morning, and not even the braying of the mules was enough to awaken them. Xylina worried about them, after a moment; if they did, indeed, sleep away the whole day and night, they would be lying unprotected out in the desert heat and sun, and it was possible that they could come to harm.

Finally she made up her mind. Her conjurations lasted at least one full day and night; by tomorrow morning, they would surely be awake. She conjured water and fodder for their ponies, then surrounded warriors and ponies with a stockade of conjured thorny branches. Last of all, she conjured the materials to erect one of the dome tents over the warriors. If their own people came looking for them, they would see that the Pacha were protected within shelter and a stockade. If anything else was attracted, the stockade should protect them long enough for the noise to wake them. She was sorry to have left the ponies with only conjured food and drink, but she did not see that she could leave them any of her own.

The tent she made the same red-orange of the earth, so that it did not stand out so much from its surroundings. And when she looked back at it, she saw with gratification that the only thing she truly noticed was the pony herd.

"Those are nasty beasts the Pacha ride," Faro commented, as she turned to face the road ahead. "They bit any of our men who came too close. I'd say those barbarians are as safe in that stockade as they would be in their own camp."

"I hope so," she replied. "Because I have the feeling that we would be in as much trouble from allowing them to come to harm as from harming them ourselves."

"True," Ware agreed. "When they wake they will appreciate the fact that we stole none of their equipment and raped none of their women. We have given them an excellent carousal without harming them, though it will be obvious that we could have killed them had we chosen to. They will realize that we made fools of them, but in a benign manner. That makes a difference."

She sent two of the men out to hunt parallel to the road, hoping to stretch their supplies a bit. She cautioned them about trophy-hunting, and after their close view of the Pacha last night, it seemed to her that they took her warning to heart.

They camped that night with no incident, and without sighting more than a few birds in the air and the occasional jackalope. Those loping, long-eared beasts were about the size of their dogs, and were good eating; both hunters managed to bag a pair apiece to add to the stew. Fresh meat made it far more flavorful and nutritious. Xylina was fairly certain that even this desert country had plants that were edible-after all, hadn't Ware told her of the Pacha's cactus-drink?-but without knowing what they were, she was loathe to experiment.

That night passed without incident, and with no sign of anything but the howling of wild dogs off in the distance. When Xylina made her last circuit of the camp, she saw only the posted guards and one of the female servants going into the soldier's quarters. Those women tended to sleep by day, evidently being kept busy at night. Once she had awakened from sleep, hearing something by her tent entrance, only to realize that Pattée was quietly visiting Faro. Xylina was almost envious. It was a signal of her gradual accommodation to the realities of this type of mission.

In the morning, they packed up quickly; the air had gotten progressively hotter as they had traveled the prior day. They wanted to get out of this area as quickly as they could, traveling as much in the cooler hours of the morning as possible. She had already told the men she planned to stop at midday for a prolonged rest, and since the moon was full, she planned to travel past sunset.

But as they halted for their midday rest and meal, a line of dust heading in their direction signaled that they would not be alone for long.

By the time she had conjured shelters from the sun, it was possible to make out a troop of riders under that dust. It did not take a great deal of imagination to deduce who and what the riders were.

This time the Pacha wore red and yellow breechcloths, their ponies sported red and yellow blankets, and the painted markings were crude bear-tracks, parallel lines, and a glyph that looked like a child's depiction of a flying bird.

The warriors rode up casually, with huge grins upon their faces, and with none of the wariness that had marked the first group. Their number was almost double that of the first warrior-band. The leader hailed the camp immediately, and Faro translated, grinning more and more widely with each word.

"These are the Bear Tribe of the Pacha," he said. "Their cousins, the Thunder Tribe, are the ones we left sleeping. Evidently word of our hospitality has traveled faster than we did-these warriors are here to 'celebrate our brotherhood, just as you feasted our kin.' And from what he says, the rest of the tribes all along the track are expecting the same."

"No-" she said, trying not to moan. "Oh, no-"

"I am afraid so, Xylina," Ware replied, with a hint of mockery. "You are going to be exercising your conjuration powers to the fullest, I fear. These tribes take hospitality very seriously."

"He also says that in gratitude for the feasting, all the 'civilized tribes'-whatever that means-will make certain that we are not molested by anything other than thunderstorms." Faro cocked his head to one side. "All things considered, it sounds like a bargain to me. You simply conjure enough meat to stuff these barbarians full, enough wine to drown them, and we pass through their land with no enemies but sun and rain."

"You aren't the one doing the conjuration," she replied, but secretly she was pleased. Faro was right; it was a bargain. Tribute was better than combat.

Now she needed only to worry about what lay beyond the next border-and whether she could continue to conjure sufficient wine for an ever-increasing number of thirsty Pacha. If practice really could expand her magic ability, she would soon be formidable indeed.