The Sorcery Within

XXXI

"TWELVE SILVER CROWNS,"the caravan master insisted.

"Very well," Shigmur grumbled. It was, in fact, the current market value, but bargaining etiquette required Shigmur to act as if he had been cheated. He reached for his purse and grudgingly counted out the coins.

"A wise investment," assured the master, watching the money drop into his palm. "A man isn't safe out in that desert, travelling with just a wife and slave girl. The barbarians might've had you for lunch."

Shigmur nodded. "I heard they burned a whole caravan not six months ago."

"Nearly. But don't worry. They won't bother us. We're too large, and we pay their tithe, anyway." The man tucked away the payment. "Be ready at dawn. We don't tarry for stragglers."

Shigmur assured him they would be prompt, and the man reentered his gate, disappearing behind the whitewashed adobe walls of his estate. The master of the caravan was also the mayor of Thiebef, the last village on the road out of the city-state of Surudain. This was the departure point for caravans heading to the Sea of Azu region – chiefly to Azurajen, but also to Shol, Palura, and the minor communities adjacent to the inland sea. East of the village lay the beginnings of Zyraii land.

He began walking back to one of the village's many inns. He was nervous, but none would have guessed it. His walk seemed smooth and unconcerned. Passersby would see him as a moderately well-to-do Shol leather-maker, identifiable by the style, workmanship, and predominant material of his clothing. The only weapon visible was a scimitar, a common article for any head of household in these lands.

He resisted the impulse to draw up his nonexistent veil each time a stranger passed.

He entered the inn and knocked at a door on the second floor. "Who is it?" demanded a female voice in badly fractured Azuraji, the trade language.

He answered, then heard the bar lifted inside. "You'll have to learn to speak it better than that," he chided as he stepped in.

And then he burst into laughter.

Yetem controlled her grin by the barest margin and quickly shut the door.

"It isn't funny," Lonal said.

The war-leader stood at the far side of the room, adorned in the traditional garb of a pregnant Shol wife: floor-length skirts, loose blouse, full sleeves, shawl draped over the shoulders, complete with an extremely prominent abdomen. Shigmur couldn't help but think of his wife when she had been eight months along. He examined the effect from several angles.

"The shoulders are still a bit wide for a woman," he decided. "But we can't do much about that. The padding looks good."

Yetem stroked Lonal's bare chin. "He looks young, no?"

Lonal slapped her hand away. His face was pale where the beard had been. He did indeed look years younger.

"I've heard all grown men shave in Ijitia," Shigmur said diplomatically.

"I should move there," Lonal said flatly.

"Here," Shigmur said, picking up the final portion of the disguise. "No woman of Shol would be without her veils – some stranger might see her shame." He draped the multiple layers of gauze over Lonal's head and secured them with a braid around the temples.

Lonal now was utterly covered, save the hands, which he had shaved as well. Yetem had painted his nails. Few would guess that the person in the gown were anything other than a rather large, expectant Shol mother. One had to be very close to make out the outline of the face at all. This, of course, did little for Lonal's vision.

"How I wish I could bring myself to ask another man to do this," the war-leader said passionately.

"It will only be for a few weeks," Yetem said cheerfully.

"I know," Lonal said.

Yetem's disguise was much simpler – nothing more than a calf-length skirt split up the sides all the way to the belt. She was naked above the waist. Although an upright woman of Shol was expected to sequester herself from the eyes of unknown men, it would be presumptuous for a slave girl to think of doing the same.

"I'm ready," she told Shigmur.

The war-second glanced inquisitively at Lonal. "Go," the latter urged. "I will stay here like a good wife."

They filed out the door and didn't speak until they were well out of Lonal's hearing.

"He'll go crazy, having to just sit and do nothing until we get to Xurosh," Yetem said.

"His hate for the traders will sustain him. Lonal always chooses the hardest roles…though this time I think you may have him beaten."

"It won't be any worse than others I've had to play," she replied.

The wineshop brimmed with activity. Merchants and travellers had been gathering for days; this was the last night before the caravan left, and they meant to make the most of it. Shigmur and Yetem took a table near the front, near the circular platform where entertainers tried to entice tips from the clientele. At the moment, a musician was plucking at a stringed instrument unlike any Yetem had ever seen before.

They had not been there long when a lanky man-at-arms from Ireon joined them at the table.

"The name's Jiustog," the soldier said. "You're journeying with the caravan?"

Shigmur gave him a name and replied affirmatively.

The man smiled beguilingly. "My uncle was in the leather trade. Tried to bring me into it when my sire died. Is it your only source of income?" he asked, staring fixedly at Yetem's breasts.

"I supplement it," Shigmur answered. "One silver crown," he added, saving Jiustog the effort of asking.

The man nodded, eyes still on Yetem. "A mite high, but worth it." He laid the coin on the table. Shigmur covered it with his palm.

Yetem stood. Jiustog took her arm. "I have a room right upstairs," he said.

Shigmur observed them as long as he could. The soldier had his arm about Yetem's shoulders as they climbed the steps. She was laughing at his comments and caressing his side.

"What will God have me do next?" Shigmur muttered under his breath.

The musician finished his song and a pair of companions carried tip boxes through the crowd. One of them paused in front of Shigmur.

"Sholi?" the man asked, using the language common to Shol and Zyraii.

Shigmur hesitated. "Yes."

"What part?"

Shigmur quickly put money in the tip box. "Nijara." This was the capital, the only large population center.

"That was my birthplace," the man said cordially. He seemed to want to talk more, but a pair of jugglers from Tunaets had taken the stage. The man hurried to finish collecting.

Shigmur sighed. The last thing he needed was to run into a man from Shol. It would have taken only a little more conversation for the man to have realized that Shigmur's accent was Zyraii, not Sholi. It was for just that reason that he had selected a caravan that had few travellers from Shol. He relaxed only when he saw the musician and his troupe leaving the wineshop in search of another establishment in which to perform.

He settled back to watch the jugglers, and suddenly realized that Yetem was beside him.

"Is everything all right?" he asked.

"Of course." She poured herself more wine.

"You're back very soon."

She shrugged. "Some men are faster than others."

"Even so."

"Let's say I did my best to be sure that he was quick. He didn't seem displeased."

"And you?" Shigmur almost bit back the comment, fearing that he was being too direct. "You do not find it… distasteful?"

"As I said, there are worse roles. I do it of my choosing. That makes anything bearable. The silver does not buy any part of me that matters. Speaking of money, you didn't charge enough."

"I know," Shigmur said, wincing. "He didn't even bargain."

"Next time start with three silver crowns. The more expensive I am, the less I'll have to do this."

"I understand," Shigmur replied.

The jugglers were very good. Shigmur learned that they were going to be among the caravan. A man at a nearby table waved at their antics and called out, "It's going to be an interesting trip, don't you think?"

"Yes," Shigmur replied.

"Faha ebruzh hephanemeni,"Yetem said.

"Faha ebruzh haphenemeni,"Shigmur repeated patiently.

She tried again, and once more pronounced it incorrectly. Shigmur laughed. She couldn't manage the accent, and butchered Azuraji grammar. Nevertheless, during ten days with the caravan, she had picked up a pidgin version of the trade language that was enough to make herself understood.

"Let me try with them," she said, and nudged her oeikani forward. Soon she had caught up with a pair of Surudainese merchant's sons and struck up a conversation.

Shigmur listened to them laugh. Yetem was a favorite within the caravan, though by now only a privileged few could afford her – Shigmur had been astounded how high an asking price he could get for her. If anything, the relative unavailability of her body heightened her appeal. Falling back on a cheerful manner and keen sense of ribaldry, she had by now ingratiated herself with nearly everyone, allowing her to gather a wealth of detail about where they were going. This was the plan, of course.

Shigmur waved away a cloud of dust. The hardpan and mesa terrain was familiar to him. The caravan was within the T'lil borders. He had, in fact, known the Po-no-pha who had come to collect the tithe. They were over halfway to Xurosh. Most of the expedition consisted of Surudainese and Azuraji traders, but nearby rode the jugglers from Tunaets. The other foreigners included a pair of young drelbs on a rare foray into the Far East, a jeweller from Tamisan, a blacksmith from Numaron, and the soldier from Ireon. The latter frequently dropped by their wagon at night, still hoping that he might be able to rent Yetem's favors for the same price as he had at the wineshop in Thiebef.

Gradually his glance returned to his side. The canvas sides of their wagon were up, allowing the breeze through. Lonal was perched in a matron posture on thick cushions, visible but silent to the world. Even with the veils, it was obvious what he was looking at.

Finally Shigmur said, "If you were to have her, none but I would know."

"I would know," Lonal answered wistfully.

Shigmur nodded. It would be a long road.