“We haven’t seen any lions since we left Tok-Kala, nor their skins for sale,” Rojeh observed as they halted beside a carcass of a wild boar. It was the fourth clear day in a row, and the snows were beginning to melt; only under the trees did the drifts remain, and the boar was lying half-covered in the shade of a pine.
Ragoczy Franciscus nodded and mouthed,
No tigers, either
.
“But we have heard tigers,” Rojeh reminded him. “Just two nights ago. And a few of the fur traders have their hides to sell.” They were eight days away from the stone fortress and were traveling through a stand of scrub forest, with thick-barked pine trees and thickets of close-growing brush. They had been on the road since before dawn, and now that half the morning had slid by, they were looking for a place to rest through the height of the day.
“And wolves—we have heard wolves and seen their pelts,” Ragoczy Franciscus said silently. He stared down the ill-defined track ahead of them and with a considerable effort whispered, “Be alert.”
“For wolves? With the sun up?” Rojech asked with a slight, humorous smile.
“The human kind of packs, I fear.” There was a hint of sound in the words, faint and rough, but as audible as a leaf skittering over the ground.
“You think we could be in danger here? From animals and men?” Rojeh tugged on his mule’s lead and tapped his horse’s sides with his heels; the stallion was as tired as any of them. The mule was equally recalcitrant, forcing Rojeh to tug on his lead. “What killed the boar, do you think?”
“Probably hunger. It has killed many others,” whispered Ragoczy Franciscus, his hand going to the high shearling collar of his shuba; what little speech he had regained came in short bursts and quickly overburdened his slow-healing throat. “That is probably why we have seen no lions.” He could manage nothing more.
“You mean they have died, famished?” Rojeh asked.
Or moved on
, Ragoczy Franciscus motioned broadly so that Rojeh could understand.
“Like the Jou’an-jou’an and the Uighurs,” said Rojeh.
Yes. Ragoczy Franciscus turned back toward the track through the forest.
“Are we far from the Don?” Rojeh asked when they had gone half a league.
Ragoczy Franciscus gestured his uncertainty and pointed to a curve in the descent of the trail and made the signs for
Robbers
followed by
Possibly.
“It could be a place to lie in wait,” Rojeh said, calculating the distance as he laid his hand on his shimtare. “I’m ready for—” He did not finish that thought.
They continued down the slope, following the way marked by the patches of hard-trodden earth that were revealed where the watery sunlight had melted the snow. The woods around them rustled and shook in the gusty wind, making the place seem emptier than quiet would have done. As Ragoczy Franciscus led the way into the hidden curve, he tugged his Chinese mace with the stellated head out of the sheath he had tied to his saddle that morning. The heavy weapon hummed on the air as he swung it, testing its heft.
Negotiating the declining bend, they entered a stand of mixed pines and birch; no outlaws surged out to meet them, no shouts of challenge or warning interrupted the steady clop of hooves. A creek chortling over stones was the only new sound among the trees, many of which looked bedraggled, with stunted ends to their branches, and bare twigs where the first, faint furls of leaves should have been. Here and there lay recently fallen logs, a few with the beginning of moss on them. Snow was thick on the ground, but broken here and there by melting, leaving damp edges to the heaps of white.
“We’re doing well so far,” Rojeh called out.
Ragoczy Franciscus raised his hand to acknowledge his comment, then slipped the mace back into the sheath, making sure the closing was secure. He was in need of shelter; the sun was marginally stronger this spring than it had been the previous year, but for him, it was enough to wear on him, particularly since he had not been able to take nourishment, not even from the horses, since Dukkai had cut his throat and so was wholly dependent on his native earth and shelter. With the advancing day, he felt more and more debilitated.
“Is there any likely place you can see ahead?” Rojeh called up to him. “You’re worn-out. And so are the animals.”
Shaking his head no, Ragoczy Franciscus straightened himself and made himself maintain a correct seat, but it took more of an effort than he wanted to expend. As the trail continued its zigzag way down the slope, he made a point of peering into the trees in the hope of seeing a cabin or other shelter. They had covered almost a league when he noticed something that might be a barn some distance from the track, and he motioned for a halt, making the sign for Shelter before pointing to what he had seen.
Rojeh came up beside Ragoczy Franciscus, saying as he did, “I hope you’re right.” After a rueful pause, he said, “We should have stopped before midnight.”
“But we did not,” whispered Ragoczy Franciscus.
“No.” Rojeh handed his mule’s lead to Ragoczy Franciscus, saying, “I’ll ride over to see what is there.”
“Keep your weapons to hand,” Ragoczy Franciscus soughed as he took the lead.
“I will,” said Rojeh, and set his spotted horse jogging toward what might be a barn. He drew in to a walk as he approached the building—for it was surely that—so that he could listen for any telltale sounds that might reveal something about the place. He took a long breath, hoping he might detect the characteristic scents of livestock. As soon as he did, he knew that nothing alive waited there; the metallically sweet odor of decay hung about the barn that fronted on a paddock, in which four shaggy ponies lay, dead at least five days. Rojeh rode near enough to see how they had died and pulled back his horse at once. “Black Sores!” Neither he nor Ragoczy Franciscus had anything to fear from that disease, but their horses and mules did. He swung the stallion around and started back toward where Ragoczy Franciscus waited on the trail, then stopped. “It is Black Sores!” he shouted, then realized that Ragoczy Franciscus could not answer. “Did you hear?” he called when he could see Ragoczy Franciscus again.
Yes, he gestured.
“Should I approach, or must I dismount and kill my horse?” Rojeh loathed the very notion of having to put an end to the stallion’s life.
No, Ragoczy Franciscus gestured emphatically, and then added,
Come
.
Hesitantly, Rojeh complied, saying as he rode up to Ragoczy Franciscus and the two mules, “Are you sure this animal is safe?”
“No,” whispered Ragoczy Franciscus, “but if there has been contagion, we have all been touched by it. We must find a place to rest, and I will give each of the animals a dose of the sovereign remedy, and it may guard them against the Black Sores.” This taxed him to the limits of his voice, and he made a gesture of apology, then touched his throat, a movement of frustration and fatalism. He kept his mouth firmly closed. We go on.
“Yes. We must,” said Rojeh, and continued to keep looking for a place they might rest safely; the downward path led to a narrow valley that was beginning to show a little promise of spring: there were shoots of the hardiest grasses poking up through the loamy soil, and a few of the willows hanging over the fast-running stream appeared to be trying to produce new verdure. The track followed the stream, stopping at a ford that had obviously been damaged during the storms of the winter. “We can get across, but we’ll have to watch for drop-offs.”
The way Ragoczy Franciscus nodded showed that he was not pleased by what he saw. He pointed down into the deep hole by the head of the ford.
Rocks. Deep water
, he motioned, and pointed to the narrow band of shallows that now made up the ford.
Stay careful.
“You have my pledge I will,” said Rojeh, only partly in jest. He watched Ragoczy Franciscus start across the ford, keeping the mule drawn up close to the blue roan; running water always gave Ragoczy Franciscus vertigo, and Rojeh was prepared to follow closely after him if he showed any signs of succumbing to light-headedness; Ragoczy Franciscus kept erect in the saddle, showing no indication of distress from the water. Rojeh started across after Ragoczy Franciscus; his horse and his mule had reached the far shore. Rojeh’s horse tried to pull free of the bit so he could plunge across the ford, but the footing was wobbly enough to force the spotted stallion to keep to a steady walk, which he did, constantly tossing his head to indicate his displeasure; the stolid mule followed behind with the determination of his kind. As they came out of the stream, Rojeh said to Ragoczy Franciscus, “It could have gone worse.”
Very slowly Ragoczy Franciscus nodded and pointed toward the trail winding ahead. Go, he signaled. He was about to give his blue roan the office when a loud whistle announced the arrival of a goatherd and his flock. The goatherd was possibly twenty-five but looked forty, with sun-leathered face and hair starting to go white; his beard was long and unkempt, and the odor of his body was as strong as that of the goats. He wore a heavy sleeved dalmatica of poor-quality wool, and over it a tunica of leather that was so old some portions of the front had almost worn away; his leggings were of patched goat hide with laces crossed over them to keep them in place. He carried a staff and was accompanied by two dogs, which busied themselves directing the goats.
“Something for the ford,” the goatherd said in a nearly incomprehensible dialect that had Persian and Khazar elements in it, as well as the tongue of the Byzantines. He held up a grubby hand and turned his huge eyes on first Ragoczy Franciscus, then on Rojeh. “We keep it up for travelers, my cousin and I.”
Not knowing if it was wise or foolish, Rojeh reached into the wallet hung from his belt and pulled out a silver coin, which he handed to the goatherd. “For your work.”
The goatherd was dazzled; he stood staring at the coin as if entranced. “Too much,” he crooned to the coin. “Too much.”
“Then you will use it for the benefit of others,” said Rojeh.
The goatherd mumbled something incomprehensible to the silver, then slipped it into his leather wallet that hung from a thong strapped around his waist. “God give you safe travel and may your branch ever bloom,” he said as if he suddenly recalled what was expected.
Rojeh actually laughed once, then said, “Thank you.”
Ragoczy Franciscus sketched a reverence in the goatherd’s direction and started his blue roan moving carefully through the throng of goats, even as he loosened the closure on the top of his mace’s sheath. Then he made a quick motion of
Beware
to Rojeh as they threaded their way through the goats.
The goatherd shouted something, and ahead on the trail three large dogs rushed from cover, teeth bared, and rushed at the two travelers, their horses and mules. Behind them the two dogs rushed toward them, scattering the goats, their snarls joining with those of the first three.
Rojeh pulled his shimtare and raised it to strike, saying loudly, “I hate having to kill dogs.” His blow did not fall, for the stallion kicked out, sending the nearest dog tumbling away with a single shriek before it dropped in a heap. The mules had laid back their long ears and were in defensive stances; one of the dogs reached Ragoczy Franciscus’ blue roan, raking a double furrow in the slope of her shoulder with his teeth. The mare reared and lashed out with her front hooves even as Ragoczy Francisus brought his mace into play and, with a long, sweeping drub, sent the dog that had hurt the mare flying. Rojeh had managed to cut the flank of another dog, and it had slunk off, limping and whimpering. Rojeh’s mule let out a squeal of equine rage, swung around, and bit the dog attempting to gouge his rump.
Standing in appalled stupefaction, the goatherd finally realized that his dogs were taking a beating, and he shouted two short syllables. The dogs retreated, all but one, and he did not move from where he had fallen. The goatherd let out a bellow of grief and held out his arms to the four remaining dogs, who slunk up to him, tails tucked and heads down, ashamed of their failure.
Shelter,
Ragoczy Franciscus signaled.
Now.
Rojeh tugged on the lead to get his mule moving and only then realized that the animal had sustained a gash on its foreleg, a wound that was bleeding freely. “Yes. We must,” called Rojeh, forcing the mule to limp along with his jogging horse.
They had gone perhaps a league when they finally came upon a small cabin that had clearly been used by slavers, for there were heavy bars on the windows and stanchions for chains. A crude painting on the side of the small building showed a procession of men all linked together.
We must,
gestured Ragoczy Franciscus reluctantly, and nudged his mare off the trail toward the cabin.
“Yes. The animals need treatment before they tie up or take Black Sores,” said Rojeh.
Ragoczy Franciscus made no response as they neared the cabin. A short distance from the place, he dismounted and led his horse and mule on foot. At the door he stopped to take stock of the cabin and its surroundings. Noticing a little creek near the rear of the cabin, he led his mare and mule there to drink, and when they had, he went back to the cabin and forced the door open, stepping inside with his two animals. He signaled to Rojeh, Water.
Come in.