Chantat soldier nodded toward a tent.
'Mine?' Valens asked stupidly. The soldier turned and walked back to the coach, which rattled away as soon as he was inside.
In the tent was a plain camp bed, with a frame of willow branches mortised and dowelled together, and split withes stretched across it for suspension. It was comfortable, almost luxurious. He lay down and closed his eyes. In the disputed territory between awake and asleep, he heard her voice, and opened his eyes.
For once, she was actually there.
'You've come back, then. We were worried.'
He thought for a moment; then replied: 'I think I just met their king. My father-in-law. Actually, he's something like my great-grandfather-in-law, not that it matters. All his family predeceased him, which just goes to show, if you live long enough, eventually you get lucky. Do you happen to know where Ziani Vaatzes is? I need to talk to him.'
She shook her head. 'Are you all right?'
'Depends.' He made an effort and sat up. 'For savages, they're pretty damned sophisticated. It takes us about a million dead geese to make a bed this comfortable.'
'They fold away, too,' she said. 'I imagine everything here's got to be portable and collapsible.'
He yawned. 'I had a long talk with their head man,' he said. 'Apparently they're going to wipe the Mezentines off the face of the earth for me. I said not to bother on my account, but they reckoned it was no trouble.' He tried to stand up, but his knees weren't prepared to take responsibility for his weight. 'To be honest, I haven't got the faintest idea what's going to happen next, or how we fit in, or how much of it's going to be my fault. I just wish I'd died out there in the desert.'
She looked at him. 'You've got to learn,' she said. 'There's things you could have put in a letter that you can't say face to face. Not unless you mean them.'
'I wish I'd died in the desert,' he said. 'The only good thing about still being here is knowing you're safe. I don't really care about anything else anymore.'
She looked away. 'Define safe,' she replied.
'No thank you.' He yawned again. 'Sorry,' he added. 'I guess the last few weeks are catching up with me. Oh, I forgot. The king of the savages is extremely old, and when he dies, I'm supposed to succeed him.'
She frowned. 'Do you want to?'
'No.'
'Have you got a choice?'
'Not really.' He shook his head like a wet dog. 'Do you know what I really want most of all right now, more than anything else in the whole wide world?'
'No. Tell me.'
He grinned. 'I want a pack of dogs and a bloody great big spear, and I want to find something edible with four legs and kill it.'
It was in the place he'd told her it would be; in the top of the broken crock where the poultryman left the eggs, under the cracked roof tile. It was a little square packet of parchment. Any of her neighbors would have assumed it was a dose of powdered willow-bark from the woman who sold medicines.
She'd noticed it early in the morning, when she collected the eggs; but he was there, so she didn't dare pick it up. She left it, hoping he'd go out, but for some reason he didn't go in to work. Instead he sat in the study all day, staring at a big sheaf of drawings. When she came in to ask if he wanted anything, he tried to hide them with his sleeve.
All day she waited. Three or four times she almost managed to persuade herself that it'd be safe to get the letter and read it, but she resisted the temptation. As it happened, she would've been quite safe. Falier only left the study once all morning, to go to the outhouse…
Of course. How stupid of her.
As she hurried toward the front door, he came out of the study. 'Where are you off to?' he asked her.
'To put the money out for the egg man,' she replied.
He frowned. 'What money? You haven't asked me for any money.'
Stupid; careless. 'No,' she replied.
He sighed. 'How much?'
'Three turners.'
He fumbled in his pocket. 'Three turners for a dozen eggs,' he said. 'Couldn't you get them cheaper in the market?'
'His eggs are always fresh.'
He gave her three small coins. 'There's a man at work whose mother keeps hens,' he said. 'I'll ask him if there's ever any spare. We're not made of money, you know.'
'That's a good idea,' she said meekly. 'Can I get you anything?'
'What? No. Have you seen my small penknife? The little one with the black handle?'
She nodded. 'In the kitchen,' she said. 'I used it to dress the fish.'
'Oh for-' She could see him making an effort not to be annoyed. 'Next time, couldn't you use something else? That's my special knife for sharpening pens.'
'All the kitchen knives are blunt. You said you'd sharpen them.'
'Yes, all right, when I've got five minutes.'
You said that last week, she didn't reply. 'It's in the drawer,' she said. 'I washed it up carefully.'
'Right, yes, thanks.' He stomped out into the kitchen; she bolted through the front door and shut it behind her.
First, she put the money in the bottom of the crock. Only then did she look to see if it was still there. Seeing it was like a miracle. She palmed it quickly, squeezing her hand around it without closing her fingers. Then she crossed the yard, opened the outhouse door, sat down on the edge of the earthenware pot, shut the door and bolted it. Today, the bolt had to be stiff (he'd promised he'd see to that, too). She broke a nail working it into its keeper. My darling…
She shut her eyes as the muscles of her stomach tightened. My darling,
I know you must be very worried and upset. It hurts me terribly to think of you, not knowing what's going on, or whether you're in danger. I think about you all the time.
I'm safe. That's all I can tell you for now. I'll come for you as soon as I can, but that may not be for a while. The people I'm with are going to look after me, but…
She skipped a couple of lines. I'm sorry I can't tell you any more, but I've got to be so careful. Trust me, my darling. I promise you, everything's under control. I'll be coming home, and it'll be soon. I don't care what it takes or what I have to do. The only thing that matters to me is being with you.
I love you.
She folded the parchment up again, putting him back into his little packet.
'What the hell happened to you?' Valens hissed, as they brushed through the tent flap together into the darkness. 'You look like you've been in a fight or something.'
'Doesn't matter,' Ziani muttered back. 'What's…?'
'Ziani Vaatzes.' The thin, fragile voice startled him. He couldn't see where it was coming from. 'I am delighted and honored to meet you. The hero of Civitas Eremiae; and the armored wagons. Such a simple yet ingenious idea, but of course it was overtaken by circumstances. And a Mezentine; I think I shall indulge my curiosity and have some light.'
Only a brief nicker, lasting hardly longer than a flash of lightning; a very old man, completely bald.
'Thank you,' said the voice. 'So it really is true; there are men in the world with brown faces. Remarkable. My apologies for staring at you so blatantly; but at my age, to see something new is such a rare thing. And the man who discovered the way across the desert. What a long way you've come, Foreman Vaatzes.'
'Thank you,' Ziani said, for want of anything else to say.
He could hear Valens breathing beside him; fast, nervous, like a man waiting for his bride's veil to be lifted. As for himself, he could almost have wished that this moment would last forever. Almost.
