making some embroidery as well.”
“Does she still ride?”
“Not often. Remember the Relanese never did approve of women riding horses. They had some idea they would lose their virginity.”
“But she's married! She has four children!”
“Yes, but they always thought it unseemly for women to ride anyway.”
Mora looked concerned.
“Is she happy? Menish, is she really happy?”
Menish laid a hand on her shoulder.
“Mora, your daughter is happy. You should go and see for yourself.”
“No, it is she who left us, it is she who must return. I'll not go chasing after her into Relanor. Especially if they're going to frown at me riding a horse.”
“It's been eight years,” said Menish.
“What has Drinagish been doing?” asked Holdarish, changing the subject.
“He's acquitted himself well,” replied Menish with a smile. Drinagish fidgeted with his drinking horn. “We were attacked by pirates on our voyage south from Lianar. Drinagish’s sword put the fear of Anthor into them. It was he who found Keashil and Olcish on the pirate ship.”
“Don’t drink it so fast, boy,” muttered Holdarish, nudging Drinagish when he took a mouthful of ambroth.
Menish carefully ignored the parental rebuke and reached for more food. There was tsamba, a favourite of all Anthorians: butter rolled in toasted barley flour. He kneaded a bite-sized piece of butter between his finger and thumb and dusted it in the bowl of flour.
“How are things here? I feel I've been away for so long it seems all summer has passed away.”
“We've had little trouble with the wolves, though it's hardly cold enough to send them south yet.”
“Many raids?”
Holdarish shook his head. “Not my herds, and I've other things to do than go raiding myself nowadays. I leave that for the younger ones. It's forbidden to Drinagish now, of course.”
“That's true, the king and his heir may not raid herds, and no one may raid theirs.”
“Hmm, perhaps we could gift our herds to Drinagish now that he's your heir. Then we'd be immune from raiding.”
“Then you'd be beholden to him for your income-”
“Do I hear you correctly?” interrupted Keashil. “You're talking of raiding cattle aren't you? Stealing each other’s cows and sheep?”
“And camels,” said Holdarish around a mouthful of tsamba.
“Yes, that's right,” said Althak. “They do it for sport in Anthor. I was surprised when I first found out too.”
“Not merely for sport,” Mora corrected him. “Raiding is a way of getting rich.”
“Or getting killed, of course,” said Menish.
“Any venture that may produce profit will have an element of risk.”
“Rumour of this came to Golshuz, but no one believed it. It is lawful, then, to steal cattle in this land?”
“Of course. Anyone who does not have the wits to guard his animals would lose them to the wolves anyway,” said Mora.
“There are rules,” said Althak. “No more than half of the breeding stock may be taken. The camp itself may not be raided and only those actively involved in defending the herd may be attacked. Otherwise there would be a danger to children and the infirm.”
“How… civilised,” said Keashil. “But those defending the herds may fight and kill each other?”
“Oh yes,” Menish said, speaking like the father of an unruly child that he indulges in spite of himself. “They fight, they duel, they feud. Every small matter must be resolved by violence. There are families that have been at each other’s throats for generations over some trivial matter. That absurd feud between the Rithyar and Romarbol clans has been going on for more than a hundred years as far as I can tell. It started when one sold the other a sick sheep which died the next day.”
“And they raid each other all the time?”
“Not all the time,” said Drinagish. “No one raids or feuds a month either side of the spring games.”
“And of course at the spring games you will see members of the Rithyar clan and the Romarbol clan buying each other drinks and swapping stories,” put in Holdarish.
Keashil laughed. “You are a strange folk.”
“And formidable fighters,” said Mora.
“Those that survive are,” muttered Menish.
“But, Uncle,” said Drinagish. “Most duels are fought with wrestling nowadays.”
“Most are, that's true. But the rest are fought to the death, and raids often get someone killed.”
“You can't cool hot blood, Menish,” said Mora. “Anthorian blood has always been hot.”
“Too hot for our own good, I fear,” said Hrangil grimly.
“And what's that supposed to mean, Master Hrangil?” asked Holdarish.
“Our hot-blooded warriors are of little use when it comes to a war.”
“We beat Thealum not long ago!”
“We didn't. We trained Vorthenki allies in the ways of Relanor. They beat Thealum.”
“With Anthorian help.”
“Yes, some of our own folk were not so hot-blooded that they wouldn't submit to training in how to obey orders. They had to fight with the tight discipline of Relanor, not the mad charge of Anthorians.”
“It's true,” Menish took some more tsamba. “We don't like to admit it. Our folk are bred to wild raids and duels. They don't take orders easily. In any large battle they will spend their all on one massed charge. It's very brave but it's not a tactic that works well.”
“I've heard it said that Vorish fights his battles beforehand on a table with sticks for armies,” said Mora.
“Yes,” put in Althak. “I've seen him.”
“So have I,” said Menish. “He plans a battle beforehand because he knows that his own folk will do what he says. Although…” He hesitated.
“What is it?” asked Holdarish.
“Sometimes I fear that Vorish thinks his armies really are only sticks. They can be thrown away without a thought when the need arises.”
“So what would you have?” frowned Mora. “The Anthorian way of glory and death, or Vorish’s coldly planned wars?”
“I'd have peace,” said Menish quietly, and as he spoke his eyes met those of Azkun. Perhaps they had something they could agree on.
Chapter 20: The Caravan
The next morning when they resumed their journey the ground was dusted with frost. It fled when the sun peered over the mountains they had crossed the previous day, but the air was chill and the breath of the horses steamed from their noses.
Kronithal lay on the banks of the great river Cop-sen that they had seen the previous day and their first task was to cross the river. The water flowed sluggishly here and it was dirty yellow with desert silt carried hundreds of miles from the wide plains of Anthor that stretched far to the west. There was no bridge, but moored on the near bank was a barge large enough to carry their whole company. Two ropes stretched from a post on the bank beside it out into the water and away to the far side where, presumably, there was a similar post holding the other ends. It was too far away for Azkun to see.
The horses allowed themselves to be led onto the barge but they were clearly unhappy about it. When they were all aboard the ferryman untied his barge from the post and pulled the boat out into the stream.
