'You are a foolish, foolish girl. We would have traded away the other boy, too, but the merchant only wanted the blond one. Now, take your complaining and depart, or make your offer and I will consider it.'
'The gods will punish you,' said Mariya, so gray that she looked half dead. But wasn't their tribe already half dead, thrashing about blindly as the lifeblood drained out on the ground? Oh, gods, how terrified Kontas must be! And their mother dead in the fire — an honorable death, sent to the gods, certainly, but dead is dead. Kirya could not speak for tears, knowing herself half an orphan already although she had cousins to succor her. And yet what did she have to look forward to? Orphan was taken. What man would accept her Flower Night, now that her night with Orphan had been interrupted in such a ill-omened manner? The gods had cursed her. What did she have left?
Nothing.
'Mari, it's as she says, take it or leave it.' She had worn gloves as a precaution, and she unslung the quiver from her back and untied the bundle, heedless of those edging close to shield the headwoman, whom they all obviously feared and obeyed even if she was a foreign monster with demon eyes. She grabbed the cloak with her gloved hands and shook it free.
They shouted with dismay when the silver cloth snapped out like the unfurling wings of one of the gods' holy steeds. Only the head-woman and her war leader did not shrink back. The silk-adorned girl child covered her face and began to cry. Her mother grabbed the girl's wrists, pulled them down, and slapped the little thing in the face.
'Never snivel! Don't show fear.' She looked up at Mariya. 'Give us the cloth. Take the children. It's a fair bargain. They're worth nothing to us, just more mouths to feed.'
'What of our other goods? The winged kur belonging to our war leader? The worth of those of our tribe members who have crossed the lines to join your tribe? We're owed something in recompense.'
'You're owed nothing. You are fortunate I am in a generous mood today.'
'Give the cloth to her, Kiri,' said Mariya without looking toward her cousin. 'Children, start walking out of camp. Stanyo, Asya, keep Danya between you, as she is smallest. Steady.'
Words filled Kirya's heart, but they would not climb onto her tongue. The cloth subsided against her legs, and she folded it, in halves, and halves again, until it was a manageable bundle that she wrapped in a scrap of dirty hide scrounged from the ruins of the burned camp. She took her time, so Mariya and the children could walk out of camp.
Deliberately, she tossed the bundle to the dirt. A young man had crept up behind her. The gelding kicked, hard, and he yelped and hobbled back. Ears laid back, the gelding sidled around, looking ready to clip anyone who had the temerity to approach. Kirya began walking in Mari's dust, hand on the reins, the gelding behind her.
The assembly remained silent for a few breaths, then burst into a babble of voices and exclamations and laughter and arguments. A man leading a horse pushed into her way, confronting her. She
glared at him. When he did not move, her grief-blinded gaze finally saw him.
Estifio held the halter of the bay mare, the prize of their tiny herd. Without a word, he shoved the reins into her hand and slid away into the tribe. The mare settled in beside the gelding, content with this familiar place. Kirya kept walking, and somehow no one noticed because they had all crowded up to see the precious cloth the headwoman had acquired. Who cared about one more horse among the many the Vidrini owned? Who cared about the straggle of useless children, who were just more mouths to feed?
Precious mouths.
By the time they reached the grass beyond the camp, out of sight of the tents, Kirya was fighting sobs as rage and grief squeezed her. The gelding breathed hot on her neck.
Mariya halted. The children ran to her, huddling around, crying until she cracked stern words over their heads. 'None of that, or we'll never get home! Hush now!' She looked up, and saw the bay mare. The piebald greeted her companion with a friendly snort.
'Kiri! The mare!'
'Estifio handed her over to me while I was walking out. He ran away. I didn't talk to him.'
'He's not the one who betrayed us,' said Mari. She turned to the children. 'Asya, you'll ride the bay. You're skilled enough to manage the trip bareback. Stanyo, you'll ride with Kiri. Danya, you'll ride with me.'
'No,' said Kirya. 'I'm going after Kontas. You heard what she said. They traded him away just yesterday. I can catch up. The gelding is good for it. He's the toughest horse we have.'
'What will you offer this eastern merchant? He'll not care about the laws of the gods.'
'Neither did that motherless hag!'
'Hssh! Kiri! Of course she did. She doesn't dare spit on the laws of the gods. A foreign woman sitting as headwoman over one of the tribes! She had to make the trade, or be seen to scorn the laws of the tribe that took her in. What could we truly have done to her? Nothing! So she didn't have to give us anything, or even make the trade. That she feared looking like an outsider in the eyes of her tribe is the only reason we have the children back.'
'Maybe you're right. But she wanted that cloth.'
'They took Kontas.' Asya tugged on Mariya's arm. The girl had a black eye, and the grime of tears and dirt smeared on her face and arms, as if she'd been pushed into the ground. 'I tried to hit them, but I couldn't stop them from taking him.'
'I know, dear one,' said Mari. 'I know you did what you could. Now we're going home.'
'I'm going after Kontas,' said Kirya. 'We can't abandon him, Mari. I can't. How will my mother ever rest at peace among the gods?'
Mariya rubbed her forehead, pretty face creased, and Kirya saw suddenly how much effort it had cost her cousin to endure the taunts of the youth she had lain with, who had whispered endearments and promises which had all along meant nothing to him. How much courage it had taken her to stand in front of that crowd as if their sneers and scorn did not touch her, who had been taken so thoroughly for a love-struck fool and had her foolishness announced to everyone.
'Oh, Mari.' She dropped the gelding's reins, and hugged her beloved cousin fiercely. 'I have to go.'
Mari glanced in the direction of the camp, but no one had come after them, not yet. 'Asya, you'll walk with me. Stanyo and Danya will ride the bay, but we'll saddle it first. Kiri, you'll take the piebald, in the halter. Trade the gelding if you can, although why anyone would take that misbegotten beast I don't know, not once they've seen his temper. Trade the piebald if you must.' She tugged the three lapis-lazuli nets off her braids, and wept as they kissed. 'I don't need these. Maybe they'll be worth something. We'll wait four days for you at the pond where we camped last night. Otherwise meet at the gar-deer sink. Now go. Go.'
24
Kirya's tribe had never ridden south to see the Golden Road, but she had heard tales of a path
on which foreigners traveled east and west along the southernmost range of the vast grasslands roamed by the tribes. East lay the brutal Qin, and south lay the mud-feet, people
who stank from living in their own garbage all year around. Sometimes the tribes raided them, taking what they could grab. Sometimes the mud people marched into the grass to take vengeance, but any tribe could simply pack up and move; even a child like Danya could outride the mud-feet's boldest warriors.
She paced the gelding, switching off to ride bareback on the piebald at intervals. South of the Vidrini camp, the hills flattened and the grass changed variety, turning brittle with heat. She had a pair of filled leather bottles, but anyway she knew the signs that revealed sinks of water waiting a short dig beneath the surface; she could smell a swale or rivulet before she saw it. Now that she thought about it, Orphan had taught them a lot about surviving in the wasteland. Poor tribes were always driven off the best pasture-lands, pressed toward the deadlands, and maybe Orphan walking into their tribe two years ago had been the gift of the gods after all.
Midway through the afternoon, a long upward slope brought her to a tipping point in the landscape, beyond which lay a dry lake bed so wide she could not see the far side. Clumps of brush dotted the flat. She searched for the golden gleam that must mark the road, but saw only ruts in the hard ground running east and west, so many crisscrossing the dead lake that they tangled like a child's unsteady weaving.
