'There, now,' he said, 'give the boy back his weapons and let them go.'
What was this demon yammering about? 'The boy has no weapons. He is too young to be a rider.'
'You carry his bow and quiver.'
'They are mine.'
The young merchant laughed. 'How can a woman say so?'
She did not see what was so funny, but the old merchant looked thoughtful.
'Servants cannot carry weapons. We take, or you give to the boy. Your choice.'
'No woman gives up her bow!'
'No man touch you,' said the old man.
What a strange thing to say! What man would dare to touch a woman of the tribes without her permission? None would! Once a tribe was marked by such a shameful act, they were condemned to death and every neighboring tribe would certainly do their part to make sure their name was nevermore spoken and all their goods and innocent children taken into a tribe whose people obeyed the laws of the gods.
Yet if she wanted to save Kontas, what choice did she have? She handed quiver and bow to him.
'And the knife,' said the old man.
And the knife. 'Remember everything I told you, Kontas,' she said in a choked voice. 'Now go. Be quick.'
He was an obedient boy. He wept, but he rode away nonetheless with the band moving tightly behind him as the angry youth turned to shout, 'We will keep them safely for you. I swear it.'
The old merchant cackled, and the younger merchant smirked. The Qin soldiers trotted over. When they were up on their horses and she was standing down on the ground, she trembled. This fear had a sharp tang that ran through her entire body and into her groin and made her shudder as if with desire only it was more like having a knife at your throat.
The old man stopped laughing abruptly, patted his hands a few times as though wiping off dust, and said, 'Good, good.' The young one burst into a passionate demand in demon language, and the old one stepped right up into his face and slapped him so hard it made his dark cheek red. The fat man bawled out orders, and the caravan by stages jolted into forward motion until the entire sluggish beast shambled eastward. The younger man sulked to his horse; the soldiers trotted away to oversee the rear guard.
The old man snapped his fingers, and the fat man rode away and returned with a pretty mare already saddled and caparisoned, a handsome horse fit for a headwoman's daughter.
The old man indicated the horse, to show she should mount.
She would stay strong. She could hold on to her soul for one year. Careful to show no emotion, she took the reins and mounted.
25
'Forbidden you talk to these ones,' the old man said, taking hold of her mare's reins and drawing her away from the herd of captive boys before she could question them about their names, their tribes, their circumstances.
He set strict rules. She must ride in the front beside the old man and his younger associate all day as they plodded through the flat lands of the old lake bed. What grass there was snapped clean, and the vegetation bristled with thorns. The soggy swales where they watered stank of mildew and sour breath. Mostly the old man did
not speak to her, letting her ride in silence, which suited her bleak mood. He made cursory attempts to teach her words of demon language, although she wondered what the use of that was, since he could speak human speech.
Each evening when the caravan laid up for the night, he had his servants heat water in a copper tub — a most remarkable and luxurious item — which was set into a corner of his traveling tent and concealed by curtains. There, she must strip naked and wash herself by lantern light. That wasn't so bad, since dust settled everywhere and she liked to be clean.
The third night, hearing soft, grunting noises, she realized someone was watching her through a gap in the curtains. She splashed out of the tub and yanked the curtain aside.
There sat the old man, sitting relaxed on a stool with a look of calm appraisal on his face, and the young one, who was disheveled with trousers down by his knees and his left hand clutched tightly around his hard red member. Which spurted its milk, just then, as he groaned and gasped and grimaced, staring at her with a bold gaze that made her skin creep.
So stunned was she by this bizarre behavior that she stood there and gaped until the fat man, who was fussing with a pot by the entrance, gave a deep sigh and hurried over to push her back into the little alcove.
'Don't touch me!'
He snorted, a curt laugh. 'I am cut. No man parts.' He gestured to his groin. 'I not touch you. No love desire. Now, be good girl, be quiet. Be finish. Or the old master hit you.'
The next night, she was led again to the curtained tub.
'I won't do it! It's demeaning.'
The old man slapped her so hard it staggered her. 'You my servant. You do it.'
Shaking, she stripped off her jacket, then halted, because he still stood there. 'Go.'
He said, 'No. You do what thing I say.' He raised the hand he had hit her with, showed her the reddened palm.
The Orzhekov girl had been right to warn her. In demon land, anything could happen, the laws of the gods turned onto their
heads, made mock of, stripped and demeaned. How had she been so stupid as to believe it would be otherwise?
As she took off her clothes, he watched her not with sexual desire but with a different and no less intense desire, one she saw on the faces of small-minded women who saw their rivals wearing more golden jewelry than what they themselves possessed. When she was naked, he studied her as if she were horseflesh. He examined her rump, sidled around to scrutinize her flower, and frowned, and smiled, and rose, all without touching her.
'Now you bathe.' When he parted the curtain to go into the other section of the tent, she saw the younger one waiting there, already untying his trousers, and two other men beside him, their eager faces greasy with lust.
Furious, she stood in the tub and bathed herself, and this time she heard the grunts and their release clearly, as if the men had nothing to hide.
That night, she scraped away dirt to open a gap under the taut hem of the staked tent. She rolled off the pallet on which she slept, pulled what gear was left her against her torso, and squeezed into the open air. She squirmed on her stomach between tents and under wagons to the horse lines. It was easy to pick out the pretty mare. She whispered and coaxed her way along the lines without disturbing the other horses, and whispered and coaxed her way beyond the lines with the mare trusting her enough to come along after. The guards had fires lit at the van and rear, but the center remained murky. She led the mare out without being noticed, and for a long time they walked. Even out of the sight of camp they walked slowly because there wasn't much more than a quarter moon shining over the pale earth. The mare was uncomfortable walking in such poor light, but she trusted Kirya enough to attempt the journey. Anyway the ground was so flat that mostly they had only to avoid the occasional snackling stand of thorny brush and the seams and cracks that rutted the earth.
She heard the horns before dawn. There was, of course, nowhere to hide, so as soon as the landscape turned from night to gray she swung up on the mare and pushed westward. Dust soon coated her face and her tongue. The mare had a strong disposition and an eager heart, and for a while Kirya thought she might manage her
escape, but the old man sent the Qin soldiers after her with spare mounts, and if anyone could ride as well as a tribeswoman, it was their old enemy, the Qin.
In the end, when they caught up and surrounded her, she was too proud to weep or struggle. They did not laugh or show any sign of triumph. They kept their distance and offered her some dignity, that she might ride the blown mare slowly back to the caravan.
When they rode up to the tail of the caravan, every man there who could, turned to watch as the old man
