Mathi tied the ponies to a stake thrust in the turf. Carrying the concealed kender, Treskan lumbered toward the camp. Mathi followed, breaking her step so as not to outpace the burdened scribe.
The border of the camp was well marked by a hedge of sharp spears. Each nomad carried a bundle of them on his horse, and every night they were combined to form a defense for the camp. They were no deterrent to visitors on foot, and even with the kender, Treskan managed to slip between the sharp points. Behind the barrier the nomads had mown down the grass with scythes to provide both fodder for their horses and a clear lane to spot intruders. Mathi was surprised by the sophistication of their defenses. When she had been captured before in the hills, the nomads’ camp did not have so elaborate a system of protection.
She passed stands of ready weapons-spears and poleaxes mostly-and came upon the outer line of tents. Treskan whispered to Rufe for directions. Peering out through the lacings of the scribe’s shirt, Rufe said, “Right.”
They tramped along a darkened line of horsehair tents built in the round style of the northern plains. It was not very late, but many nomads were sleeping, as evidenced by the great amount of snoring they heard. Mathi was behind the scribe, guarding his back. Treskan was watching his feet closely as it was hard to see where they were falling with the bulk of a concealed kender in the way. Thus he did not see the large warrior standing with his back to him. Man and kender blundered right into the nomad.
“Get off!” the man growled. He was watering the grass.
To his horror Mathi and Treskan heard Rufe snap back, “Out of my way, oak tree.”
The hulking figure turned slowly around. He was a head taller than Treskan, with a beard like a raging flame.
“Men who speak to me like that don’t live long.”
“Not if you breathe on ’em,” said Rufe.
Treskan gasped and thumped the kender through his tunic. The warrior drew a short, wide sword and displayed it under the scribe’s nose.
“Got a cough, have you? I’ve got the cure!”
“Begging your pardon,” Treskan said between gasps. He shoved the heel of his hand into Rufe’s mouth to stifle him. The kender promptly bit him.
Wincing, he sidled past the warrior’s butcher blade. “Too many strange victuals,” he muttered, keeping up his phony cough. Mathi kept her face averted and darted after him.
Red Beard sheathed his sword. “The only strange one here is you, lard bucket.”
Rufe struggled to deliver a stinging reply. Treskan clamped both hands over the hidden kender’s face and hurried on.
“Are you trying to get us murdered?” he demanded.
“Tuh! Big bullies haven’t the tongue for taunting,” Rufe said.
“It’s not their tongues I fear. Now shut up, or you’ll be eating pancakes through a sliced gullet!”
They circled halfway around the sizable camp until Rufe recognized a group of tents. He dug an elbow in Treskan’s ribs. They had arrived at their destination.
At first Mathi imagined they would have to creep into some dark tent and make off with the talisman. That was not what Rufe had in mind. They got down on all fours and crawled through a closed hide flap. Beyond the leather door, a fat lamp burned, barely lighting the interior but also making it stifling hot. Five nomads, dressed in leather jerkins, sat in a circle around the lamp.
Mathi’s heart sank. She gauged how likely it would be that they could back out without being challenged, but Rufe piped up in a deliberately gruff voice, “Is there a game goin’?”
Mathi recognized the nomad named Vollman. “It is,” he grunted.
From inside Treskan’s tunic the kender jangled a purse. “Room for another?”
“Always room for losers,” said Vollman. The others grinned wolfishly, but none of them looked very close at the newcomers. Treskan and Mathi crawled into a spot between Vollman and a sandy-haired nomad. It was fiendishly hot in the tent. It also stank. The nomads had acquired many traits of civilization, but bathing wasn’t one of them. Mathi swallowed hard.
“The wager is six,” said the black-headed warrior sitting across from Vollman. He shook a dry gourd and dumped the contents on the ground in front of his crossed legs. Five square tokens fell out. They were white, made of bone or stone, and one side of each was blackened with soot. The warrior’s cast showed four black faces and one white. Vollman cursed.
Mathi didn’t know the game. They were gambling, but she hadn’t the faintest idea how to play. She kept her chin tucked in low so that no one would notice her slender, female features. Treskan, for better or worse, let Rufe do his talking. Fortunately, the light was so poor that no one noticed his strange shape. He could have been an ogre, and the men huddled around the sputtering lamp would not have recognized him.
“I’ll take one.”
“Hard odds. What do you wager?” said Vollman.
Rufe slipped his hand into the top of Mathi’s sleeve and dropped something small and hard. It rolled out in the scribe’s palm: a nice bit of beryl, deep red and unpolished, a desirable stone.
The other men eyed the wager appreciatively. They were betting metal mostly-bronze knives, earrings, copper bangles, all looted from unfortunate victims in the path of Bulnac’s raiders. One man took back his wager, a poorly made copper cloak frog. The rest left theirs where they lay.
The black-haired warrior scooped up the tiles in the gourd and passed them to Treskan. “One, two, three, dump, that’s how to do it,” Rufe said in a sing-song voice. He was telling his clueless partner how to proceed while trying to sound like he was reciting a gambler’s lucky chant.
Treskan imitated what he saw. He rotated the gourd in a circle three times, then dumped it upside down in front of him. When he lifted the cup away, one black side and four white showed. Everyone grunted with surprise.
“What do you know, a win first off,” Rufe said. Treskan raked in his winnings. He didn’t yet understand the game, but his little companion did.
“Go again,” said the blond warrior beside him. Treskan gathered in the tiles. From under his chin Rufe growled, “Three.”
“Easy bet. What do you hazard?”
More stones trickled down the scribe’s sleeve. Rough emeralds! Treskan was as startled as everyone else when they rolled out in the dirt.
Three men took their bets back. Only Vollman and a nomad with an empty eye socket remained in. One-Eye put down a nice dirk with an embossed silver handle. Vollman wagered four golden bangles.
“Them real gold?” Rufe asked.
“Yeah. Want to test them?” He held the bangles out for Treskan to try with his teeth. Since he didn’t know the hardness of gold from a chicken bone, he waved them off.
“Point is five,” Rufe announced. The two betting nomads grinned. Mathi assumed that was a hard point to make. He shook the gourd three times then upturned it: all black.
One-Eye cursed. Vollman stared hard at Treskan then at the tiles. He picked them up, rubbing each one between his thumb and forefinger.
“What’s the matter? Got an itch?”
Mathi didn’t dare punch the kender while sitting in front of so many witnesses, but she dearly wanted to.
“New tiles,” said Vollman. A nomad with silver beads woven into his scalp lock tossed a small leather bag to his host. Vollman poured them out. There were five tiles, red on one side, white on the other. They were slightly bigger than the previous playing pieces.
“Lemme see those in the light.” Treskan picked up one as Rufe indicated and held it up at arm’s length. To his amazement, Rufe snaked his little arm down Treskan’s sleeve and took the red and white tile. Close beside them, Mathi bit her lip to keep from gasping. Treskan kept his palm cupped so that no one could see what happened. He was sweating from the heat and from pure fear. If the nomads caught Rufe cheating, they would surely die for it.
To his relief the kender returned the tile to his hand.
“My toss still?” growled Rufe. Vollman nodded.
