In the Red Lord's Reach Page 10

  Intermittently, Zavia walked among these men, collecting empty bowls or filling cups from a large jug. She did not have to do these things; Alaric had seen nomad men serve themselves often enough. But she seemed restless. Terevli followed her here and there, like a calf trailing its mother, occasionally catching up to speak in her ear, but she would always shake her head and move away from him. Once she even pushed him off with one hand. She avoided looking at Alaric, except for one brief, sullen glance. She did not take his bowl or fill his cup.

  During the morning, Simir busied himself with the seemingly endless disputes of his people, leaving Alaric free to do as he wished. He watched the process of judgment for a time, watched the high chief hear argument after argument and dispense decisions based not so much on right and wrong as on the need for members of a band to live together in peace and harmony. Often, the disputants accepted his judgment, neither side completely satisfied, yet neither completely dissatisfied, both yielding something and agreeing that the matter was finished. But sometimes such compromise was impossible, and the only way to settle the dispute was to separate the adversaries by sending one of them to some other band.

  Alaric wearied of this wrangling before long and wondered how Simir could bear it day after day. The nomads who seemed so cheerful, so cooperative, so easygoing at their own fires became volatile, angry, and stubborn in dispute. And it was nearly all over deer, over their ownership and their care.

  More tiring indeed than notching a few ears, Alaric thought as he slipped away from the high chief's presence. They must save a whole year's quarrels up for him.

  The rest of the morning he spent wandering among the tents, watching the herders work. By midday, he found himself near the encampment of Nuriki's band; he recognized Fowsh, who was tying a doe and a calf to a post beside one of the tents, and he waved. In a moment, he was surrounded by familiar faces, swept to the fire, and given food. Afterward, he sang for them. They would be leaving the next day, they said, going south. If he had changed his mind about seeking the Northern Sea, he was welcome to come with them, Fowsh said.

  Alaric shook his head. "I have a place in Simir's band, just as you predicted."

  Fowsh grinned and clapped him on the back.

  Later, he returned to Simir's fire and found the high chief taking his ease with a few companions, all disputes put aside.

  "Learning to cut the herd, are you, minstrel?" he asked with laughter in his big voice. "That's surely not a skill you'll ever need."

  Alaric smiled at him. "I hope not. Still, it is an interesting sight. I marvel that anyone can find his own deer in that crowd."

  "They are as different from each other as people are. Or so they tell me." He lowered his tone conspiratorially. "Truthfully, I can scarcely tell them apart myself. I am a hunter, not a herder. Perhaps you know a good song for a hunter?"

  "Perhaps." With a flourish on the strings, Alaric began a tale of eagles seeking their prey among the mountains, and of a boy who had vowed to take an eaglet for his own or die in the attempt. It had two endings, one tragic, one triumphant. For these listeners, he chose the latter.

  "Where have you found so many tales?" Simir asked when the song was done and Alaric had been given a cup of milky wine.

  The lute lay beside his hip, and Alaric plucked idly at its strings. "The world is wide and full of tales, Simir. I had a teacher, for a time, and I have met other singers over the years. I've even invented a few songs of my own." He shrugged. "I hope they are as good as the rest."

  "I would hear one of those, good minstrel."

  "You just did."

  Simir shook his head slowly. "And I can hardly make a rhyme."

  Alaric looked at him sidelong. "And I could not judge a dispute over deer to save my life."

  The high chief laughed. "Do you always say the right thing, minstrel?"

  Ruefully, Alaric replied, "I wish it were so, good Simir. I have said the wrong thing more often than I care to admit."

  "But the music is always right, is it not?"

  "I surely hope so."

  "Then give us another song. Unless…" The sound of drums had just come to their ears, marking the start of the evening's dancing; the sun was low, and already the great fire had been lit, its flames visible in the middle distance. "You are young," Simir said. "You might want to be dancing instead of singing here. There won't be any dancing for my band when we leave this place; the drums and the flutes will not come with us. I won't keep you if you want to join the other young people."

  "I have never been one for dancing," Alaric told him.

  "My sons will show you the steps. Gilo! Terevli!"

  The two youths approached their father. They looked remarkably alike, though the age difference was obvious. Gilo, the elder, was well filled out, broad-shouldered and tall; Terevli was like an immature version of him, more lightly built, with softer features.

  "Yes, Father," said Gilo. He stood spraddle-legged, his fists resting on his hips, an impatient posture.

  "Take the minstrel with you to the dancing," said Simir.

  Gilo swung his gaze to Alaric, an arrogant gaze, one that seemed to evaluate the minstrel's slender frame and find it lacking.

  Alaric looked doubtfully at Simir.

  "Go, go," the high chief said, waving his hand sharply. "You'll enjoy yourself. I'll look after your lute myself. No one else shall touch it."

  With some reluctance, Alaric rose to his feet. Then he bowed to Simir, and to Gilo and Terevli, and followed the youths as they walked silently away from Simir's fire.

  Does he know about last night? Alaric wondered, watching Gilo's back.

  They met Marak and Zavia at the last row of tents belonging to Simir's band, and the five of them moved on together, toward the drums. Zavia walked as far away from Alaric as possible, as far away as Marak's arm about her waist would allow.

  The dancing had already begun before they arrived. A dozen couples were leaping to the raucous music, sometimes clapping and stamping, sometimes swinging round each other with clasped hands. The steps seemed less complex than merely strenuous. Marak took Zavia out among the dancers and soon had her kicking and whirling like the rest.

  Gilo clutched Alaric's right arm above the elbow, and his grip was like the grip of a wounded wolf's jaws. He gestured, open-handed, to the dancers. "Can you do that, minstrel?"

  "I am not a very good dancer," Alaric said, and then he had to repeat the words more loudly, to be heard above the drums.

  "Here," said Gilo, and he pulled Alaric over to a young woman who stood in the front row of onlookers. She was very plump and plain, and her eyes watched the dancers as a starving man watches meat being sliced. "This is our new minstrel," he said to her. "He would like to dance with you."

  She looked from one youth to the other, then smiled hesitantly. "Yes," she said. "Oh, yes."

  Gilo let Alaric's arm go at that. "My father's orders," he said, and slipped away into the crowd.

  Alaric bowed stiffly to the young woman. "I don't know how well I'll do, but I'll try."

  She knew the dance, and she was remarkably light on her feet for one so plump. Alaric muddled through the steps, mostly by imitating her, and he whirled and leaped and swung her till his sweat was flowing freely and the breath began to burn in his lungs. But the music never stopped, nor did his partner, who smiled more broadly the longer she danced. At last, Alaric had to call a halt, apologetically, when a cramp in his side threatened to double him over.

  "Are you ill?" the young woman said, her eyes round.

  He shook his head, one hand pressed to his waist. "Just unused to dancing. But thank you. For being such a good partner." And he bowed, a bit awkwardly, and smiled.

  "Oh, thank you, " she cooed.

  He could almost feel her eyes on his back as he limped away from the throng. He looked over his shoulder only once, and she was watching him as she clapped time, and he had to smile. He did not see Simir's sons or Zavia anywhere, but he felt sure they
had watched him dance. Well, let them have their joke, he thought. I've survived worse.

  He walked slowly, and by the time he began to climb the rise to Simir's fire, the pain in his side was gone and his breath was easy. But the cool evening breeze, which had been so pleasant on other nights, was making him shiver in his sweat-drenched tunic. When he reached Simir's fire, he nodded briefly to the people gathered there then sought out the knapsack that contained everything he owned. Inside was another tunic, dry and clean. He stripped off the wet, clammy garment and shrugged into the other.

  Supper was cooking over Simir's fire. Alaric moved close to the flames, held his hands out to them; he was still chilled in spite of dry clothing. The cook grinned at him and scooped a ladleful of hot stew from the pot, filled a bowl, and passed it to him. As he took it and smiled his thanks to her, he saw Zavia standing on the other side of the fire, staring at him. Her expression was not unlike the one that had been on the plump young woman's face as she watched the dancers. He turned away and walked toward his pallet to eat, but Simir beckoned to him, offering a place on his carpet, and he went there instead. The lute was waiting exactly where he had left it.

  Simir was eating his own meal, and when Alaric sat down, he waved to the folk about him to move off a bit and leave the two of them to talk together. "You enjoyed the dancing?" he asked.

  Alaric gave him a small smile. "Not as much as you would have at my age, I think. But I did manage not to trip over my own feet."

  "Did you dance with her?" Simir's voice was low, and only with his eyes did he indicate that he meant Zavia.

  Alaric shook his head.

  "No? Well, I suppose the boys kept her busy."

  "I suppose so. I was a bit too busy myself to notice, thanks to your eldest. He found me a very lively partner."

  "Did he?" Simir pursed his lips thoughtfully. "That was good of him."

  Alaric bent his attention to his bowl; yet from the corner of his eye, he could see Zavia turn her back on the fire and move off into the darkness between the tents.

  "She's been watching you, minstrel," Simir said softly. "Or haven't you noticed that, either?"

  Alaric shrugged. "Everyone watches a minstrel."

  The high chief was silent a moment, then he said, "You hurt her pride, last night, by saying she was Gilo's."

  Alaric looked up at him sharply.

  "Don't be surprised at what I know, minstrel. There are few secrets in a nomad band; we live too close to each other, with our eyes and ears open. She is a pretty girl, don't you think?"

  "Yes. She is."

  "She is much pursued by the young men, my sons and their friends. Some have even caught her, now and again, whenever she wanted to be caught. But none has ever set a bridle on her. Not Gilo, not Marak, none." He smiled slightly. "She'll forgive you, minstrel. You are new and different, and she wants you very much."

  Setting his empty bowl on the edge of the carpet, Alaric picked up the lute, and with three fingers, he plucked a chord from it. "And what of those pursuing young men? What will they say to that?"

  "What can they say?" said Simir. "The choice is hers."

  "They can make the stranger's life unpleasant." Simir smiled again. "The stranger is a friend of Simir, the high chief. They make his life unpleasant at their peril."

  "Even his own sons?"

  "I do not shrink from punishing my sons."

  Alaric looked toward the shadows where Zavia had disappeared.

  "Go on," said Simir, and he nudged Alaric's knee with the back of one hand. "Don't waste your youth, minstrel. It will be gone soon enough, believe me."

  ****

  THE SHADOWS WERE empty, the space between tents merely a narrow corridor leading to another circle of dwellings, another fire. In the flamelight there, beyond the laughing, chattering company that clustered at the cooking pots, he saw her. She stood with Gilo.

  She faced away; she could not see him. Almost, he stepped back into the darkness, to let her be, however pretty she was, however much she fancied him. There had been other girls for him, there would be others yet. What need was there to meddle with one so much pursued? Almost, almost, he let the shadows claim him. But he recalled the sharpness of his regret, and as he hesitated, the moment for that backward step passed. Gilo noticed him, and Zavia, seeing her companion's face change and his eyes focused on something behind her, turned and saw him as well.

  She smiled then, slowly, a small, triumphant smile. But Alaric scarcely noticed it; his eyes were held by Gilo's, by the proud, hard anger he saw there, the anger of a young man whom time had not yet resigned to being crossed.

  He hates me, Alaric thought. I've done nothing. I refused her. And still he hates me.

  And when at last he looked at Zavia's smile, he understood that she was just as proud as the high chief's son. What is it like, he wondered, to feel that way?

  At her first step toward Alaric, Gilo caught her arm. But she threw him off with a rough word and a rougher gesture.

  "You owe me a dance, Zavia!" he called as he followed her around the fire. "You haven't danced with me at all this night!"

  "Leave off!" she shouted over one shoulder. "I've danced with you enough all year!" She halted a pace or two from Alaric. Her smile was wider now as she looked up into his face with eyes that were pale as the winter sky. The firelight glimmered on her cheeks, seemed to make her skin glow. Softly, she said, "I would rather dance with the minstrel."

  "Dance?" Gilo edged halfway between them, one bare, muscular shoulder almost thrust into Alaric's face. "Stagger, you mean. Stumble. " His voice was heavy with contempt.

  She didn't look at him. Instead, she touched Alaric's arm with just the tips of her fingers, and by that delicate pressure drew him a few steps away from the high chief's son.

  He took her hand in both his own. Her skin was smooth and warm, and immediately her fingers curled about his, claiming him, marking him, speaking to him, youth to youth, Simir's selfsame message. I am not young anymore, he thought. Not with what I have seen, what I have done. But I would be. "You would be disappointed in my dancing, I fear," he told her, smiling to her smile. "But perhaps you would accept a song instead."

  She tilted her head to one side, as if already listening for it. "What sort of song?"

  "A special one, sung only in the finest halls of the south, where the cups are made of gold and the walls are hung with silk. A song to make great ladies weep into their jewel-encrusted hands."

  "I have no wish to weep," she said in a low voice.

  "Then I shall make you laugh instead."

  Her fingers tightened on his. "I believe I would trade a dance for that."

  "Come then; we must claim my lute from Simir's custody."

  In the dark passage between the tents, he looked back only once, to Gilo, still standing in the firelight. His bare arms were crossed upon his broad, leather-clad chest, and hate was like a mask on his strong young face. You will have to learn to hide that when you are high chief, Alaric thought. But for now, better that I know how things stand between us.

  A sudden chill climbed his spine, but it was dispelled just as suddenly by the pressure of Zavia's hand in his.

  They had not quite reached the light of Simir's circle when she stayed him. "Minstrel."

  "Yes?"

  "The song is for me. For me alone."

  "It is."

  "Then come to my tent and sing it there."

  He did not hesitate. "As you wish," he said.

  He heard her sigh in the darkness, and after a moment, her hand dropped away from his. "Why don't you fetch your lute from Simir? I'll wait for you here."

  ****

  THEY REACHED ZAVIA'S tent through the shadows, a winding route that would have bewildered any man without Alaric's unerring sense of direction. Set well back from the fire, shielded from that light by the bulk of half a dozen other tents, it was a small shelter, the smallest he had yet seen among the nomads. Within its open entry was utter blackness.


  Zavia slipped off for just a moment and returned with a burning splint; it lit their way inside, where she transferred the flame to an oil lamp. The light revealed a cozy space, floored with a fine thick carpet and scattered with plump cushions. It seemed perfect for one person, but there was room enough for two to stand in its center, room enough to sit down cross-legged side by side, even to lean back on the cushions. Zavia closed the entry with leather laces.

  "No one will disturb us now," she said.

  Alaric set the lute on his knee. He plucked a chord, and another. Then he laid his hand flat against the strings, silencing them. He looked up at her. "Last night," he said. "I was… harsh. I hope you'll forgive me."

  Her eyes were steady, locked with his for a long moment before she whispered, "Surely you know I do."

  He put the lute aside then and reached for her, and she came into his arms eagerly, hungrily, as if she had been waiting for him a long, long time. Was it just one day that he had known her, just one night since she had slipped into his bed? It seemed like more; it seemed that he had waited half a lifetime to kiss this mouth, to feel this smooth flesh under his hands, to press these hips against his own. And if some vagrant memories of other women tried to intrude on him—other women far behind, lost forever—he pushed them away. In the life of the wanderer, only this moment was real. Only this.

  ****

  AFTERWARD, AS HE lay dozing, his arms still curved about her, his cheek against her breast, she stroked his hair. "My minstrel," she murmured. "My Alaric." She kissed his forehead. "Alaric. What a strange name that is."

  "Common enough some places," he muttered sleepily.

  "In the south I suppose."

  "Yes." He yawned and settled himself even closer to her. "There's a song about him. The original Alaric. Very old song. He was a great conqueror. Sacker of cities. Not much like me."

  She kissed his forehead again. "You've conquered me."

  He looked up at her and smiled. "I rather thought it was the other way round, Zavia."

  She spread her fingers across the curve of his cheek. "If you hadn't come to me tonight, my Alaric, I would have used magic to compel you tomorrow."