Then, surprisingly, the grey-eyed man placed a hand on his chest and identified himself: “Oziri.” Botas were brought out and passed around. We were, they made it clear, to drink first, even before Oziri.
Peaceable indeed. Courteous, even. I unstoppered the bota, smelled the pungent bite of liquor, took a surreptitious deep breath, then squirted a goodly amount into my mouth. Even as I swallowed liquid fire, clamping my mouth shut so as not to gasp aloud, I passed the bota to Del. Without hesitation she drank down a generous swallow. Then tears welled up in her eyes, and she went into a spasm of coughing.
It might have been insult. Instead, the Vashni found it amusing. Grins broke out. Heads nodded. One warrior brought out a leather bag, dug inside, then tossed out sizeable chunks of meat to his companions. I was thrown a chunk big enough for two; Del, they clearly judged, was still too incapacitated to catch her own.
“If you die,” I told her, “they’ll likely take your body back to the village and boil the flesh off your bones.”
Her voice was thin and choked. “I’m not dying.”
“Here.” I divided and passed her some meat. “Maybe this will help.”
She cleared her throat repeatedly, then accepted the meat even as she thrust the bota back at me. “What is it?”
“Don’t ask. Just eat.” I sucked down more liquor. It was unlike anything I’d had before. Already my brain tingled.
Knowing Vashni eyes were on her, Del lifted the meat to her mouth and found a promising edge. She bit into it, froze a moment, then began to gnaw at it. Eventually she pulled the bite free and began to chew. Her expression, despite her attempt to mask it, spoke of a flavor not particularly pleasing to her palate.
Now that Del was eating, it was my turn. No more excuses. I bit into my portion, tore off a chunk, tasted the sharp, gamy flavor, and began the lengthy process of chewing it into something that might be swallowed. The warriors, I noted, had no problems. But then, they likely had been given tough and mostly raw meat from the day their teeth came in.
Del’s words were distorted around the bite she was clearly reluctant to swallow. “Wha’ i’ it?”
I grinned as I risked it—one big swallow to get it all down at once—and tossed the bota back. “Like I said, don’t ask. Just eat. Wash it down with that.”
Oziri said, “Sandtiger.”
I looked at him. “Yes?”
Something very like a smile quirked the corner of his mouth. He pointed to the meat. “Sandtiger. For the Sandtiger.”
Oh. Oh.
Hoolies—I was eating my namesake!
Del stopped chewing. She stared at the hunk of meat in her hand, plainly trying to decide if she would be forgiven for spitting out what was in her mouth, or possibly killed for it. As I expected, she took the safer road. She swallowed with effort, then squirted more liquor into her mouth. This time she didn’t cough, but a hand flew to her mouth. Droplets fell from her chin.
Sandtiger meat. No wonder it was so tough. They weren’t exactly known as a food source. Usually we were theirs.
I bit off another chunk and began to chew before it could chew back. It was impossible to relax, but the Vashni, eating and drinking companionably, gave every indication we were guests, not quarry bound for the cookpot.
Of course, it could just be the last meal prior to the cookpot.
I didn’t say that to Del. Just watched her struggle to chew and choke down the meat, leavening it with liquor. Eventually I took the bota back and did the same.
“Sandtiger,” Oziri said.
I waited politely, wondering if he were addressing me or identifying my meal.
“The Oracle’s sister took you into Beit al’Shahar and freed you of Chosa Dei.”
Either that had become legend in his tribe, or this man had been one of the warriors who’d told Del where to find Shaka Obre, after she’d hit me over the head with a rock. Or perhaps he was one of the warriors who’d taken Jamail to the chimney formation where he somehow managed to learn how to speak again despite lacking a tongue.
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“You are free now?”
“Yes.”
He ran a forefinger along his hairline. “Chosa Dei did that?”
He meant the rim of tattoos at the top of my forehead, not yet hidden by hair. “No. This was done in Skandi. An island far away.”
He didn’t care about Skandi. “Did Chosa steal your mind?”
I smiled. “He tried. But no. I’m truly free of him.” If I weren’t, they’d likely boil me. “Thanks to the Oracle’s sister.”
He nodded once, glancing at Del. “We honor you, Oracle’s sister.”
Del was startled. But she retained enough courtesy to give him thanks for that, for his meat, for his liquor.
Oziri smiled. “You will be drunk.”
Her face was rosy. “I think,” she said, “I am.”
He nodded once. “Good.”
“Good?” she asked faintly.
“Good, yes.” He glanced it me. “You, it will take longer.”
“Oh, I don’t know—I’m already feeling it.”
“Drink more. There are tales to be told.”
So I drank more, while the Vashni told us tales of the Oracle’s prophecies of a man who would change the sand to grass, thus changing the future of the desert. I kept my face free of reaction, but I couldn’t help wondering if that kind of future was anathema to them. Yet the warriors seemed merely to accept what their Oracle had prophesied, as if it hadn’t occurred to them to question what might come. Blind faith, sitting before me.
“Jhihadi,” Oziri said, and the others murmured something.
I flicked a sharp glance at him.
“The Oracle said he will change the sand to grass.”
I chewed thoughtfully at a final bite of meat, recalling the suggestions I had made to a young man called Mehmet about digging new wells and using cisterns linked to channels to bring the water to areas without. The suggestion had seemed quite logical to me, infinitely practical. So obvious, in fact, I found it amazing no one else had ever thought of it.
And for that suggestion, Mehmet had named me jhihadi.
A man could own a dwelling and a plot of land and call himself a king. A man could have an idea that suited a prophecy, and call himself a messiah.
And there were times when that kind of label could be valuable.
I swallowed the meat, then leaned forward, dug a shallow depression in the dirt, drew a line leading out of it, then poured liquor into the depression. After a moment, it flowed into the finger-wide channel. I reached out, plucked a sprig of grass, and set it at the end of the channel as the liquor arrived.
“Sand,” I said, “is grass.”
The Vashni stared at my little demonstration. Dark faces paled. Four pairs of eyes fastened themselves on my face, staring in astonishment. Clearly they were shaken.
“But don’t mind me,” I told them, shrugging. “I’m pretty drunk.”
And indeed I was. This morning I had eaten nothing, killed a man, lost the dinner I’d had the night before, and swallowed most of the contents of an unfamiliar liquor under a warm afternoon sun.
“He is the jhihadi,” Del declared emphatically. “My brother said so. Was he not your Oracle?” Now it was her turn to be stared at. She blinked, put a hand to her head, then said the words I never, ever expected to hear from her: “Oh, Tiger, I am so dreadfully drunk.”
“Sometimes,” I said, “this is a good thing.” I put my arm around her shoulders, guided her close so she could slump against me without falling over, and smiled fatuously at the Vashni. “And now, if you don’t mind, I think the Oracle’s sister—and very probably the jhihadi—are going to pass out.”
SEVEN
I WOKE UP to the sound of retching. Del, I realized, was no longer beside me. And she’d never been drunk before.
Ah.
I cracked an eye and realized the sun was up, filtering down through the trees. This is not a p
articularly strange discovery to make unless you’ve gone to sleep—or passed out—in the late afternoon, and it appears to be the morning sun.
I opened the other eye, squinted up at arching limbs with their feathery, waving leaves, then girded my loins for battle and managed to lever myself up on an elbow. The world wobbled. So did I. I caught sight of Del several paces away, clutching a tree and looking for all the world as if she’d fall down without it.
Poor bascha.
Belatedly, I became aware of a sense of absence. A sharp glance around the camp showed me no Vashni, no Vashni horses, no skins or carcasses. Only the stud and gelding, still tied to trees but unsaddled, and our belongings piled neatly nearby. Including knives and swords.
As I moved to get up, something shifted against my chest, getting caught on the harness. I looked down, saw a handful of ivory ornaments danging against the burnous. Some kind of necklet had been put around my neck as I slept. Closer inspection showed a string of human finger-bones carefully wired together.
Ugh.
But I elected not to take the necklet off in case Vashni were watching from cover. You never know when the repudiation of a gift might get you cooked. And then your fingerbones would adorn someone’s neck.
There is no cure for the day after a good drunk—or a bad one, depending on your point of view—but there is something that helps. I groped around, found the bota, sloshed it to test for contents, unstoppered it and drank. The bite was just as bad, the smell just as pungent. But adding new liquor to old would improve morning-after miseries.
I raised my voice. “You going to live?”
Del didn’t answer except to be sick again.
I sat up all the way, shut my eyes a moment, kept my own belly down with a massive application of determination, and swallowed more liquor.
Eventually Del made her way back to the blanket, clutching a water bota. I noticed she also had been gifted with a fingerbone necklet but decided against mentioning it just yet. She was very pale—more than usual, that is—and circles had appeared beneath her eyes.
She sat down, leaned her head into her hands, and mumbled, “You must be enjoying this.”
“What, seeing you get sick? Trust me, bascha, it’s one of the least attractive sights in the world.”
“No. That I am sick. After all the times I reprimanded you for getting drunk.” She sighed heavily into the heels of her hands. “I don’t see how you do it. I don’t see why you do it!”
“Well, usually that isn’t the point. I mean, not to get so drunk I feel that bad the next day. Unfortunately, sometimes it is the price you pay.”
“I don’t want to pay it.”
“You didn’t have much choice. It was the polite thing to do when being hosted by murdering savages.”
“You’re not sick.”
“I did that yesterday, remember?” I gently slapped the bota against one arm. “Here. I know you don’t want to, but I promise it’ll help.”
“I have water.”
“It’s not water.”
She lifted her head and looked at me. “You can’t mean more of that horrible spirit!”
“I can. I do. Just a few sips, bascha. Then lie down and go back to sleep.”
“Tiger—”
“I’ve already had my medicine. Your turn.”
She looked and sounded desperate. “I don’t want any!”
“Well, I could pour it down your gullet for you…”
She knew I’d do it, too. Del gritted her teeth, took the bota, winced from the smell, then tipped the skin up to drink. Her hands shook, but she squeezed a couple of swallows into her mouth.
I thought at first she might be sick again, but she managed to keep it down. “Another swallow,” I prompted.
She managed that, then thrust the bota back at me. After a moment she lay down on her side with her back to me, one hand over her face. The sun through leaves spread a lattice of dappled shadow across her body.
Smiling, I sorted out her tangled braid. “Sleep. We’re in no rush.”
What she replied was unintelligible. Probably just as well.
I knew better than to attempt to go back to sleep myself. Once awake after a session of too much liquor, I stayed that way for a while. I’d sleep again later. Besides, other business called me. I got up, suppressing groans, stood there a moment until the world steadied, then made my way into the brush to find a likely bush. After offering a rather prodigious libation to the gods of alcohol, I set about assessing our situation.
First I checked the horses and found them content, lipping up what remained of the grain that apparently the Vashni had given them. Our oiled canvas buckets were on the ground within reach, and each contained enough water that I knew the horses weren’t thirsty. Our weapons remained on the blanket where we’d put them, though the Vashni swords and knives were gone. Our saddle-pouches were stacked next to them, and there was an extra leather bag. I loosed the thong drawstring enough to discover the contents were more meat, nearly lost my belly then, and dropped the bag instantly. Later. Maybe.
So. They had guested us in their camp, fed us, given us drink, untacked, fed, and watered our horses, left our weapons and belongings, and gifted us with meat and bone necklets. All in all, I couldn’t think of a more polite visit with anyone.
Hmmm. Being the jhihadi has its advantages.
I dug through our pouches and pulled out some dried cumfa. While it’s hardly a delicacy, it was somewhat more appetizing this morning than barely cooked sandtiger meat left for gods know how long in a leather bag, plus it was preserved in salt. Salt in the desert is a must. I grabbed up a water bota and went back to the blanket, settling down to a meager breakfast. Del slept on.
Lucky bascha.
When next I awoke, Del was no longer retching. Or sleeping. In fact, she was up doing what I’d already done: checking the horses, our belongings. She was moving with much less grace than usual but had rebraided her hair and changed into a cleaner burnous, since she had, as I had, used her sleeve to clean her face, and looked altogether more prepossessing than she had earlier. Though there was no question she didn’t feel good.
“It lives,” I commented.
Del peered balefully at me, shielding her eyes from the sun with a raised hand. “Barely. I had more of the spirits. What do you call it?—the bark of the dog?”
I grinned. “The hair of the dog. Told you it works.”
“Marginally.” She hooked a finger under the fingerbone necklet dangling against her harness and displayed it. “What’s this?”
“My guess is it’s some kind of guest-gift. You’re the Oracle’s sister, and I’m the jhihadi. Maybe they’re some kind of safe passage tokens through Vashni territory. Not a bad thing to have.”
It was an understatement to mention Del was not happy. “We didn’t even wake up when they put them on us. They might as easily have cut our throats.”
“They could have done that while we were awake. Anyway, I think we’d better wear them for a while, just in case.”
She didn’t like the idea, but nodded. Then she pointed at the Vashni sack. “Can we at least get rid of that? I think we should bury it.”
I grinned. “Not too fond of sandtiger, are we?”
“It doesn’t taste particularly good going in either direction.”
Fortunately I’d only experienced the one direction. I grabbed a bota and sucked down more water, then made the effort to climb to my feet. It was easier this time. “Better take it with us, till we’re out of Vashni territory. You never know what might insult them.”
“Then you carry it.”
I glanced up at the sun. “Midday,” I muttered. “We ought to get moving. Maybe we can make the chimney before nightfall.”
“Or not,” Del said, “considering how we feel. You said yourself there is no rush.”
“That was earlier, when I took pity on you.”
“And I’m not deserving of any now?”
“You’re standing,
aren’t you? If you can stand, you can ride.”
Del said glumly, “I suppose that means I must stay on my horse.”
“Well, I could always throw you belly-down over the saddle and tie you on. Of course, all the blood would rush to your head, and I’m not sure that would make you feel any better. I certainly recall how I felt when you did it to me.”
She flicked me an arch glance. “That was the Vashni who did it to you. And it was either that or let them kill you. To kill Chosa Dei.”
“Well, they were much friendlier this time around,” I agreed. Then I scratched my head and sighed, staring at the horses. “I suppose they won’t saddle themselves. Guess we’d better get to work.”
And work it was, with a pounding head. Took longer than usual, too, though eventually we did have both horses saddled, repacked, and ready to go. The Vashni had left us two blankets as well, which I found downright neighborly of them.
I led the stud into the center of the clearing, sorry to leave the shade. With great deliberation I stuck a foot into the left stirrup, carefully pulled myself up, and swung my right leg over. Amazingly, everything stayed attached.
“Well, bascha, I guess—” But I didn’t finish, because Del arrived with the gelding in tow, thrust his reins at me urgently, and disappeared with haste behind a clump of trees.
This time I didn’t tease her. I dug out some of the red silk left over from my Skandic clothing, unhooked a water bota, and handed both down to her without comment when she reappeared. Del rinsed her mouth, spat, then washed her face. She looked terrible.
I made the sacrifice. “Maybe we should stay here another night.”
“No.” Del took the gelding’s reins back from me, flipped them over his neck, and mounted. She was clearly shaky, but determined. “I know how badly you want to get your hands on your jivatma. If it were mine…” She shook her head. “We’ll go on.”
The poor, pitiful bascha had reverted to cold-faced Northern sword-singer. I knew better than to attempt to jolly her out of it.
Besides, she needed to concentrate on keeping her belly where it belonged.
I realized within a couple of hours that we were not going to make the chimney before nightfall. Though I was feeling much better as the day wore on, and Del seem resigned to a generalized discomfort—at least she wasn’t sick anymore—a faster pace might upset the balance. Not only that, but footing was tougher as we wound our way closer to the dramatic rock formations in the distance, beyond the foothills. Skull-sized boulders sprouted like shrubbery, abetted by drifts of bedrock peeping above the soil. The horses had to pay more attention to where they set their hooves, and we had to pay more attention to the occasional misstep, prepared to bring equine heads up to reestablish balance before they went down onto their knees.
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