“If he tries that on me and Inja, I’ll scream!”
“He won’t,” Hanse assured her. “Don’t worry about it. He’s a one-man cat.”
“Odd, though,” she said, regarding Notable speculatively. “A little fickle, don’t you think? He was Ahdio’s one-man cat, and valuable to him, I’d think. Then he made up to you and next thing he walks two-plus days and nights, across the desert, to be with you! That is un-catlike, Hanse. Now he’s Hanse’s one-man cat, hmm?”
Hanse shrugged. Without looking he reached back to touch the big red cat. “You riding all right, Notable?”
Touched, Notable began purring.
“You know I never liked cats? At all!”
“Yes Hanse, I know.”
“Any animal that can stare down a human ought to be illegal, I used to say.”
“I remember.”
Hanse sighed and gave his head a single jerky shake. “Notable’s different.”
He gave thought to the fact that obviously the cat had sense or consideration enough to curb his natural feline habit of landing with claws out, or Blackie might still have been galloping. Now Blackie plodded, heedless that he bore a cat who could have sunk large needley claws into him in less than the blink of an eye or the twitch of an ear.
Notable purred.
They plodded past a yellowish upthrust of prickly-looking, sickly-looking plant, and a moment later the onager strained at his towline. “Rein up a moment,” Hanse said. “Dumb-ass wants a snack.”
Not true; the onager nosed the pitiful excuse for vegetation and decided he didn’t want any. He emitted one of his over-loud squeaks and trotted a few paces to come up between the horses.
A moment later Mignureal said, “You’re not going to believe this, but Notable and Cutie-boy there just touched noses.”
“Notable? You losing your taste?”
Notable didn’t reply. After a time the dumb donkey dropped back, content to follow for a while. He and the horses plodded, sweating. Their riders rode loosely, slumped and sweating. Notable snoozed behind Hanse’s saddle.
Mignureal’s spotting a blue-tinged patch of sky was an occasion. She and Hanse talked about it for five minutes. For another ten minutes she talked fondly of the changing skies above Sanctuary and out over the sea.
When they drew their horses together to pass the water-sack back and forth and use the damp cloth on their faces, Notable roused. He stretched, sat, licked down one leg, and made one of the most frightening faces on the planet as he yawned. Then he made the easy little hop over onto the rolled blanket and skirts behind Mignureal’s saddle. Inja jerked, but merely gave the equine version of a shrug. He resumed being grateful to be standing still.
“Frightened the heart out of me!”
Hanse wiped the frown off his face. “Just likes to visit around, doesn’t he. Your turn next, Dumb-ass.”
“Hanse, let’s give the onager a name.”
Hanse shrugged. Having secured the water bottle, he clucked to his horse. “All right. Think of one. ‘Cutie’ will not do.”
A few minutes later: “How about…Molin?”
Hanse laughed aloud. Molin Torchholder was the Rankan high priest, back in Sanctuary. Why not? Then he frowned. Or was she just using a sneaky way to make fun of the gods? He put his mind to it, and within a league or so he thought of a counterproposal.
“How about ‘Enas’, after dear old Enas Yorl the mage, or whatever-he-is?”
Mignureal laughed.
*
Another night, and another day on the desert. The horses and the onager plodded, sweating. Their riders rode loosely, sweating. The sun was a demon straight from the Hot Hell.
The only interesting aspect was Hanse’s lesson. Each day, several times daily when they stopped to stretch legs and bend a few times, he practiced. The sand, Mignureal had pointed out that day they agreed to begin the lessons, made a wonderful slate. One merely drew or wrote on it and obliterated that to write or draw again, or moved away for a clean slate. And so Hanse learned to print his name. Any of his knives served as stylus; the desert was the slate. He had gotten better and better at it. One only made a straight line and another, and bridged them with a line between, and then did the same thing again except that this time one connected the two vertical lines at the top before bridge-connecting them in exactly the same way. H A NsE…
He could hardly wait until someone asked him for a signature on something! No longer would that be a source of stress and embarrassment! How glorious, after all these years, to prove himself learned; to be able to recognize and sign his name!
Notable continued his wanderings. He would ride the pack on the onager — Enas, but still a dumb ass — for a time, eventually pouncing lightly down with a bubbly throaty sound on impact, to explore this or that or relieve himself or merely to walk for a while; eventually springing up behind Hanse with another of those burbly sounds on alighting. Once he wandered off on a self-appointed mission of exploration. While dull, the terrain was not flat or totally featureless, so that after a time they could not see him. Mignureal expressed worry. Hanse shrugged.
“He’ll be back.”
True; flaming red under the white glare of the sun, the cat came back. He returned proudly, bearing a present. The little sand-burrowing chipmunk-thing was not quite dead. Mignureal was horrified and revolted.
“It’s something cats do, looking for praise,” Hanse said. “G-oood boy, Notable! Let him play with it, Mignue; it’s just what cats do.”
“It’s disgusting! It’s awful! I can’t stand to hear the poor little thing’s cries and hear it suffer that way. Oh Hanse — do something!”
Exasperated and showing it, Hanse reined in and slid down to pace over to Notable and his prize. Lying comfortably on the sand, Notable was playing roll-the-squeaky-toy-when-it-thinks-it’s-about-to-get-away. Swish-thuck, and Hanse had ended the wounded little creature’s noise and its suffering by beheading it. He strode stiff-legged back to his horse, dragged himself aboard, and clucked to the beast.
Mignureal’s offense didn’t merit it but the heat was horrible and Hanse was disgusted with everything in general: he would not speak a word for the next two hours.
Notable wasn’t very friendly, either. Toys were a lot more fun when they could move and make amusing noises.
*
Another night led to another day of sameness. They rode, trying not to gripe about sore thighs and backsides.
Grown irritable, Hanse had become worse than displeased that Mignureal wore so many skirts and blouses and the vest, making her a shapeless, hyper-colourful mass under the white robe that was hardly as white as it had been. Now it was worse. She was bedraggled and sore rumpled by the heat and sweat of day and from sleeping in those same clothes at night. Besides, her hair was all stringy and straggly and sticking together as well as plastered to her head, cheeks, and neck by her sweat. Hanse rode loosely, sweating, and wondered what had happened to lovely, sweet, desirable Mignureal.
Hanse did not have access to a mirror.
*
As the day dragged on, an awful itch developed between his rearward cheeks. Scratching did not help and was almost impossible besides, in the saddle. He could only grit his teeth. Silently he made a vow to drink only beer tonight, so that he’d feel justified in using water to get rid of the itchy salt of sweat. It had become the worst aspect of desert travel, and he wondered why he’d never heard anyone mention it.
The sun was far over in the sky when Notable returned from another of his independent peregrinations. Once again he bore a present. This time a small serpent trailed from either side of his mouth like long copper-and-black moustachioes. At least the snake was deceased. Although more patches of vegetation had begun to appear and even intensify, and they were sure they could see trees way up ahead, Hanse and Mignureal had had to halt and dismount. Determinedly he looked the other way while on the far side of the horses she relieved herself. Notable chose to take the gift to her, approac
hing her from behind. Her shriek must have carried for miles.
It brought Hanse at the run, knife in one hand and sword-like Ilbarsi blade in the other. Notable passed him headed the other way, running as if in quest of a new feline speed record. Hanse found her asprawl and weeping in semi-hysteria, partially in a patch of dark-coloured sand, and he saw the menace. He chopped the snake twice before realizing that it was already dead.
Hanse helped Mignureal up and held her while she got her sobbing and then her gulping under control. Then she had to apologize and of course he had to make that’s all right noises. That led to her adding more about her startlement and reaction, which moved him to mouth further soothing encouragement, telling her he’d probably have done the same. They clung together awhile longer, exchanged a kiss made wet by tears and sweat. Each with an arm about the other, they turned — and stared.
Having been affrighted to speedy departure by her unaccountable scream rather than coos of gratitude for his gift, Notable was thoughtfully watching from a comfortable perch atop Enas’ pack. He squeezed his eyes shut.
“You damned cat,” Hanse snarled. “It’s going to be a hot day in the Cold Hell when you get any more beer from me!”
Notable worked very hard to look as small as possible and said “mew” in the voice of a kitten.
Mignureal couldn’t help it and needed the release besides: she laughed. Hanse looked disgustedly from her to the cat and back. His expression intensified when she went over to pet Notable. The cat immediately actuated his purring centre at full volume. He also forgot himself and tried to belly up to entice her to scratch him there. That was when Hanse laughed; it did him a lot of good to see the smart cat fall off the dumb donkey.
Notable landed in the usual way, blinked a couple of times, and sat down casually to bite a bit of sand out of one paw.
For no particular reason, that was when the thought hit Hanse.
“You know — we’re being stupid! Remember the fishermen’s adage about not keeping all your catch in one bucket? Look at us! The place for a tidy little fortune in silver coinage is not in one single and mighty conspicuous saddlebag!”
“Hm! Well, we can spread it around when we get over to those trees. It will be something to do, and fun handling the coins besides!”
“Those trees may be two leagues and they may be fifty and — they may not be trees at all,” he pointed out. “We need the break anyhow: let’s have the fun now.”
“In the sun? Here on the desert?”
“We’ll do it on the shady side of the horses,” Hanse said, already pulling the bag off the ass.
Soon she was wide-eyed and making ejaculatory sounds while he poured the jingling, gleaming contents of the old saddlebag out onto a piece of tenting. They honoured it by calling it a blanket.
“Ill-gotten gains,” Hanse said, joining her in thrusting his hands into the shining pile and making it jingle. “I broke into the palace and stole Prince K’s imperial staff of office, and this is half the ransom paid for it. On the other hand, we also discovered and broke up that plot against him, so I consider this my reward.”
“Hanse…uh…I don’t have any problem with how you got this. It came from Ranke. We never asked to be part of their empire, with the prince showing us how rich he and his concubines were!”
He gave her a thoughtful look and his mouth looked almost ready to smile. He nodded. Reaching out on impulse, he squeezed her hand. Coins tinkled.
“Good! Now let’s hide coins all over ourselves in our clothing, and anywhere else we can think of. The big thing is to keep them from clinking. We can separate some of course, but we can also tie some in a kerchief or rag, so tightly together that they don’t make any sound.”
She looked around. “Hanse? Are you…worried?”
“No, but we are out here alone and soon-I-hope we’ll be in some town, and this seems sensible, that’s all. Do you think you could do without your apron and tie up about ten of these in one end, real tight?”
Doing that, she asked, “Why silver, Hanse? If you’d gotten this in gold or had it converted it sure would be a lot less to carry.”
“Also a lot more noticeable, harder to change, and very likely flaunting myself as a target. Think about me, Mignue, in Sanctuary. What business did Hanse the roach have with gold? It just attracts attention. To anyone, anywhere.”
The look she gave him told him she respected and admired his thinking. Then she began dragging a tight knot in her apron.
“There. Look, I can push it right down — here, too, and nobody will ever know.” In depositing the packet of coins, she thrust her whole hand into her bosom.
“Gulp,” Hanse said, enunciating clearly, and then: “Why didn’t you tell me you wanted it there? I’d have been happy to help.”
She looked at him for a moment, her face infinitely serious while she gave his half-jest considerable thought. Then she leaned toward him. “Here. Yours.”
He swallowed. He gave her a kiss on the nose. “If I put my hand in there we never will get away from here, Mignue.” Putting on more swagger and a fake voice, he added, “Later, wench.” And he rose to tuck coins into the roll behind his saddle. “Easy, Blackie. What’s the matter? You smell grass or water up ahead, boy? Is that it?”
In the questionable shade of their horses, they were over half finished with the enjoyable task when the activity and their chatter was interrupted worse than rudely by the rumbling pound of hooves. Hanse was on his feet in an instant, thrusting into the front of his tunic the stocking he had just tied around eight coins. His other hand already had a sliver of steel in it. Then he saw that there were three horses, well separated, bearing four men in robes of dirty white or pale, faded green. They brought their mounts’ gallop to a halt in a spray of dust and sand.
Hanse was gazing at three crossbows, cocked and levelled.
“Here, thats look like a lot of trouble’n’ work for you two youngshters,” the one with the perfectly pointed beard said, in an accent Hanse had never heard. “Let us helping with those pretty shilver.”
“Eashy now, boy.” That from the man three feet to the left of the first. “Jusht be letting go throw-knife and use other hand dip it right back into your tunic for what you jusht did buffle there. If it coming out with anything but a packet of green cloth, you gets to wear shteel arrow in your knee. Or maybe crock.”
“Crotch,” one of his comrades corrected.
Hanse’s first thought was as Shadowspawn: anger at himself.
Enjoying being with Mignureal and playing with the money, he had for once forgotten his habitual caution. His next thought was worse, and scary: Mignureal!
“Oh Hanse!”
“Worrying not, shweetface,” the first man said, swinging off his horse amid a flapping of his long robe of almost white homespun. The other three remained mounted, crossbow shafts levelled at Hanse. “We wanting a few things, but you isn’t one of thems. We Tejana isn’t the short to being mean to little fat mares, espezh’ly pregnant ones!”
“Preg — ” she began, and broke off. She did look that way, she realized, except in the face: fat and/or pregnant.
A bit relieved, Hanse thought to turn and look at Enas. Notable was half-lying, half-crouching atop the pack, staring at the newcomers from eyes in which the pupils were far too huge for the sunlight. His tail was snapping back and forth as if on a taut spring.
“No, Notable,” Hanse said, hoping that meant something to the cat and/or that Notable had sense enough not to try taking on three cocked crossbows with levelled arrows of steel.
Turning back to face the thieves again, Hanse said, “I had heard the Tejana were too proud to be thieves.”
He had never heard anything of the kind. All he had heard about these nomads was that they were good fighters, good with horses and bad with women, thoroughly independent, and thought they were better than anyone else in the world. Oh, and that they knew how to be mean.
One of them laughed at his words.
“That is nots the only lie people telling about us, boy. Be tosshing your little package in with the resht of those shilver, now, and be backing away from him.”
Hanse did, and painfully watched the man begin folding the piece of tenting. The clink-jingle noises as he poured the silver into the saddlebag were not so pleasant, now. It was about to depart Hanse’s company. He didn’t have to glance at the others or rely on peripheral vision, either. Common sense told him that strings were taut and no one was looking at anything but him.
“You sure were letting this leather get in bad shape,” the first man said. “Looks like you were ushe it to dip water out of well for about a months!” He dropped the tenting. “How much shilvers you got shtuffed down there betwixt your gourds, girl?”
Still seated on the ground, swathed in layers of clothing stuffed with silver coins, Mignureal said, “I am a person with a name. It’s Mignureal.” She lifted a hand to her bosom. “And this is all me.”
Hanse was pleased to discover that Mignureal knew how to lie. Thank all gods her breast didn’t clink when she patted it!
“Ugh,” a voice said from six or so feet at Hanse’s right. “Her giving milk maybe, Quesh?”
Hanse turned to stare at the speaker, who was round of face and wore a brown leather bracer. He stared back for a moment, then glanced at their presumed leader, who was presumably named Quesh.
“Nashemashmachis hemoovlishezh, Quesh,” he said, or something like, and followed with more garble.
“Shink shaying you having mean eyes, youngshter,” Quesh said, passing the saddlebag up to one of his companions. “Ashking if to being wise if we were leave you to shtaying alive and walking-able.”
Hanse continued gazing at Shink. “That’s my woman and Shink has a nasty mouth, Quesh. I’m not stupid enough to charge a cocked bow, though.”
“Good,” Quesh said. “Here, Aksar, what is you doing shtill shitting there behind Shink anyways? We were got two new horshes. You riding one and leading other.”
Shadowspawn (Thieves' World Book 4) Page 5