by Paula Volsky
The proprietor approached. He was a burly, bearded mountaineer, barbarically clad in leathers trimmed with some sort of shaggy fur, and speaking a very little broken Vonahrish. The transaction was quickly concluded, money moved, sleigh and driver appeared. The vehicle was old and battered, but the runners were sharp and gleaming. The two horses that drew it were likewise old and battered. The driver, squat and hirsute, eyed Karsler inscrutably, and Luzelle recalled with a slight shock of alarm that Grewzland and Rhazaulle were presently at war. According to the latest newspaper reports she had been able to get her hands on, the Grewzian Northern Expeditionary Force was marching north on the Rhazaullean capital of Rialsq, pushing hard to beat the spring thaws that would soon transform the land into an unnavigable bog persisting for weeks to come. This local entrepreneur’s willingness to trade with a uniformed Grewzian officer implied certain possibilities: that the Rhazaullean was utterly venal, or else that this section of the Bruzhoi Mountains was already subjugated and occupied by Grewzian forces. Or very likely both. The gorgeflier’s landing field lay within a day’s journey of the TransBruzh, the ancient road winding its way through the mountains to link the southern lowlands and northern highlands of Rhazaulle. Not at all unlikely that the invaders would have moved at once to seize that vital artery.
She would know soon enough. She was about to descend the Bruzhois by way of the TransBruzh, provided the road remained open to civilian travelers. Thereafter the course curved northwest toward the Chieftainship of Ukizik, the next designated stop along the Grand Ellipse. Ukizik, a tiny independent tribal territory of northern aborigines occupying a section of Upper Rhazaulle’s northwestern coastline, maintained a strict neutrality acknowledged by all civilized nations, even Grewzland. The requirements of the race included no Rhazaullean passport stamp—this omission representing Mad Miltzin’s rare concession to the realities of war. The shortest route to Ukizik, however, cut straight through the combat zone.
The passengers climbed in, and Luzelle snuggled down under a couple of ratty but warm fur lap robes. The driver plied his whip, and the sleigh swung off smoothly over the snow. Luzelle twisted around in her seat to cast one last look back at the gorgeflier. She wanted another flight, she realized to her own surprise. Maybe someday the chance would come to do it again.
The Vezhevska Gorge receded into the distance. The sleigh slid on along a steeply pitched path too narrow to qualify as a road. Black-green conifers, their branches freighted with snow, loomed on both sides, walling the world from view. A little mist smudged the cold air, and the light filtered down from a softly somber sky.
They traveled the tree-lined passage throughout the rest of the day, and in the early evening reached the TransBruzh—a winding, ancient way, white with compressed snow that would not completely melt away until the end of summer. They traveled easily along the road for another three hours or more. Although the snow still lay everywhere, the days had already grown long in these northern latitudes. When the skies were beginning to darken at last, they paused for the night at a cone-shaped warmstop, one of the countless tiny emergency shelters scattered across the length and breadth of Rhazaulle. The warmstop, bare of all save firepit and fuel, offered neither comfort nor privacy, but it was free. The departing tenant’s sole responsibility was replenishment of the woodpile, but that obligation was sacred.
They spent a cramped and smoky night sleeping on a floor of packed dirt covered with such few blankets, lap robes, and heavy garments as they had brought with them. Luzelle lay with her head pillowed on her leather valise. Despite all discomfort she slept soundly. Karsler and the driver chopped wood at dawn, and the journey resumed. The TransBruzh descended at a sharp grade, snaking its way down the northern slopes of the mountains into a region of gentler foothills. As the day advanced the sleigh hastened north, until it came in the late afternoon to the summit of a sharp rise overlooking a shallow valley blessed with a small jewel of a lake, and there it stopped abruptly.
Jolted from light slumber by the sudden halt, Luzelle opened her eyes and looked around her. A pale weak sun hung low in the western sky. The steepest peaks of the Bruzhois rose at her back. Around and before her rolled gentler forested hills. The frozen lake in the valley below was peppered with the symmetrical round holes cut by anglers, but nobody was out there fishing now. Beside the lake stood a village straight out of some old Rhazaullean fairy tale, complete with gabled roofs and fanciful wooden gingerbread. She would have liked to examine the village at closer range, but the opportunity to do so was unlikely to arise. The road down into the valley was blocked by a squad of Grewzian soldiers.
21
ONE OF THE SOLDIERS barked out something in authoritative Rhazaullean. The driver answered at conciliatory length. Before he completed his explanation, if such it was, Karsler calmly cut in to inquire in Grewzian, “What is the meaning of this, Lieutenant?”
Taking in the speaker’s grey uniform and overcommander’s insignia, the lieutenant stiffened to attention, saluted, and replied in a noticeably altered tone, “Orders, sir. These hills are full of Rhazaullean terrorists, and the villagers down there shelter them. We’ve orders to halt all traffic.”
“I see. You will allow me to pass, however.”
“Yes, Overcommander. Sir, if you go to join the General Froschl, you will find the Thirteenth Division presently camped southwest of—”
“I do not seek the Thirteenth,” Karsler stated. “I travel north toward Ukizik. I trust our troops have suppressed local resistance between this point and the River Xana?”
“For the most part, sir. Forgive me, sir, I do not understand. Ukizik, did you say? The main body of the Rhazaullean force stands between ourselves and—” The lieutenant broke off as comprehension dawned. He stared. “You are the Overcommander Stornzof.”
Karsler inclined his head.
“The great race takes you to Ukizik. I myself have wagered upon your victory,” the lieutenant confided, enthusiasm overcoming iron military decorum. “Many of us here have so wagered, sir.”
A subdued mutter of agreement arose among his followers. None of the soldiers ventured to speak aloud, but their faces shone with excitement.
They looked so young, Luzelle noted with surprise. Many of these Grewzian infantrymen could not have been above eighteen or nineteen years of age. Boys, really. And they looked so wholesome with their smooth well-scrubbed faces, their neatly trimmed fair hair, and their eyes alight with admiration for the famous Overcommander Stornzof. Exemplary sons, brothers, sweethearts of girls back in Grewzland. Hard to believe that they could be dangerous.
“Men, I will try to justify your confidence,” Karsler promised. “You may help me to do so by clearing my path.”
“We’ll do all we can to assist you, Overcommander. An armed detachment will escort you to the Xana. You will make it to the far side of the valley before sundown.” The lieutenant paused, then added with visible discomfort, “But the two civilians—the driver and the lady—I’m afraid we can’t allow them to pass.”
“I will vouch for them personally.”
“No exceptions. Sorry, Overcommander. Orders, sir.”
“I cannot deprive these two of transportation.”
“No need, sir. Leave the sleigh. We’ve a few first-rate horses.”
It was happening again, Luzelle realized. Once again Karsler Stornzof was receiving preferential treatment because of his nationality, and it was grossly unfair, but there wasn’t a thing she could do other than try to counterfeit good sportsmanship. He was looking at her, concern and compunction clear in his eyes, and she could only shrug with spurious unconcern.
“Fortunes of war,” she remarked lightly. “My turn for good luck, next time around.”
“I should like to think so,” he returned.
She did not doubt that he meant it. He was looking at her as if he wanted to say more, but she did not wish to prolong the scene, and so she told him with a smile, “On your way, then. Don’t worry, I’ll ca
tch up with you sooner than you expect. And then, before you know what’s hit you, I’ll pull ahead.”
“There is the spirit I admire.” He did not return her smile. He hesitated briefly and then continued, “But I must ask you to listen to me now. You will not want to hear what I have to say, but I must speak.”
“What is it?” she asked uneasily.
“This obstacle that confronts you now is like no other that you have yet encountered. It is not to be conquered or circumvented. My countrymen will permit no civilian traffic to pass along this road until such time as the region has been restored to order. Should you attempt to bypass the roadblock by way of the woods, and a patrol discovers you, you will be executed as a spy. I should not be there to intercede in your behalf, and nothing would save you. You are an intrepid, resourceful woman, but you cannot overcome the Grewzian army. The Grand Ellipse race means much to you, but it is not worth dying for.”
“I’ve no intention of dying just yet.”
“I am certain you do not intend it, but the danger is very real, and it is for that reason that I urge you at this time to consider the possibility of retreat.”
“Retreat?”
“Your driver would willingly carry you back the way you came. I would suggest a return to Immeen, which is neutral, there to await the cessation of hostilities. Or if you will not wait, at least you might chart an alternative route that does not intersect our army’s advance.”
Luzelle sat silent for a thoughtful moment, and finally answered, “Karsler, if anyone but you offered such advice, I’d be angry and suspicious of his motives. But I know your concern is genuine, and I’m not so blind that I can’t see the truth in what you say. I won’t believe that it’s the whole truth or the only truth, though. You said just now that the road will reopen when the region has been restored to order. How long will that take?”
“I am in no position to judge.”
“Well—could it happen in the next twenty-four hours?”
“That is not entirely impossible. Nor is it impossible that it will not happen in the next twenty-four days.”
“Oh, I can’t let myself believe that. I’m going to wait here, for a while at least. Something will happen, something will change, it has to. Because I am going to get past your Grewzian army. I’ll find a way. I am going on to Ukizik, and then Obran, and I am going to win the Grand Ellipse.”
“Seeing and hearing you now, I could almost believe it. Yes—I can believe. Good luck, Luzelle. Be careful, and please consider my advice.”
“I will consider it. Until next time, Karsler—and there will be a next time.”
“Until then.” Once again Karsler looked as if he wanted to say more. Instead he stepped out of the sleigh and addressed the lieutenant, switching back to the Grewzian language. “Have someone escort this lady to a safe location. And make it clear to the driver that he is not to abandon her.”
“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant loosed a harsh stream of patently menacing Rhazaullean.
Literally cringing, the driver nodded and muttered.
The lieutenant spoke again, and one of his men stepped forward. Men? A boy, this one, surely no more than eighteen, and looking years younger than that, with his peach-bloom skin and gilt curls.
“Just a little way back along the road, Madame. A few travelers like yourself elect to wait,” the young soldier explained very courteously in careful Vonahrish. “I will lead the way, if you please.”
The companion of the famous Overcommander Stornzof merited some respect, it seemed, or at least the appearance thereof. She looked back once to see Karsler already retreating, enveloped in a grey cloud of his admiring compatriots, and then she turned her eyes resolutely forward as her guide conducted her back the way she had come along the Trans-Bruzh for a few hundred yards to a break in the trees and a narrow offshoot cutting through the woods to a roughly circular clearing. Two sleighs and a heavy wagon stood there. No telling how long they had waited in that place. Long enough to build a big, smoky bonfire around which passengers and drivers huddled.
“Here, Madame,” the soldier declared. “Here you are out of harm’s way. But I cannot say how long before the road opens, and it will be cold here, very cold, come nightspill.”
“Nightfall?”
“Yes. Pardon me, Madame, my Vonahrish is very poor.”
“No, it’s excellent.”
“I thank you for your kind words. I offer you best wishes, together with this assurance. You may rely on the men of my squadron, there is nothing we would not do for a friend of the Overcommander Stornzof. If this driver of yours attempts to flee, let us know, and we shall bring him back to you. If anyone in this place troubles you, call on us. We are at Madame’s service.”
Grewzians at her service. What a thought. This boy and his comrades misconstrued her connection to Karsler, but their mistake only worked to her advantage. And the gallantry of the offer was practically Vonahrish.
“Thank you.” She flashed her best smile. “I’ll remember.”
He departed, and she alighted from the sleigh to approach the fire. Four men sat there on logs, and her eyes went straight to the face of Girays v’Alisante, whose expression reflected chagrin. Understandably so—he must have thought that he had left her safely behind, and now she had caught up with him. Her sense of satisfaction was short lived. Next to Girays sat a squat, wide-faced frog of a fellow, probably his driver. And next to the driver, a shaggy, roughly garbed peasant farmer, presumably the owner of the wagon. But it was the fourth figure, big and muscular and black bearded, on whom she gazed with a shock of unpleasant recognition. Bav Tchornoi. She had not caught sight of him since Quinnekevah Station. She had imagined and hoped that he had fallen somewhere by the wayside, and here he was, gigantic and morose-looking as ever.
And evidently here ahead of her. How in the world?
Four sets of eyes followed her as she seated herself upon a log. She felt her color rise. Her driver planted himself nearby, momentarily drawing collective attention, and then the eyes returned to Luzelle. The silence pressed, and at last she remarked civilly, “Girays, Master Tchornoi, I hope you are both well.”
“Quite well,” Girays returned with equal civility.
“Well—hah!” Bav Tchornoi exclaimed explosively. “And how shall we be well when these Grewzian piss lickers keep us cooling our heels in the snow until the crack of doom? Cooling our heels—that is funny, yes.”
“How long have you been here?” asked Luzelle.
“Since yesterday afternoon,” Girays told her. “Spent last night in a warmstop a couple of miles back along the road.”
“I remember passing that.”
“And I arrive this morning,” Tchornoi proclaimed. “Only to find these Grewzians telling me where I can go, where I cannot go, in my own land. I am Rhazaullean, this is my place. That village down below beside the lake—that is Slekya, the village of my mother, where I have people. And these Grewzians puff out their little chests and wave their little guns, and tell me I cannot go there, the road is closed. Closed, by their order! I would like to get my hands on one or two of these fine blond boys, yes.” Pulling a flask from his pocket, he pulled the stopper and downed an irritable draft.
“Yes, it would make me angry too,” Luzelle told him truthfully.
“It would, eh? Maybe so. You have got some backbone, you have proved that. Here, you have some vouvrak.” Tchornoi proffered his flask.
Evidently he had decided to forgive her for drawing a gun on him in the caves of the Nazara Sin. Fine, she had no desire to quarrel with anyone, and she would not reject an obvious peace offering. Luzelle accepted the flask. Eye-watering alcoholic fumes wafted from the interior, and she blinked. Taking a cautious swallow, she felt the liquid fire burn its way down her throat. The heat reached her stomach and spread out from there. Carefully she contained all coughs and sputters.
“Good, eh?” Tchornoi nodded almost affably.
She bobbed her head.
“You have some more, then. Go on, you help yourself.”
In the interests of amity she forced down another mouthful, and handed the flask back to its owner, who thereafter lapsed into thirsty silence. Minutes later, when he had drained the contents, Tchornoi surged to his feet, stalked across the clearing to his sleigh, rummaged therein for a fresh bottle, and returned to his place by the fire.
Time passed slowly. Conversation was sporadic. Eventually the anonymous farmer glanced up at the weak sun, now hovering just above the treetops, shook his head glumly, rose, and went to his wagon. Climbing in, he shook the reins and departed the clearing without a word.
Observing this, Girays’s driver spoke up in Rhazaullean.
“I do not understand you,” said Girays.
“He says he goes now,” Bav Tchornoi translated, emerging from an apparent stupor for the first time in an hour or more.
“He can’t go, I’ve need of his services,” declared M. the Marquis. He pulled out his wallet.
Typical, thought Luzelle.
Tchornoi shrugged his big shoulders.
“How much to stay?” Girays v’Alisante’s dexterous manipulation of paper currency transcended all language barriers.
The driver mumbled.
“He says he does not spend another night in this place for any amount of money. He says he goes home now,” Tchornoi reported.
“Then tell him I’ll buy his sleigh and horses.”
Tchornoi translated and the driver shook his head.
“Tell him I’ll pay—” Girays named an improbable figure.
“Hah! You are crazy, Vonahrishman. This is like a comedy.”
Bav Tchornoi relayed the message, and the driver’s eyes rounded. He nodded. Presently he departed on foot, clutching a wad of cash.
Luzelle’s driver observed the retreat wistfully. He leaned his chin on his hand. He said nothing.
Retrieving books from their respective vehicles, Luzelle and Girays sat reading in silence. The driver watched the fire and sang to himself, while Bav Tchornoi drank.