Rogues

by George R. R. Martin

  “Is the place so dull that no one cares to see it?” Alaric said to Piros.

  “These are careful men,” the caravan master replied, “for all that they did not seem so at my brother’s establishment. The customs on the far side of the desert are different, the very language is odd, and the men prefer the familiar.”

  “And yourself?” said Alaric.

  “I am a trifle more daring. One does not become a successful merchant without being so.” He did not look at the minstrel as he spoke but kept his eyes on his son, as he had since the fires were first kindled. The youth sat with a cluster of men who were speaking together with some animation, occasionally laughing, though young Rudd never did. Rather, he stared into the flames, as if he saw something there so fascinating that he could not tear his attention away. Alaric saw nothing there but burning camel dung.

  Alaric nodded toward the youth, though he was not certain Piros noticed the gesture. “I suppose you would want your son to learn of that other place.”

  Piros did not answer for a long moment, and then he murmured, “I think he knows enough of it already.” He stood up. “Time to pitch the tents. Hanio will find you a place.”

  At Piros’s signal, the men swiftly unpacked an array of low tents and set them up, flooring them with patterned carpets and settling themselves, six men to a tent, with sacks of trade goods for their pillows. Alaric wrapped himself in his own thin blanket and lay down near Hanio. The night cooled swiftly, but the warmth of six bodies made the tent comfortable enough.

  Morning twilight came soon, and after a meal of bread not quite stale and cheese hard but tasty enough, the camels were loaded once more, the riders mounted, and the caravan moved on. Again, Hanio rode behind Alaric, until the minstrel dropped back purposely to ride beside him.

  Hanio barely glanced in his direction. He wore the trailing edge of his sun-bleached headwrap draped loosely about his throat, and above it his nose was sharp, hawklike, his face weather-worn. He seemed of an age with Piros.

  “Have you worked with Piros for long?” Alaric asked him.

  The man’s gaze did not waver from the line of camels ahead. “Some years.”

  “Then you must know a great deal about his business.”

  Hanio made no reply to that.

  “I’ve been wondering,” said Alaric, “what are we trading to the far side of the desert that is worth this yearly journey?”

  “Various goods,” said Hanio, and as if he knew that Alaric was about to ask for greater detail, he added, “Fine woolens and leathers, metalwork, lace, dried herbs. And we will stop for salt halfway across—the purest salt in the world. They pay especially well for that.”

  “Pure salt would be valued back there, too.” Alaric tilted his head to indicate the land from which they had come.

  “We will stop at the mines again on the way back.”

  “The mines?”

  Hanio nodded.

  “I did not know that salt came from mines.”

  “You are young, minstrel. There may be many things you don’t know.”

  “And I look forward to learning them in my travels,” said Alaric. “But tell me, good Hanio, if the mines are halfway across the desert, why don’t the folk of the west send caravans to fetch their own salt?”

  Hanio curled his lip. It was not a smile. He shook his head. “They fear the desert too much.”

  Alaric straightened his back and sat tall on Folero. He looked all around, and aside from the plodding camels, he saw nothing but a flat landscape to the horizon. If there were animals in this part of the desert, they had fled or were hiding underground. If there were men, they had not attempted to approach within human vision. At Hanio’s knee was a heavy sword in a tooled scabbard, and most of the other riders also had weapons, short swords and long, bows, slings, and lances twice the length of a man’s arm. The caravan seemed ready for whatever fate might deliver.

  “What do they fear?” he asked.

  “At night, sometimes, one can hear the desert moaning,” Hanio replied. “Evil spirits, they say, coming out of the lost city to steal men’s souls. You will hear them when we reach the dunes.” He gestured vaguely ahead.

  “Ah,” said Alaric. “The lost city. I’ve heard a tale or two of that. Have you been there?”

  Hanio snorted. “It would hardly be lost if men could visit it.”

  “Then it’s nothing more than travelers’ fancies?”

  “Well,” said Hanio. He turned his head at last and looked at Alaric hard. “Sometimes one sees it from afar, and there are towers and domes and walls, all white as ash. But if one tries to approach, it retreats steadily and eventually vanishes altogether. It is a phantom city, a fitting residence for evil spirits.” He paused for a pair of heartbeats. “Men have died chasing after it. I have no desire to die.”

  “Nor I,” murmured the minstrel, but he could not help wondering if it could be caught by his own special brand of travel. What he said, though, was, “How much farther to the salt mines?”

  “Are you restless already, minstrel?” said Hanio.

  Alaric shook his head. “I just like to know what to expect.”

  Hanio laughed softly. “So do we all. Ask again in eighteen days, and there will be an answer.” He looked away again. “You do well on Folero. Perhaps there is no need for me to watch the two of you so closely.”

  “As you will, good Hanio.”

  The man nodded and urged his mount up the line, to where Alaric could see Piros riding beside Rudd. He did not return until the caravan stopped for the night at a grove of trees that had appeared as a smudge on the horizon and grown steadily as the sun descended behind it. There was a pond at the heart of the grove, its banks tamped hard by many feet, and the riders filled waterskins and teakettles before they allowed their camels to encircle it and drink. The shade of the trees was pleasant, and as fires were kindled and supper prepared, Alaric sang of the northern wastes, of the snow and ice, as strange to the caravaneers as the desert would have been to the nomads who rode their deer among the glaciers. And the men around him marveled that such icebound places could actually exist.

  That night, in the desert tent, he dreamed of the North, and when he woke deep in the darkness, he almost wanted to return there, to see the only people who cared whether he lived or died. He could have done so in an instant. But he knew that the caravaneers were unlikely to think well of someone who could show a witch’s power and vanish as surely as that phantom city vanished, and so he turned over and went back to sleep instead. Another time, he told himself, as he had so often before.

  The next day, a faint undulation became visible at the horizon, and word sped down the line of riders that they would reach the dunes in no more than two days. The caravan began bending southward and arrived at another grove of trees, this time surrounding a well, late in the day. The men spent considerable time raising water, one bucket after another, for the evening meal and the camels. None but the camels drank the water before it was boiled; the men even filled their waterskins with the heated water. Alaric did not attempt to taste the raw liquid after Hanio told him it would affect his bowels adversely. The trees of the grove offered dates, which several of the men climbed after, and Alaric was glad to eat the handful that was his allotted share, as a change from cheese and the remnants of stale bread.

  In the morning, the men brought out flour and, with boiled water, shaped flat loaves to set on rocks heating in their fires. The results were not what Alaric was accustomed to, but they were delicious nonetheless, and he felt well fortified for the day. The dunes were clear to see in the distance, great rolling hills of sand, and the caravan bent ever southward to skirt the worst of them. Even so, by day’s end they had left the flat desert behind and were moving on less secure footing. That night there was no grove of trees, no pond or well, though there was still plenty of bread from the morning’s baking and plenty of water in every man’s bag. The camels seemed unperturbed by the lack of available drink and
fodder, and several caravaneers assured him that the animals’ humps were storage for both.

  “Remarkable creatures,” he murmured, trying to think how that information would fit into the array of songs that he knew would come out of this journey. Lying down that night, on a bed made softer by the sand, he lulled himself to sleep trying various rhymes for “hump.”

  In deep darkness, he woke to the sound of moaning—a chorus of moaning at a dozen pitches, as of a crowd of men laboring to move some gigantic stone far beyond their combined strength, or the same crowd lamenting the deaths of countless loved ones. None of the other men in his tent seemed to have been awakened by it, or at least they did not move in response.

  Alaric stripped off his blanket and crawled out of the tent. A brisk wind had sprung up, and moonlight showed the sand eddying here and there. After a few moments, he thought the moaning seemed to rise and fall with the wind. The fires had all been banked for the night, and two men were sitting by the largest of them, keeping watch as someone did every night. One man lifted a hand toward Alaric. The minstrel skirted a pair of tents to join them.

  “How does anyone sleep through that noise?” he said.

  The men grinned, and one of them said, “It’s just the desert.” And then he looked past Alaric and stood up.

  Alaric turned and saw a figure beside one of the tents he had passed. The headwrap was gone, and the dark hair revealed stuck out in wild spikes, but as the person approached, Alaric recognized Rudd.

  “Will you sit here with us?” said the man who had stood. He held a hand out to Rudd. “We’ll pour you some tea.” His companion was already reaching for the kettle that rested on the embers.

  Rudd stopped a few strides away. “They’re calling us. We must go.”

  “We’ll go at first light.”

  “We must go now,” said Rudd. “Load the camels.”

  The man crossed the small space between them and laid his arm across Rudd’s shoulders. “The others need their rest. There’s a long journey ahead yet.”

  Rudd shook his head. “Not long.”

  “Still, we should all arrive refreshed.” He stretched his other hand out toward the fire, and his companion pressed a cup of tea into it. “Here,” he said, offering it to Rudd. “A few sips against the chill, and then lie down and try to sleep a little more. You’d be a poor visitor if you dozed off astride your camel and broke your head in a fall.”

  “The sand is soft,” Rudd murmured. He took the cup and gulped once, twice. Then he pointed to Alaric. “You can hear the music in their call. Come with me and play your lute for them.”

  “Tomorrow,” whispered the man who stood beside him.

  Rudd spilled the remainder of his tea into the fire and tossed the cup into the darkness before letting himself be turned and walked back toward his tent.

  Alaric looked at the man with the kettle. He was pouring another cup, and he offered it to Alaric, who accepted the warm metal gratefully.

  “Was he sleepwalking?” the minstrel asked.

  “Some might call it that.” The man filled a cup for himself and set the kettle down.

  “He’s done this before?”

  The man nodded. “It’s one of the reasons there’s a watch. Piros would have our hides if anything happened to the boy.” He drank a little of his tea.

  “What if he had walked the other way, away from the fire?”

  “He never does that. The fire draws him like a moth.”

  “But still …”

  “As I said, there’s a watch.”

  Alaric stayed by the fire for a time, and eventually the other man returned. Then, yawning, the minstrel went back to his own tent.

  Morning seemed to come very quickly.

  The sun was high, the day’s journey near half-done, when Piros, who had ranged up and down the line of camels as usual, fell in beside Alaric.

  “I see Folero continues to treat you well,” he said.

  “We seem to suit each other.” Alaric leaned far forward to pat the animal’s neck. “Piros,” he said, “I woke last night and heard the desert singing.”

  Piros looked at him sidelong. “I suppose a minstrel might call it that.”

  “Your son heard it, too.”

  “Ah,” said Piros. “It was one of those nights.”

  “Who did he think was calling?”

  Piros shook his head. “The boy sometimes has wild fancies. I advise you not to credit them.” He rose a little in his seat, as if looking at something ahead. “Sing of the North again tonight, minstrel. It makes a welcome change.” He kicked his mount then and swerved out of the line to trot forward. Parts of a camel’s burden had cascaded to the sand, and the whole caravan halted while it was lashed in place once more.

  Later in the day, Alaric got his first glimpse of the phantom city.

  At least it looked something like a city, far off on the southern horizon, blurred with distance, its towers and walls wavering shapes in the desert sunlight, with silver water all around them. As he stared, his mouth open in wonder, he could hear the men behind him laughing. The laughter stopped abruptly as a camel broke away from the line and began galloping toward them, its rider—his green headwrap unmistakable—urging it with sharp blows from a rod. He passed Alaric, shouting, “Come with me,” and then swerved southward, out into the desert. Four other riders burst from the caravan to follow him, and the pursuit moved considerably before they caught up and formed a tight cluster about him, preventing him from going farther. Alaric could make out Rudd’s wild arm movements; he appeared to be striking at the other men with the rod. The thin sounds of their voices reached Alaric, but he could not make out any words.

  Piros moved out of the line though he did not make any attempt to join the group surrounding his son. Alaric pulled up beside him as the caravan marched onward, leaving them behind.

  “He told me to come with him,” said the minstrel.

  “You can see what good that would have done you,” said Piros, barely glancing at him. He waved a hand toward the caravan. “Go along with the rest.”

  “A minstrel is always looking for new stories to sing,” said Alaric. “I think there’s one here.”

  “Not a good one,” Piros muttered.

  Alaric pointed toward the southern horizon. “The city alone is worth a song.” But as he watched the riders turn back toward the caravan, the distant image wavered and smeared and flattened until it was nothing but a sheet of silver water. “Is even the water real?” he wondered.

  “Not even that,” said Piros.

  “It must be attractive to men less well supplied than we are.”

  Piros shook his head very slightly. “No matter how far you follow, no matter how swiftly, it will always be beyond your reach. When I was young and traveled the desert with my own father, I learned that.” He leaned forward, forearms on his thighs. “There was a time when my son knew it as well.”

  The riders returned, one of the pursuers gripping the reins of Rudd’s mount. As Rudd passed his father, he scowled, and said, “It’s your fault they wouldn’t wait.”

  Piros made no reply. He only pointed toward the retreating caravan and turned his mount to bring up the rear as the group hurried to rejoin it. Folero did not require any command from Alaric to match pace with the other camels, and the minstrel found himself clinging to the hoops before and behind him to retain his seat.

  That night, after supper was done and some of the men of the caravan had gathered to listen to Alaric sing, Rudd pushed his way to the front of the group and sat almost at the minstrel’s feet. He did not join in the raucous choruses, but he nodded his head slightly in time to the music and occasionally smiled, though Alaric was not quite sure it was at the songs. As the night deepened and the listeners gradually drifted away, he stayed until Alaric finally set the lute aside, and only then did he allow a pair of his father’s men to escort him to his tent. Afterward, Alaric settled by one of the smaller fires, where Piros was discussing their ro
ute with the men who had been in the fore of the caravan. He waited until the conversation ebbed to nothing and the other men sought their tents. The night watch was at a larger fire some distance away, and so he and Piros found themselves alone.

  “It must be a hard thing for you,” said Alaric, “to have such a son.”

  Piros watched the low flames for a few heartbeats. “Most of the men know how to deal with him. Otherwise, I would have lost him long since.”

  Alaric picked up a ladle that had been used to stir porridge for the evening meal, and, reversing it, he poked at the fire. The embers flared into dancing life for a moment, the warmth pleasant against the night’s chill. “Has he always been like this?”

  Again, Piros was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “Not always. I thought he would take my place someday. He was a good rider. He learned to race early and bested most of the men in this caravan. But that was before.”

  “Before … ?”

  The caravan master sighed. “I suppose I’m a little surprised that none of the others has told you. That they’ve all kept their oath.”

  Alaric waited.

  “I’d ask for your oath, too, but I can’t believe you’d give it or intend it. Not after hearing your songs. Do people recognize themselves when you sing?”