Lakhoni (22 page)

The
man sat back slightly, his bushy eyebrows raised. Lakhoni made himself continue
looking at the man’s face, not wanting to show fear or make it look like he was
lying. He wondered if this man was the chief of the caravan. His clothes and
bearing certainly made him appear wealthy. His long, pointed chin, flat cheeks,
and tall forehead almost gave his head the shape of a goat’s. And his eyebrows
acted like two very hairy caterpillars; they were the most expressive part of
the man’s face.

Finally
the man spoke, his eyes tightening slightly. “You want me to believe you have
come from that far away to Zyronilxa, all by yourself? That you survived an
attack on your village and a journey that must have taken you through winter,
but now, only forty miles from Zyronilxa, you need help?”

Stay
close to the truth.
Fighting
back the urge to swallow, Lakhoni nodded once, firmly. “Yes. I didn’t do it on
my own. I met people who helped me.” He gestured down the road behind him.
“There was a village somewhere back there that fed me and helped me. But I
broke my bow and ran out of food.”

“They
didn’t give you enough food for a few days’ journey?” The man was smiling now.
He couldn’t know Lakhoni was lying. There was no reason to add more details
about what had happened in Simra’s village.

“No.
They were poor. I worked for my food there.” Lakhoni met the man’s piercing
gaze. “I can do the same for you.”

“I
see,” the man said. “But what can you do for me? You’re too young and small to
be a guard. Do you know your way around oxen?”

“No.
But I can learn fast. And I can cook.”

“Really?
Why would a young male pup like you know how to cook?”

“My
father was a better cook than my mother,” Lakhoni said, pushing back at the
torrent of memories that wanted to invade. “He taught me.”

“Paztar!”
Lakhoni jerked at the new voice. It came from a man on the next wagon. “What is
keeping you?”

The
goat-faced man yelled back. “I am working out the details of employment with
this little thief!”

“I’m
not a thief!”

Yed’s
grip tightened and Lakhoni’s arms were pulled toward each other. Pain streamed
through his shoulders. “Show respect to Paztar
.
”

“Well,
finish up!” the other man yelled. “Dark will fall soon.”
Details of
employment?
Sudden hope flooded Lakhoni.

“I’m
not saying I believe you,” Paztar said, turning back to Lakhoni. “Or at least
all of what you say. But if you were a thief with your skill, or lack thereof,
you would be dead. You don’t strike me as a dishonest person.” He directed his
next words to Yed. “Release him.” He continued, “But if you are unable to cook,
this will be a very short arrangement.” Paztar faced front and gestured with
one hand at the ox-tenders. “Let’s go.”

As
the caravan began to move, Yed gave Lakhoni’s arms one final squeeze, then let
him go with a push. Lakhoni hurried to catch up to Paztar’s wagon.

Yed
kept pace beside him. “I’ll be watching you, pup.”

Reaching
up to grip the side of the wooden wagon, Lakhoni turned to Yed. “I’m not a
thief.”

“Let’s
hope not.” At that, Yed dropped back to join Razo.

Lakhoni
faced forward, glancing intermittently up at Paztar. He wanted to express his
thanks to the man, but the merchant had forgotten him already.

But
if dinner is terrible, that won’t last.

Lakhoni
wondered when the caravan stopped for meals. The sun was maybe two hours away
from setting. There would be food soon, he told himself, his stomach
protesting.

I
hope they like soup.

“What
a waste of perfectly good meat!” Razo’s voice echoed around the camp.

Better
than eating charred, overcooked meat off a knife every day.
The soup had some wizened
potatoes and carrots in it as well. The water had come from the stream that ran
right next to the campsite. Lakhoni dug through the box of food supplies that
Yed had brought him earlier. There had to be some salt. How could they possibly
not have—

He
found it. Pulling the block of salt out of its pouch, he used the stone cooking
knife to scrape some into the boiling pot that was suspended over the fire. He
set the block aside and searched the supplies for more seasonings. Hurrying, he
found some leaves, rubbed them between his fingers, and sniffed them. A sharp,
thick flavor, like winter moss, filled his nose.
That should work.
He
broke up the leaves with his fingertips, sprinkling them into the soup.

With
the sun near the horizon, the caravan had turned off into a large flat area
that bordered the road. It was clear that the space had been designed for
traveling parties to use as a place to spend the night. A large fire pit,
ringed by dark, slate rocks occupied the center of the space, while the
remainder of the space was almost completely free of plants and rocks. Several
heavy posts were sunk into the ground near a few trees that bordered the south
side of the space. That was where the oxen had been tied.

The
wagons were arranged in a circle around the campsite, which had to be thirty
paces in diameter at least. Firelight danced red and gold off the pale,
weathered wood of the wagons and the sunburned faces of the guards.

Lakhoni
dipped a clay bowl into the soup. The cured meat should be soft enough by now.
He sipped. More salt.

“Pup!
The smell is good, but our stomachs are still empty!” Yed, strode toward him.
“Are we eating tonight?”

Lakhoni
nodded, concentrating on scraping salt into the soup. “In a minute. Almost
ready.” He quickly crumbled one more fragrant leaf into the soup and stirred.
That would have to do it.

He
looked around, his stomach practically crawling up his chest to get at the
food. Between the four guards, six ox-tenders, and three merchants, there were
a lot of mouths to feed. He had better wait to eat until everyone else had a
chance. “It’s ready,” he said, pulling out a stack of ceramic bowls from the
supplies box.

“Come
and eat!” Yed called out.

Using
one bowl as a ladle, he served the soup quickly, making sure each bowl got
plenty of meat. These men were surely hungry; he didn’t want to make any of
them angry and give Paztar reason to be displeased. Most of the men skipped the
shallow wooden spoons, tore a chunk off the tough travel bread Lakhoni had left
out on a wooden platter, and simply slurped while walking to a place they could
sit. Cringing slightly, Lakhoni glanced around, certain the men would find
reason to complain.

“Needs
more meat,” one of the guards said. Lakhoni didn’t know his name. This man was
shorter than Yed and Razo. His head was completely bald and burnished by the
sun to a shiny nut brown. His bare torso, however, sprouted with thick, black
hair, broken only by a scar than ran from his right chest down to his navel.
The man’s hands were covered in scars small and large.

Lakhoni
decided it would be best if he didn’t try to defend his soup. Best not to get
in an argument.

“Salty,”
said Razo, grumbling into the thick beard that jutted out from his chin. The
beard looked like a woodland animal that had latched onto the man’s chin. It
waggled and jittered with each movement Razo made. Soup dripped into it after
each noisy gulp Razo took.

Lakhoni
eyed the soup pot, his stomach near to declaring all-out war. He tried to
forget the hunger; he would eat last. He could take no chances.

When
the first man, the merchant who had sat on the front-most wagon, returned to
the soup pot for more, Lakhoni let out a long, quiet breath. He scooped the man
more soup. Good enough for seconds must mean he had succeeded. The merchant
caught Lakhoni’s eye and offered him a nod, his jowls shaking, then waddled
back to his wagon. The man was as big around as Salno had been, but he wore far
richer clothing than Salno had. Instead of leather, this man wore material that
looked like it had been woven. It looked incredibly soft and light. In the
firelight, it gleamed deep purple.

Lakhoni
crouched next to the fire and boiling soup, waiting his turn while helping
others get seconds. With dismay he noted that the last time he ladled soup out,
the bowl he was using as a scoop scraped the bottom of the thick metal pot. The
aroma of the stewed meat and vegetables was pure torture now.

Finally,
a stack of dirty bowls began to grow next to him. The look Yed gave him told
Lakhoni it would fall to him to clean up the dinner dishes. But
first . . . Lakhoni grabbed a bowl, dashed to the stream that
ran to the south of the campsite, and filled the bowl with fresh water. Moving
fast but carefully, he made his way back to the pot and poured the water in. He
stirred with the cooking knife.

His
stomach took over as his body began to jitter with hunger. Before he could
register his own movements, he had a bowl of soup in one hand and a large chunk
of tough bread in the other. Heedless of the scalding temperature, Lakhoni
dipped the bread in the soup and tore a bite off.

It
was only after his second helping as he cleaned out the soup pot with his bread
that the hunger jitters finally faded. The camp grew quiet as he cleaned the dishes
in the stream, and the oxen shambled around to his right to find the tastiest
morsels of grass. As he finished his work, the song of crickets began to
register in his ears. It was accompanied by the soft whisper of wind sighing
through nearby trees. Lakhoni wondered at the business-like feel of everything.
In his village, dinner was always followed by talk, music, and sometimes
dancing. Simra’s village had been much the same. Lakhoni had not heard laughter
or even seen a smile today.

Shoving
thoughts of grim men and musical nights away, Lakhoni searched for a place to
sleep. The campsite was mostly covered in gravel, which probably wasn’t a
problem for the other men since they had bedrolls to sleep on. Lakhoni opted
for the grass near the stream. He pulled out his blanket and rolled it around
himself as he lay down.

“Pup!”

Instantly
alert, but blinking at the bright morning sun, Lakhoni sat up. “My name is
Lakhoni.”
Morning already?

“And
my name is Febol.” The huge, bear-chested guard stood near the fire pit. “Nice
to meet you,” he said, his voice a sarcastic growl. “Now get up and get some
breakfast out before I skin your lazy bones. Pup.”

Febol.
Lakhoni smiled inwardly.
His
name means ‘bear.’
Lakhoni sprang to his feet, the pains of the previous
day remarkably faded. He stuffed his blanket back into his bag and went in
search of breakfast food.

In
less than an hour, the wagons were on the road again. Lakhoni walked next to
Paztar’s wagon again. After a while, they came to a fork and started heading
off to the left. Lakhoni hastened his steps and caught up to the ox-tender on
this side of Paztar’s team.

“We’re
going to Zyronilxa, right?” he asked when he came abreast of the man.

“‘S’right.”
The man was so tanned by the sun that he looked like a walking piece of cured
meat. His ragged trousers were covered in colorful stains. He spared Lakhoni
only a bare glance.

“So
the right one goes somewhere else?”

The
man made a noise that was somewhere between a cough and a shout, brushing his
whip-like tool across the left haunch of the ox. “Right one goes to Zyronilxa.”

Alarm
flared. “Then where are we going?”

“Zyronilxa,
like you’n asked.”

“How
can both roads go to Zyronilxa?”

“One
goes direct, t’other take ya t’the brick fields.” The ox-tender’s accent was so
thick that it was hard to understand what he said. But after a moment of
processing, Lakhoni understood.

Lakhoni
recalled Mibli mentioning the brick fields as a place a spy might go to be punished.
This didn’t sound good. “Which one is this?”

“This
what?”

Lakhoni
threw his hands in the air. “This road! Which road is this one? Are we going to
Zyronilxa or the brick fields?”

“Sor’d’fars!
T’the brick yards, o’course.”

Curiosity
and fear warred within him. Were they taking him there after all? He couldn’t
help it if all there had been for breakfast was old cheese, bread, and
wheat-tea. “Why?”

“Why
what?”

Lakhoni
fixed an angry look at the man. He couldn’t be that slow, could he? Staring at
the man, he asked, “Why are we going to the brick fields?”

“Trade.”

Trade?
For the first time, Lakhoni wondered what was in the wagons these oxen were
hauling. “What are we trading?”

“Dye.
Fer t’bricks.”

Lakhoni
swore he heard a smile in the man’s voice. He got in front of him and turned to
face him, walking backward. “Sorry, maybe I forgot to introduce myself.” The
man
was
smiling. “I’m Lakhoni, your new cook.”

There
was an obvious twinkle in the ox-tender’s eyes now. He smiled. “M’new
soup-maker, yuh mean?”

“Fine.
Your new soup-maker.”

“M’name’s
Regg.” The man chuckled.

“Good
to meet you,” Lakhoni said. “Hope you liked the soup.”

“Better
than a spear in t’back, at least.”

“Well
that’s good.”

“No,
that’s middlin’. But it’s all right fer a change.”

Lakhoni
waved away the good-humored insult. “Regg, would you mind telling me why we’re
going to the brick fields?”

“Nope.”

What
a frustrating man! Lakhoni opened his mouth to complain, but then realized what
Regg had just said. “Will you please tell me, then?”

“Surely.”

Silence
passed. Lakhoni was tired of glancing over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t
going astray, so he turned and continued walking to Regg’s left. “You’re doing
this on purpose, aren’t you?” Lakhoni asked.

“Yep.”

“Kind
of boring dealing with oxen all day, I guess.”

“Yep.”

Trying
not to sigh too loudly, Lakhoni tried again. “Will you tell me, right now, why
we’re going to the brick fields?” He hastened to add, “With some detail,
please. I’m from a long way away and would like to understand how things work
around here.”

Now
Regg tossed a grin Lakhoni’s way. “Now you got ‘er.”

Lakhoni
just waited. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Paztar
and Zello, he’s the fat one, and Hezeron, the one with the chin—they’s all
workin’ together t’get dye to the brick fields. At the fields, they’s gonna get
a load of special bricks an’ sell ‘em in the city.”

Lakhoni
needed a minute to process all of that. He didn’t really understand why it was
comforting to know the names of the merchants, but he liked it. He considered a
moment. “So we’re going to the brick fields to take dye there?”

“Yep.”

“What’s
dye?”

Regg
snorted a low laugh. “It’s color. Fer bricks.”

“Why
would anyone want to color bricks?”

“Dunno.”

Lakhoni
laughed softly. “Will you tell me the name of the other men in the caravan?”

“Yep.
You know the merchants, but d’you know t’guards?”

“Three
of them. Yed, Razo, and Febol.”

“T’other’s
name is Zyron.”

Lakhoni’s
shock must have been obvious because Regg continued, “No jokesin’. His mother
must’a been outta her mind. We call him Lem.”

“Okay.”

“Then
there’re the other tenders.” Regg waved toward the other side of the ox team.
“My other half’s Jeno. On t’second wagon is Hani and Musco. On t’first is Cor
and Shiz. Cor’s t’one with the arm. That’s everyone.”

Lakhoni
had to search his memory of the ox-tenders on the first wagon. The one with the
arm? He turned to look ahead, trying to make out the two men about thirty paces
ahead of him.

“The
arm?” he asked

“He’s
got two, but only t’one works.”

“Oh.”
Lakhoni resolved to figure out which one was Cor and see what Regg meant by
only one working arm. “What about the oxen?”

Regg
gave Lakhoni a penetrating look.

Lakhoni
thought for a minute, remembering the way Regg’s voice had sounded so far.
“T’oxen’s gotta have they own names. They’s more’n jest animals.” He thought he
got Regg’s accent pretty accurately.

Regg’s
hairless eyebrows rose. Lakhoni worried his joke might have gone too far.

The
ox-tender nodded, the corners of his mouth moving up a little. “Not too bad,
boy. Yer got an ear, you do.”