Alea saw what he was doing and broke off some leaves for herself. There were a great number of the plants—they were one of the worst of the weeds—so they made slow and smelly progress.
Finally Gar pronounced himself satisfied and looked for a campsite.
“There.” Alea pointed at a patch of dense underbrush. “I had in mind something a little less thorny,” Gar said. “It’s hollow in the middle,” she told him. “See the big trees? There will be room enough there for your fire. Come on!”
Gar looked doubtful, but he followed her as she pushed her way into the thicket, breasting the thorns away with her staff. Gar followed, using his sword as she used the pole, and sure enough, there was a rough circle ten feet across in the center with two big trees, one of them with low branches.
“For a village girl, you know your woodcraft,” Gar said with approval.
“You learn such things when you want to find places to be alone and safe from other children,” Alea told him. “Someone else has been here before us.” She pointed at the blackened stones of a fire ring.
Gar grinned. “So they have! How nice of them to leave us a site. Well, I’ll find a stream and fill my bucket.”
Alea frowned up at the trees and the patches of sunlight that filtered through. “The sun’s well up,” she said. “Maybe we ought to make do with the waterskin.”
“It’s full enough,” Gar agreed. “We’ll find a stream tonight.”
In a short while, he had boiled water and was brewing tea. They ate their usual dinner—biscuit with some roast wildfowl left over from the morning before. As they ate, Gar said, “It’s a good thing you wanted to learn how to use the staff.”
“I knew it would come in handy,” Alea said drily. “It will, and we’ll keep up the practice.”
She smiled, amused that he was careful not to call them lessons, careful to hide the fact that he was teaching and she was learning—but she appreciated the courtesy. Once again, she was amazed that a man could be so considerate of a woman. “It’s a little late for practice, lad.”
“Tonight, then,” Gar said. He scoured the plates and cups with sand, stowed them in his pack, then sat down by the fire. “It will take me a while to relax enough to sleep. I’ll take first watch.”
He always did, and he always had a different reason. Alea smiled as she climbed the tree. She paused on the third limb, thought it over, then said, “I’ll climb high tonight, lad.”
“Please do,” Gar called up. “If those dogs find us, I might be coming up there too, and fast.”
Alea lashed herself in on the sixth limb—it looked to be the last that was thick enough to be secure. Exhaustion hit her like a tidal wave, and sleep claimed her.
They found Alea a new staff and practiced every evening before they began their night’s hike. Finally Gar said, “You’re skilled enough with the weapon now. But what will you do if someone catches you without it?”
A chill went through Alea. “Run and hide!”
“ ‘Catches you,’ I said. What if someone has you by the throat?”
“No!”Alea stepped back, hands coming up to defend. The mere prospect horrified her.
“If they do, you put your hands together, thrust them up between his arms, and push them wide to the sides and down in half-circles—and you do it as quickly as you can.” Gar demonstrated on thin air. “That will knock his hands away. But how do you keep them from coming back?”
Alea stopped backing, staring in amazement. “How?”
“Catch his wrist and his shirtfront as you pivot in to put your feet between his, and your back to his front with your hip out, crouching down.” Again, Gar demonstrated. “Then straighten your knees as you bow and pull on his arm and shirt, and he’ll go sailing over your hip to the ground—if you do it all together in two movements, and do it so fast he can’t stop you.”
Alea frowned, imitating the pantomime. Gar told her how to do it better, then better and better. Finally she said, “I’m fairly sure I’m doing it right—but how can I tell?”
“There’s only one way,” Gar said, his face wooden. “You’ll have to try it on me.”
Alea recoiled. “No!”
“Just as you say.” Gar nodded courteously. “I’m perfectly willing to be your practice dummy—but you don’t have to try it. Still, as you said, it’s the only way to tell if you’re doing it right.”
Alea stood, tense and wary, watching him.
“It would be too bad to try it on a man who won’t let you throw him,” Gar said, “and have it fail.”
Alea shuddered, plucked up her courage, and stepped forward. “No touching, now!”
“None,” Gar promised. “You touch me, but I won’t touch you.”
It was a nice distinction, since her hips rammed into the tops of his thighs as she straightened her legs, bent, and pulled on his arm and tunic front—but she had to admit the contact was only for a second. He sailed over her hip and landed on his side, slapping the earth with his extended arm a fraction of a second before his body hit, then rolled up to his feet and bowed to her. “Well done. If you can take a man by surprise with that, it will put him down long enough for you to run.”
“How can I be sure it will surprise him?” Alea countered. “By doing it very fast, and hoping he hasn’t learned it himself.” Gar spread his arms. “Try it again, even faster.”
Alea eyed him warily, then suddenly spun in, grasping his arm and tunic front, and threw him again—and again, he slapped the earth full-armed and rolled up to his feet, nodding. “Very good, and enough for one night. But you’ll have to learn more than that.”
She did. They practiced every evening. The more she learned, the more bodily contact it required—her bottom against his hips, his arm across her chest—but he was always very impersonal about it, even cold. As the days passed and she gained skill, Alea was amazed that he never made any sexual advances, not even mild overtures. She wondered if there might be something wrong with him, but from the occasional admiring glances she caught when he thought she wasn’t looking, she decided it couldn’t be that. The glances did make her feel good, but when he never even hinted at anything more than companionship, she began to feel insulted. Relieved and safe, but insulted.
So Alea kept her distance, walking ten feet or so behind Gar, though when loneliness seized her, she came up even with him, still six feet away, to talk a little. Every evening, before they started their night’s travel, Gar gave her a lesson in unarmed combat. Then they practiced with the quarterstaff. Every morning, they pitched camp and prepared to sleep for the day. They talked across the campfire—Gar knew how to build them so that they gave almost no smoke, so Alea didn’t worry about them attracting hunters. She stayed across the flames from him, but they could still talk. Gar seemed curious about everything in the world, curious to learn everything about her, but Alea always turned the conversation away from herself and back to the world of men, dwarves, and giants.
She was amazed to find how much Gar didn’t know. She asked about himself and his past, and he answered readily and at length, turning answers into stories and filling the stories with humor. He seemed to take it as a personal triumph when she laughed. But somehow, when she tied herself to a trunk for the night and thought back over what he had said, she found he had really told her very little.
“You spoke of runaway slaves among the outlaws to the north,” Gar said one morning. “How many slaves are there who haven’t run away?”
Alea was again amazed at his ignorance, but told him, “I’d guess there are half as many slaves as there are free people, between the ones who were born of Midgarders, and the dwarves they bring back when they fight off a border raid.”