He rode on till the sun sank low in the west. A village lay not far ahead, but he did not dare try the tavern there. If recognized, he could be killed while asleep. He'd camped in the open many times on the way from Skopentzana down to Videssos the city. He could do it again. He could, and he did.
Bread and cheese and an onion made a spare but tolerable supper. He had more in his saddlebags. He washed down the food with rough red wine. If he had to, he could drink water. He'd got used to the bed at Lardys' inn, but bare ground wasn't impossibly hard, not when he was swaddled in a couple of thick wool blankets. He yawned and twisted and fell asleep.
When he woke, the eastern sky was gray. He felt elderly as he unrolled himself from the blankets. His back had some pointed things to say about the way he'd treated it. He wasn't a young man anymore, and waking up after a night on the ground reminded him of that. He ate more bread and cheese and wine as blue replaced black in the west, the stars faded, and the east went from gray to pink to gold. He was riding north again by the time the sun came over the horizon.
In the early morning, he didn't fear the village. A couple of dogs ran yapping toward his horse, but a peasant on his way out to the fields shouted at them and scared them away. The man waved to Rhavas. "You're up and about early, holy sir," he said.
"So are you," Rhavas answered.
"I'm up early every day—well, except sometimes in the winter, on account of I can't do anything then," the local answered. "But I mostly wake up at sunrise anyways, just on account of I'm used to it." He eyed Rhavas. "You're a city man yourself, unless I miss my guess."
"That's so, yes." Rhavas admitted what he could hardly deny. "I'm bound for Imbros."
"You want to be careful. I hear there's savages on the road. Haven't seen 'em here, Phos be praised"—the peasant sketched the sun-sign, and Rhavas had to remind himself to do the same—"but they're around. Now that we've got us a new Avtokrator, maybe things'll get better. 'Course, maybe they won't, too." Peasant fatalism was older and often stronger than faith in the lord with the great and good mind.
"I do not fear the heathen," Rhavas said. "Perhaps I can convert him."
The peasant thought he meant converting the Khamorth to the worship of Phos. He made the sun-circle again, and again Rhavas imitated the gesture. "Good luck go with you, holy sir, but I wouldn't push it too hard. The barbarians are supposed to have a nasty temper when they're roused."
"Well, so do I," Rhavas said, and the local guffawed. The fellow sketched a salute, as if to a general, and then went on his way. The work wouldn't wait. Work never waited.
A woman gave Rhavas a sack of dried apricots as he rode through the village. A man handed him a slab of smoked salmon. Plainly, his fears the night before had been for naught. Word of him had not come to this place, not yet. He gave back blessings, for all the world as if he still favored Phos.
On he went, at his horse's shambling walk. He eyed every stand of trees by the side of the road with suspicion. He remained vulnerable to ambush, as he did to surprise by night.
But there was no surprise, no ambush, when he met the Khamorth. He rode up to the top of a low rise and saw a barbarian encampment ahead, cattle and sheep grazing in a field of grain, tents of hide and felt pitched nearby.
They had sentries out, of course. One of the plainsmen pointed toward Rhavas, who saw he was very visible as he came over the rise. The Khamorth were too far off for him to hear them calling back and forth. They must have done it, though, for three of them trotted his way on horseback. He could imagine their laughter—look at the silly Videssian, too stupid even to run!
Rhavas didn't intend to run. Maybe that made him silly, but he didn't think so. He pointed in the direction of the riders and said what he'd wanted to say to his own miserable horse: "Curse you, beasts."
All three steppe ponies fell over dead at the same time. One faint startled squawk reached Rhavas' ears. Two of the Khamorth rose at once. The third had caught a leg under his horse. The other barbarians pulled him free. He could walk, but not welclass="underline" he hobbled over to a big gray boulder and sat down on it.
What would the other two do? If they came forward on foot, Rhavas knew he would have to kill them. He didn't want to do that; it would antagonize the rest of the clan. But if he didn't, they would certainly try to kill him.
One of them started to head his way. The other one grabbed his intrepid friend's wolfskin jacket. The Khamorth who'd done the grabbing pointed to the horses. Rhavas couldn't hear what he was saying, and wouldn't have understood it if he could. He could made a pretty good guess just the same. That could have been us. That was what he wanted the barbarian to be saying, anyhow.
After a short argument, the plainsman in the wolfskin jacket gave in. He and his pal helped their limping companion back toward the encampment. Slowly and warily, Rhavas also rode in that direction.
His back tingled. If the Khamorth wanted to, they could slip men around behind him to try to shoot him from ambush. They might get away with it, too. He kept looking back over his shoulder to make sure they didn't. He reined in well away from any cover. With their extraordinary bows, though, he wasn't sure he was far enough away.
He waited, painfully aware of how vulnerable he was. In due course, a single barbarian rode out of the camp toward him. The man drew his sword, waved it so the blade caught the sunlight, and tossed it down onto the grass. He slowly turned his steppe pony in a circle to let Rhavas see he had no bow case. Heart pounding with nerves, Rhavas waved him forward.
The Khamorth pointed to the dead steppe ponies. "What you do?" he shouted in bad Videssian. "How you do?"
"I could have killed the men on them instead," Rhavas answered. The Khamorth nodded to show he understood. Rhavas kept looking back over his shoulder. He didn't aim to let the fellow in front of him lull him. Still seeing no one, he went on, "I spared them so I could talk with your chieftain."
"Me chieftain." The nomad jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "Me Kolaksha. Who you? You wizard? Wizard from Videssos not even piss pot." He spat to show his contempt.
"No, eh?" Rhavas pointed at Kolaksha as he'd pointed at the other Khamorth and their ponies a while before. He smiled when the barbarian flinched. Smiling still, he went on, "I am stronger than your shaman. If you do not believe me, I will fight him with magic."
He had to go back and forth with the chieftain several times. Kolaksha did not speak much Videssian at all. Rhavas, of course, knew not a word of the Khamorth tongue. I suppose I'll have to start learning it, he thought in surprise, the first time the notion had even crossed his mind.
Kolaksha laughed when he understood. "Why you want? Lipoksha kill you if you try. You priest of Phos, yes? Yes. Phos puny god. Puuuny." He seemed to fancy the word, and stretched it out lovingly.
Lipoksha, Rhavas gathered, was the name of the tribe's shaman. Kolaksha, for his part, had packed a lot into a few words. "Why?" Rhavas echoed. "To lead you, to lead all the Khamorth, against Videssos.
Videssos is my enemy now." The Empire having cast him out, this was the best way he'd come up with to gain revenge. Despite being cast out, he remained very Videssian indeed in his hunger for it.
Revenge, plainly, was a notion Kolaksha understood. Just as plainly, he wasn't much taken with Rhavas' chances. "You priest of Phos," he repeated. "Phos weak."
"I am not a priest of Phos," Rhavas said deliberately. "I am a priest of Skotos. Shall I curse your horse, the way I did those?" He pointed to the dead animals not far from the one the chieftain rode.
"No! This good horse!" Kolaksha laid a protective hand on his steppe pony's mane. He sneered in Rhavas' direction. "Gooder than ugly buzzard bait you ride."