“Yes. Do not introduce me to the goats.” Johannes had once insisted on doing that before Jeremy put on his butcher's hat.
For a day, then, he and Harlow faced Karen's entire family. Then all four men went off to hunt and left just the women and the gimp. Jeremy didn't see any fireworks. They were being civilized. Eileen tried once or twice to involve her father in some kind of property discussion.
As for the separate rooms, “There's no point,” Harlow told him. “We came here together. They know where you were staying. They don't know how long you fought me off-“
“Hey.”
“We probably even walk like we're rubbing up against each other.”
“You do. I have this deceptive limp.”
“Jeremy, we're not doing them a favor here. People like to file people in subroutines. It's easier for them if they think of us as a couple.”
Matters of courtesy be damned, the room would be needed. A day ahead of the caravan, Harlow moved into Jeremy's room.
He liked it. He dreamed of Karen and woke guilty, but with a woman in his bed, he could sleep.
They came at noon, announced by a cloud of dust.
A wagon was the length and width of a bus, but taller, and two tugs were enough to pull it. They numbered a full twenty wagons: no yutzes yet, but eighty merchants and perhaps twenty-five suppliers. They rolled past Wave Rider and out of sight.
In Spiral Town the caravan's arrival had been very like this. Wave Rider had twenty-two rooms, and that had always been barely enough. Caravans carried tents, after all, and did not look for unnecessary expense. Wave Rider housed merchant families with elders and children. Merchants' relatives and businesses that dealt with the caravan were the caravan's supply line, and they would want rooms: they often doubled up. Romances and marriages had started that way.
Forty or so to be housed in twenty-two rooms. Over a hundred to be fed! Wave Rider geared up for business.
33
The Spring Caravan
The natives are irrelevant to humankind on the Crab. They're not as madly versatile as men.
There was no winter in Destiny's year. Removing winter allowed the other seasons to be almost the right length for the Earthtime clocks.
In order for the spring caravan to reach Destiny Town in spring, it must reach the Neck in autumn. Wave Rider hosted the spring caravan in early autumn, and the previous summer caravan carrying goods acquired along the Crab, three weeks later.
It was autumn now: the nights were cooling. Dionne, party of eight filed out onto the pier to watch the sunset.
Old Wayne Dionne traded in Terminus, selling carved and painted shells and similar goods collected along the Road by his family in Dionne wagon. Jeremy had known them for years. When they filed back toward the fire pit, Wayne called, 'Jeremy, meet Hester. She's old enough for the wagons now.”
'Hello. Hester.” Wayne's granddaughter had grown tall, and kept the quiet smile. “Will any of you be staying, then?”
'No, the tent's enough for us. Just meals tonight and tomorrow. We wouldn'tmiss your cooking.”
“I have something for you.” Jeremy showed Wayne what he'd found on the beach west of here: a flattish shell nearly a meter long. Rainbows played along its inner face where Jeremy had polished it.
Wayne looked dubious.
Jeremy persisted. “It doesn't look like a back shell, does it? More like a skullcap? This at the end would be where the beak extension broke off.”
“The beast would be huge.”
Jeremy set it aside.
Wayne said, “No, sell it to me. Somebody might be interested, back in Destiny Town. Forty?”
Money changed hands.
Jeremy asked, “Wayne, what would you think of my joining a caravan?”
And he watched Wayne's slow grin. “Unlikely. Why would you want to at your age?”
“I never saw a caravan pit barbecue. Everything I know is secondhand.”
“You do fine.”
“Would I do better if I'd been up and down the Road?”
“Maybe.”
“Would you want me in the cooking crew if you had to eat the result?”
“Maybe. Hester, what do you think?”
The girl smiled. Jeremy grinned back. Hester hadn't tasted his cooking or the Road's. Wayne wasn't taking him seriously.
Wayne wasn't a merchant.
Chloe and Harlow came out with the large salad bowl. Harlow stopped for a lingering kiss before going back in.
More merchants were gathering around the fire pit, or watching the sunset fade and the Otterfolk play. Merchants and suppliers did business here. Not many would bother to talk to the chef. Jeremy wore his pit chef's persona like a vividly painted mask, and of course the light hid him too.
Jeremy had persuaded Harold Winslow that he could run a pit barbecue. So Harold had run a strip of lighting along the deck's edge, above where Jeremy dug the pit. “My guests eat late,” he'd said. In that electric blaze Jeremy hadn't been able to tell whether food was raw or cooked.
In two weeks it had become much easier than trying to judge by sunset-light. And in this blue-tinged light no merchant from Tim Bednacourt's past had ever recognized him.
“This is one thing you almost never get on the Road,” an older man said, not to Jeremy. “Lettuce.” He looked around for inn personnel. “You grow this yourself?”
“Half our back garden is planted in lettuce,” Jeremy said, and kept the neutral grin as he recognized Joker ibn-Rushd, aged and weathered and gone a bit soft. He babbled On: “After all, it'd be wilted mush before it got here from the Terminus farms.”
Joker was frowning in the harsh, blue-tinged light. Better not give him time to think about where he'd seen this barbecue chef. “I'm Jeremy Winslow, part owner. You're new here?”
“Not quite new. I'm Dzhokhar Schilling. My wife Greta, my daughter Shireen.”
Jeremy clasped his hand and said, “Dzhokhar Schilling,” careful of his pronunciation, because Jeremy Winslow had never called this man 'Joker.” “Hello, Greta. Hi, Shireen,” more handclasps for the young woman and the ten-year-Old girl.
Joker was saying, “We're ibn-Rushd. You buy our cookware. I've spent time at Wave Rider, but usually I eat in the restaurant. I see enough of pit barbecues!”
“But it's a new thing to me,” Greta laughed. “For twelve years we've worked Dzhokhar's shop in Destiny Town.”
Joker had married a woman fifteen years his junior. She was small, pale of skin and hair, a bit plain, too easy to overlook. Jeremy asked her, “You've never been on the Road?”
“No. Dzhokhar has been trying to prepare me.”
Jeremy, trying to picture that, said, “We hear interesting rumors,” suspecting he already knew more than he was supposed to, and less. Had Joker explained- Joker grinned at them both. “Things not to be told.” The tuna must be cooked through by now. Jeremy drafted Lloyd, and together they turned it onto a platter and carved. The Schillings watched. Other merchants gathered to watch the show and to serve themselves.
Jeremy asked Joker, “How was that?”
Joker ate a mouthful. “Skillful.”
“I have to ask. Everything I know about pit cooking, I learn by asking. I've sometimes thought of joining a caravan.”
“Yes, I see.” Joker was amused. “Try grilling your fish when something has delayed the wagons. Cook and carve by dying sunset light, and Quicksilver already gone. You'll know then what a caravan chef's first law is. 'Get more lights!' Stick with the lights, Jeremy.”
Turnover was high in the caravans, but there were still familiar faces. Put Jeremy Winslow under blue light, dress him in white, age him, scar him: no merchant would know him from the past. But, even dressed in a merchant's flamboyant garb, Tim Bednacourt still might be remembered in daylight.