“Let’s give them part of Torre’s Ride,” Seri said. “That’s impressive.”
They both held up their sticks, in the traditional gesture of minstrels who wanted everyone’s attention, then began together the familiar old chant. “Hear now the tale of Torre, king’s daughter, befriended of the gods, whose deeds divide the watches of the night. . . .” Together, they stopped and grounded their sticks. The captain stared, silent. Aris and Seri put out their right hands, palms up, and made a lifting gesture. The captain scrambled to his feet. Aris waved, indicating the other men, and made the lifting gesture again. The captain gave an order, and his men also stood, including the man who had been stabbed. The captain put his hand on that man’s shoulder, then put his clenched fist on his chest, and extended his arm with hand open. That had to be thanks . . . heartfelt thanks? Aris thought so. He bowed, smiling at them, then turned to indicate the fallen fugitives: come get them. The captain smiled, and gave an order that sent two of his soldiers forward. Aris noticed that they left their bows behind; none now had arrows set to the string.
When the soldiers had dragged the fugitives back to the troop, the captain put out his hands, palm up. Then he pointed dramatically to himself, and said “Veksh.” Aris wondered if this were his name, his title, or something else. The captain then pointed to one of his soldiers. “Veksh.” So it could mean soldier, or man. Aris pointed to himself, and attempted the word with a questioning intonation.
“Veksh?”
The captain tossed his head, a gesture that could have meant anything to him but conveyed nothing to Aris. Then he pointed to one of the bound prisoners. “Veksh.” So it probably meant man, not soldier . . . unless the fugitives were in a general class of warrior. And very likely the tossing head meant no. Aris pointed to himself again.
“Human. Mageborn.”
Seri, following his lead, said “Human. Peasant.” Aris hoped the strangers would not think that “mageborn” meant man, and “peasant” meant woman . . . he hadn’t thought of that possibility until the words were out of his mouth.
The captain pointed back up the trail, then waved his arm . . . could he mean all that country? “Biknini.” The fugitives had said that. The captain wasn’t pointing at them, so it must not refer to individuals . . . a description of the land? Mountain, canyon, cliff? Aris decided that this was not going to work; he would try a more direct way. Moving slowly, he stepped nearer the captain, and with gestures indicated that he and Seri had been attacked by the fugitives and had killed three. Seri mimed her part well; the captain and his soldiers nodded as if they understood. He hoped that meant that a nod signified yes.
The captain pointed to Aris, then Seri—this time using a bent finger—and then made a circle with his arms, and threw the circle toward the distant canyons. Aris thought it was a very efficient way of asking if the two of them were all of their kind who lived over there. He shook his head, remembered that the captain had used a different gesture, and tried to copy the toss. Someone in the troop laughed; the captain turned on the unfortunate and said something scathing. Aris wished he knew what it meant.
Quickly, he used the same bent-finger point to indicate the captain, the man he had healed, and Seri and himself, then drew a circle with the same finger, and touched his chest. Slowly he made a fist of that hand, placed over his heart. He hoped they would understand that meant friends. Again the captain nodded, smiling, and repeated the gesture. He said something to the soldiers; one of them came forward with a bulging woven bag, and another with a leather bottle. Aris nodded to Seri; they pulled out the pouches they’d slung under their shirts. There on the trail, the captain offered a heavy loaf of dark bread, strips of dried meat, and water. Seri and Aris laid out salt, dried fruit, and their much lighter travel bread. The captain looked worried; Aris smiled at him.
“It is our custom to share,” he said, as if the man could understand, “we will accept food from you, if you will accept food from us.” He let his fingers rest on their food, and the others’ food, then waved toward the captain. Again, the captain repeated his gesture, then very slowly reached toward the salt. Aris nodded; and himself touched the bread. The captain nodded. Seri reached forward and touched the water flask. The captain nodded again. Slowly, with great care, they exchanged bites of food. Seri almost choked on the water and told Aris, “It’s not water; it’s wine.” The captain looked worried until Seri smiled at him. They each took a mouthful of each food: Seri, Aris, the captain, and the man who had been wounded. Behind the captain, his soldiers muttered softly.
And now what? Aris thought, as that ritual ended, and the four stood again. Do we just walk back up the trail and forget them? Or should we go with them and try to learn their language?
The captain clearly wanted them to come along. His gestures were unmistakable. Aris felt reluctance rise in him, a chill resistance. Seri shook her head decisively. “No, we are guardians, we must go back.” Conveying that in gestures took longer, a pantomime that involved, in the end, the captain, his soldiers, and even the captives. Seri and Aris indicated that they, like the captain and his soldiers, were guardians who must not leave their post, who had pursued dangerous invaders, but must now return. Once the captain got the main idea, he nodded vigorously, then began a mime of his own. They would come back? They would meet with him? Such friends should stay friends. They could hunt danger together. He pointed to the sun, and held up one hand, fingers splayed: a hand of days, Aris thought. He wants to meet us here in five days. He offered gifts: a medallion from his boots, the flask of wine. Seri took off the little medallion she’d carved of cedar-wood, with the interlocking G and L that Dorhaniya had devised. The captain accepted it with a deep bow, touched it to his forehead, and turned to his soldiers.
“We’d better hurry if we want to be back over the notch by nightfall,” Aris said, with a look at the sun’s position. Much of the upward trail would be shadowed already. Seri nodded, and they started back uphill, around the angle of rock that would hide them from the soldiers. It was cooler walking in the shade of the rock behind them; Aris noticed that even on the sunlit slope across from them, the trail they’d come down hardly showed. When they were well into the shade, he asked, “Do you trust them?”
Seri looked at him. “Trust them? Not like you, but I felt nothing evil, did you?”
“No, except from the ones who attacked you. Brigands, probably, who prey on those caravans.” They both looked back, and Aris caught a glimpse of something moving in the broken rock below, toward the streambed. “Seri—what’s that?” They crouched low, trying to see into the shadowed angles of the lower slopes. More movement, stealthy . . . someone darting from cover to cover, two hurrying a laden pack animal. . . .
Seri and Aris exchanged looks; the same thought joined them. “The other brigands.”
“Those were decoys,” Seri breathed. “They were supposed to draw off pursuit, while the main party went up the streambed.”
“I suppose we’re lucky,” Aris said. “We could’ve run into that lot down there. There’s probably more of them.”
“We have to tell the captain,” Seri said. Aris agreed, though he wished it had been earlier in the day. Now they could not possibly make it back to their own canyon by nightfall.
“If we can see them down there, they might see us,” Aris pointed out. “And they’d expect their people to be a lot farther along.”
“They might think we’re soldiers, giving up the pursuit.”