Camped in early evening on a wide jutting shelf of stone almost halfway down a mountainside, Baj found his face and forehead hot with sun-burn – that light certainly striking harder at such heights… He'd read of sun-burn, of course, knew that sailors on the Gulf Entire – and even more so farther south – might suffer it in the short summer.
He'd had windburn and weather-burn, of course, ice-boating on the river. But this sun-redness was new… Another new thing.
Nearly the last of the wild boar's meat was supper, with spring onions and small dug roots, roasted at the fire's edge… Then, sitting back from the green-wood flames, since they stung his sun-burned face, Baj watched as Nancy – humming a three-note tune – polished the blade of her scimitar with a scrap of leather.
He got up, tugged her long-handled hatchet free of a piece of cut firewood, and walked across the clearing to a stand of wind-bent spruce… It took a while of choosing and chopping, then trimming to rough size, shape, and weight.
The light, though, was still fine enough when he came back to the fire. Fine enough, though tinted warm red as the sun sank.
"Here." Baj tossed Nancy a trimmed spruce branch – gluey with sap, sturdy, and curved – a coarse imitation of her sword. The branch he kept was straight, and almost Umber.
He stepped away from the fire. "Now," he said to her, using the phrase the Master had used in the salle, "- come and kill me."
Alacrity was the perfect Warm-time word. Nancy sheathed her sword with alacrity, came to her feet with alacrity, and leaped over the fire and at him with alacrity, the curved stick in her hand.
She struck at him across and backhanded and across again almost too quickly to follow – whack whack whack – and she struck as hard as a wiry man might have. It was startling, and only endless practice over many years of shouted lessons, insults, and bruises allowed Baj to parry in sixte, quarte, and septime, while thinking how fast she was.
Even so, on her seventh or eighth blow, the curved stick glissaded up Baj's length of spruce to hit his fingers for lack of a guard. He riposted then, lunged extended, and struck her hard at the center of her chest as she came in swinging.
"You're dead," he said.
But apparently she was not, since she leaped at him snarling, sharp teeth bared, beating his "blade" aside, hacking with blurring speed, little splinters of spruce flying. It was an assault almost frightening. – Amusing, too, of course, the ferocity in a fairly delicate fox-girl face, its rooster comb of widow-peaked red hair.
Baj went back and back, giving before that furious rush – then suddenly dropped low to his right knee and left hand before her, so the girl lunged almost over him as he struck up hard, driving the end of his fencing stick just beneath her ribs.
"Dead a second time," he said, spinning up and away as she struck at him. "Passata soto. Never lose your temper when you fight."
He heard Richard say, "My, my…"
Her sharp face still a mask of rage, Nancy turned to come at him again – came quickly a few steps… then more slowly as she found she couldn't breathe.
Baj stepped back and back as she followed… and began to stumble. He saw her try again to catch her breath, then stand still, a hand at her throat, narrow face pale under that comb of bright hair.
Baj felt a first thread of worry that he'd struck too hard – struck too hard at a girl, and one whose body was not perfectly human. He felt that thread of worry, but while he felt it, a thousand practice afternoons had their way, and he stepped in with no hesitation, lunged, and drove his stick's tip hard where he supposed her heart must be.
"Dead a third time," he said. "Never, never lose your temper when you fight – and if you're hurt, don't just stand there. Back away… back away on guard to give yourself time to recover."
"Fuck you…" Even bent and wheezing-in little breaths, the girl had wind enough for that ancient WT phrase.
"We'll fight every evening," Baj said, surprised to be giving an order, "until you can do to me what I just did to you." Then, after receiving a savage yellow-eyed glance, added, "You're very fast – and strong. You're going to be dangerous with the sword."
That seemed to help. Did not, however, help his sore fingers, where her branch had slid up to strike them. – Discomfort continuing when Richard insisted on chess, took Baj's queen unfairly swiftly by firelight, then destroyed him and left his poor people slaughtered.
"… I noticed," Richard said, tucking the little pieces back into their folding box, "I noticed your boots slowed you a little as you stepped. Once those are mountain-ruined, I'll sew moccasins for you."
"My boots do, so far."
Richard smiled, and tucked the chess set into his pack. " 'So far' is not far at all."
CHAPTER 9
Patience was starving. Her sore belly's only relief was attention taken by the savage ache in her shoulder as she traveled the slope of a mountain in late after-noon.
She'd ground-walked east now for three days… going carefully over stone and scree, carefully past wooded heights so as not to stumble, fall on her slung left arm. She'd had to use her sheathed scimitar for a walking stick – and was wearing the scabbard's brass tip doing it.
So hungry – her gift of Walking-in-air having come at the cost of great appetite – she'd munched fresh pine-needles, chewed unfolding leaves from sapling beeches discovered in mountain draws and ravines… and looking for white grubs under fallen timber, had found a few handfuls of mushrooms instead. There'd been occasional run-off down the slopes she'd traveled, so her stomach, full of limestone water, had sloshed and rumbled.
It had been difficult to avoid bad dreams that might have frightened the baby, so her sleep had stayed fitful, full of intentional calm and simple stories, though she'd had no further visits from him…
There'd been a wolverine that watched her from a rock-fall the evening before – no threat unless it lost its temper. And a mother black bear with two cubs the first morning – but digging for marmots so far upwind as not to notice her. Patience had seen no deer, had no way to take one if she had… How easy it had been, how sure and easy to survey the country from the air. Then, seeing any squirrel, any rabbit, any grazing deer… to stoop down silent with a silent scimitar – though mindful of air-walking's necessary concentration – with only butchering and the cook-fire to accomplish afterward.
Passing time, attempting distraction from the agony of her shoulder's dislocation, she tormented herself by imagining meals – recalling them, happy to remember even mess-hall grub (wonderful old word) served by North Map-Mexico's army decades ago… Those tin platters heaped with boiled pork and turnips. Turnips poorly peeled, but wonderful. And the army's rich barley loaves. Rich dark barley loaves… soaked in pork-fat gravy.
Patience wondered – so perfect was the recollection – whether some sustenance might not come from memories perfectly complete. If only so, she might reconstruct Boston's slow-cooked beans – simmered, with wild southern honey, in iron pots on bake-shops' great stoves with West Map-Virginia coal bright as sunshine in their bellies. Slow… slow cooking, while the stove's shimmering heat funneled up tall pipes into Boston's streaming icy air, its vaulted frozen heavens of blue ice and shining lamps. So, beans of course, and served with seal, lobster, or chard cakes… She also remembered – to feed her spirit at least – venison sword-sliced from the air, butchered out still kicking, then its loin-chops and ribs roasted sputtering over southern hardwood, sprinkled with rough salt from the Ocean Atlantic.