“I’ll follow,” Alaric said to Piros.
“As you will. For now.” The caravan leader gestured sharply to a nearby cluster of men, though Alaric could see from the cant of his head that he was still watching his son.
At the tavern’s entrance, Rudd opened the door only wide enough to slip through, closing it hard behind him. By the time Alaric reached it and stepped inside, the youth had vanished into the dim interior, and the only movement visible was a pair of dogs at the far end of the room, squabbling over some crusts of bread and rinds of cheese that were the only remnants of the previous night’s activities. Alaric called out for both Rudd and the landlord, but there was no answer, and long moments passed before they finally emerged from a rear chamber, Rudd bearing a bundle of cloth on his shoulder, his uncle following close behind to keep the trailing edges of fabric from dragging on the wine-sticky floor. As the youth stopped to cuff aside one of the dogs and snatch up the crust it had been gnawing, the bundle slid away from him, and the landlord caught it deftly, leaving his nephew to give his whole attention to tearing at the stale bread like a starveling cur.
The cloth was a three-part garment—ankle-length robe, loose pantaloons, and headwrap, all the color of pale sand. Alaric stripped off his own clothes, donned the desert gear, and packed his discards in his knapsack. The landlord helped him with the long, scarflike headwrap, which tucked intricately into itself, leaving a tail to loop about his neck and hang down his back. That, said the landlord, would be his mask when the sand blew.
Alaric shouldered the knapsack, the lute strapped tight against it, and gestured at the youth, who had done with his crust and was sitting on a table, methodically kicking at the dogs, which were nosing at his legs in spite of the kicks.
“They know,” said the landlord, nodding toward his nephew. His voice was very low. “Dogs always know. And they always forgive.”
Alaric looked at the landlord’s face and saw sadness there. “What do you mean?”
“Can’t you see it?”
Alaric frowned. “I see … a number of things. But perhaps not what you speak of.”
“Ah,” said the landlord. “Piros has not told you.”
Alaric looked back at Rudd. “He said not to obey his son.”
The landlord was silent for a long moment, and then he said, “Yes, that’s good advice.” He hitched a leg up on the table beside him and nodded toward his nephew. “Once he thought I was his brother who died at birth.”
The door to the tavern swung open, and Piros stood there, a dark shape with the brightening sun behind him. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” said the minstrel.
“Rudd,” called the landlord.
The youth made no reply. His back was to the others.
“Rudd!” said his father, and when there was still no answer, he strode to his son’s side and took him by the elbow. “Time to begin the journey.”
Rudd blinked a few times then, as if waking from some reverie, and dropped to his feet, swaying a little. His father did not release his arm as they walked through the door. Without looking back, Piros gestured for Alaric to follow.
The landlord shook his head. “He still hopes for a grandchild.”
“Is there a woman?” asked Alaric. They walked side by side across the room.
“What woman would want that?” said the landlord.
Alaric shrugged. He held his straw hat in one hand; it had not fit in the knapsack. Now he gave it to the landlord. “Take this as my thanks for the garments.”
The man turned it over, one way and then the other, and finally set it on his head at a jaunty angle.
Outside, the men of the caravan had already mounted their camels except for one, who held the leads of two kneeling animals. At Piros’s gesture, he helped Alaric to the long, narrow seat atop the smaller of the pair. It was an odd perch though not uncomfortable, well padded and with a thick hoop at the front for holding on and another behind, a handhold for a second rider. With large panniers behind his legs, a bulky sack lashed in the other seat, and a waterskin at his knee, Alaric felt secure enough as the camel lurched erect, though the ground seemed oddly far away.
The man watched Alaric for a moment before handing up the reins and mounting his own steed. “I am Hanio,” he said. “Piros has given you into my care. Call out to me if you have any difficulty.”
“My thanks,” said Alaric. “I hope to avoid difficulty.”
“She is a placid creature. Just hold tight, and she will follow the others.”
At that moment, the line of camels began to move forward, and the placid creature needed no urging to move into place with its fellows. Hanio followed.
The camel’s gait was different from that of a horse, but not at all unpleasant, and Alaric soon found himself adjusting to it. Under Hanio’s tutelage, he learned to guide the animal, and he also learned that calling it by name—Folero—would cause it to swivel its head about on the long neck and look at him with all evidence of curiosity. Sometimes it would even nibble at his knee with its great soft lips. He would treat it like a horse then, with a pat on the neck and praise.
Piros occasionally led at the front of the caravan. But more often he ranged all along it, speaking to riders, checking the security of their lashings, now and then pulling an animal to the side to readjust its burden. Alaric could almost always see him, atop an especially tall camel. Rudd was rarely nearby; he occupied a place far forward, his bobbing head marked by the deep green headwrap.
The heat of the day increased steadily though it was not so great, Alaric knew, as it would be later in the year, and not so great for a man riding as it would be if he were walking on the sun-baked desert floor. The horizon was a line in the far distance, the great flat plain upon which they moved showing few landmarks once the tavern fell behind them, just an occasional cairn of stones to indicate the trail. For most of the day, clumps of coarse grass and low bushes were the only visible vegetation; now and then a camel would turn aside to nibble at the grass, but its rider would quickly bring it back to the column. Folero seemed to disdain such sampling and walked steadily onward. By day’s end, the novelty of riding a new kind of steed had begun to wear thin, and Alaric was glad enough to dismount and hand his camel over to Hanio for care.
He could have crossed the desert far more swiftly in his own special way, flitting from horizon to horizon in one heartbeat after another, following a path laid out by the limits of his vision, but ordinary travel enabled him to question his companions about their destination and so arrive as not quite a stranger to the land. And for that purpose, that evening by the largest fire of several, after the camels had been unloaded and tethered to stakes driven into the ground, and after he and the riders had supped well of the provisions that Piros had packed for them and he had entertained the group with a dozen bawdy songs, he struck up conversations with various of the men, asking with a youth’s curiosity of the people and cities that lay beyond the desert. He was a trifle surprised at their answers, which were limited to the pleasures of a single town, a handful of inns, and a small population of women willing to slake their appetites and take their silver. To a man, they confessed they had not ventured beyond but were instead eager to unload the goods they had brought along, pack up whatever their employer had traded for them, and come back home with their pay.
“Is the place so dull that no one cares to see it?” Alaric said to Piros.
“These are careful men,” the caravan master replied, “for all that they did not seem so at my brother’s establishment. The customs on the far side of the desert are different, the very language is odd, and the men prefer the familiar.”
“And yourself?” said Alaric.
“I am a trifle more daring. One does not become a successful merchant without being so.” He did not look at the minstrel as he spoke but kept his eyes on his son, as he had since the fires were first kindled. The youth sat with a cluster of men who were speaking together with some animation, occasionally laughing, though young Rudd never did. Rather, he stared into the flames, as if he saw something there so fascinating that he could not tear his attention away. Alaric saw nothing there but burning camel dung.