The campsite felt very empty. I shivered, squatted, inspected another hoofprint, then picked up a rock and bounced it in my hand, looking around yet again to see if I had missed anything obvious. "Bascha," I murmured, "where are you?"
The gelding shook his head, rattling bit shanks, then recommenced grazing. I mentally kicked myself out of my reverie and went to tend him. My next plan was to see if I could find tracks leading away from the area, and though I wanted to do it as soon as possible, dealing with the gelding came first. You don't dare lose your mount to neglect in the desert. A man afoot is a dead man.
Once the gelding was haltered, unsaddled, cooled, and watered, I began a careful inspection of the edges of the campsite. It did not appear that Nayyib had constructed a litter for Del, because the shelter was whole and I found no signs of poles being dragged through the dust. It was possible she had recovered enough to ride, either in the saddle with him behind, or vice versa; it was also possible the stud had returned at some point. But the only prints I found coming and going were those Del and I had made riding up the bluff, those made by Nayyib, Rafiq, and the others, and the tracks leading away as Rafiq took me to Umir's.
Which left one answer.
I stopped looking at soil and the edges of the plateau. I looked instead at the tumbled carpet of porous smokerock, quartz, and shale spreading out from the huge boulders like a river of stone. I squatted, searching for the tiniest detail that might tell a story. And there I found one: chips knocked off of rock, showing raw, unweathered stone; the hollowed bedding where rocks had been seated until hooves knocked them loose; the tiny trails left by insects and others fleeing the heat of the sun when their cover was stripped away.
It was impossible to judge how many horses, or if one was being ridden double, because the stones and their crevices held too many secrets. But a horse had certainly gone this way.
So I played the game. If I were Nayyib, left with an injured woman, I'd want to get her to help as soon as possible. But going back to Julah the way I'd come could be dangerous; who knew how many sword-dancers were out looking for the Sandtiger? And it was no secret he traveled with a Northern woman; they'd recognize her immediately, assume she knew where their quarry had gone, and question her regardless of her health. So I—Nayyib– Would head for Julah another way, attempting to leave no tracks.
I would take to the rocks and, since I now had safe passage thanks to the fingerbone necklet, cut through Vashni territory. I'd already done it once on the way to Julah, going for the healer. It was tougher footing for the horse and thus tougher on Del, but safer in the long run.
I went back to the gelding, grained him, watered him. Then collected bedding and saddlepouches. "We're staying the night," I told him. "We'll lose the light soon enough. First thing tomorrow morning, we're going hunting."
I dumped pouches at the shelter, then knelt down to spread my blanket. "Fat's going into the fire," I muttered. "My fat's going into the fire."
Because if anyone had seen Nayyib and Del on their way to Julah, likely it was Vashni. And I didn't have safe passage.
EIGHTEEN
I SLEPT POORLY, and awoke tired and unrefreshed. Despite circumstances that might provoke them, I hadn't dreamed at all—at least, that I could remember. And I usually remembered something of my dreams, even if they lacked the dramatics of dead women lecturing me about swords. I got up with stinging eyes that felt full of grit after a day spent squinting hard at the ground, and even more itchy stubble clothing my jaw. I needed both shave and bath. But I didn't suppose the Vashni would care.
The gelding, of course, also did not take note of such things, but he did suggest from across the way that I should move him to fresh grass, give him water, and portion out more grain. I did all of those things, among others; then I shoved dried cumfa down my gullet, swallowed a few gulps of water, tacked out and loaded the gelding. But this time I put the halter on over the bridle (and tassels), tied loose reins to saddle thongs, and paid out the lead-rope to a distance that would keep the gelding off my feet while still being close enough to manage.
"You get the day off," I told him, slinging a bota over my shoulder. "I'm afoot, too."
I led him to the place I'd found hoof scars in the rocks, inspected it a moment in hopes of seeing some kind of route, but there was nothing indicating such. All I could do was head out and hope that eventually, upon trading stone river for sand and soil, I'd locate Nayyib's tracks. They'd likely be obvious in softer ground: either a man on foot leading a horse; a horse carrying double and thus leaving much deeper prints; or two sets of hoof-prints—if the stud had come back.
I sighed. "Let's go, Snowball."
The footing was worse than bad. If it wasn't me tripping over stationary rocks or having loosely seated ones roll out from under my feet, it was the gelding. Hooves were not made for balancing atop rounded rocks, be they firmly seated against one another or treacherously loose; and my sandaled feet were no more appropriate. This was a place for boots, but I'd left mine somewhere along the way. Possibly in Haziz, if I remembered right. Foolish decision, even if I had been trying to save room in saddlepouches. I could not even imagine Nayyib leading a mounted horse carrying an injured woman through here, but I didn't have to; from time to time I found additional signs of their passage. I wondered if the kid's horse would be lame by the time he got through; I wondered if the gelding would be lame by the time we got through.
Slowly, carefully, I picked my way, trying to find some kind of route between stones and boulders easier on the gelding. He was a game horse, coming along willingly without hesitation. At some point I noticed the rocks were decreasing in size. Footing remained a challenge, but the way was less demanding. Better yet, more sand and soil was in evidence, which not only made it easier to walk, but held prints better. I was still on Nayyib's trail.
"Almost," I murmured to the gelding. "Not much farther."
And indeed, neither of us was required to go much farther at all, because even as I turned back to encourage the gelding, I heard other horses approaching. I counted them by sound: four. They clopped down through rocks, rolling and knocking them one against the other.
Finally. I turned to face the Vashni, purposely not drawing my sword. I simply waited, easing my body into a poised awareness that wasn't obvious.
The gelding, spying other horses, pealed out an ear-splitting whinny of greeting. I winced; even the Vashni seemed somewhat startled by their mounts' answering noise. So much for the momentousness of the meeting.
In one sweeping glance I noted each man. Oziri was not among them. I didn't have the slightest grasp of Vashni politics, nor did I know if these four warriors were even of the same band, so I didn't attempt to invoke his name as safe passage. Besides, Oziri was not my goal.
What I wanted to do was immediately demand if they had seen Del and if she were alive. But haste is not the best strategy among strangers, especially dangerous ones. Instead, using the gift I'd gained in Meteiera, I told them in their own language, succinctly and without flourish, that I was the jhihadi, and the jhihadi was looking for the Oracle's sister.
No more, no less.
Vashni are not a demonstrative race on the whole, but I saw a faint ripple of response in their dark faces. They said nothing aloud, yet eloquent fingers, as they examined me from a distance, spoke a language I did not; apparently what I'd gained was limited to oral tongues. But possibly it didn't matter, because my gut was certain they knew very well who, and where, Del was.