“The dizziness that comes from drinking too much wine,” Balkis explained, “such as your neighbors to the south make by pressing the juice from grapes and letting it ferment.”
“What is'ferment'?”
That took a bit more explaining and led to a discussion of the green grapes of Allustria and their wine-making, which led to the tale of Balkis' travels from Europe to Maracanda.
Anthony listened, as rapt as any of the Pytanians, and when they scoffed in disbelief at her tales of genies and evil sorcerers, Anthony staunchly assured them that if Balkis said it, it must be true. He did not say, though, that she had gone through half her travels as a cat, though she could see in his gaze that he suspected it. After all, he had never heard any of this, either.
When the Pytanians had left them alone in a guest cottage, Anthony asked her, “Did you really travel with the Lord Wizard of Merovence?”
“I did, and you need not look so impressed,” Balkis said with a smile, “for I am sure you have scarcely heard of Merovence.”
“Well, then, glad I am to have heard of it now! What is he like, this Lord Wizard?”
“A gentleman who is modest to a fault, completely faithful to his wife, devoted to her and to his children, and exceedingly patient with a skeptical, mocking maiden,” Balkis told him.
Anthony frowned. “You make him sound like any good householder!”
“He is that.”
“But does he not have a towering presence and a countenance of ivory? An imposing mien? An aura of mystery and magic?”
“He is on the tall side,” Balkis admitted, “but as to the rest of it, he looks quite ordinary, even handsome for a man of his age. As to his aura of magic, though, he does his best to hide it and appear like any other man.”
“Why?” Anthony said, flabbergasted. “Would he not want men to know his greatness?”
“I do not think he believes in it himself,” Balkis confessed. “Besides, by appearing to be as ordinary as the people around him, he hears a great deal more than he would if they stared at him in awe.”
That made sense to Anthony, she could see, but he was still puzzling over a mighty wizard trying to look ordinary as he fell asleep.
Balkis fell asleep thinking of Matt, too, and marveled that she thought of him only as another man. Her childish infatuation with him seemed to have disappeared. She wondered why, and decided that perhaps she was growing up.
The next morning, when they had breakfasted on more apples and thanked their hosts for a night's lodging, Balkis asked them, “Do you know where we might find a guide for hire?”
“A guide?” Rokin asked.
“Someone who knows the country between here and Maracanda,” Balkis explained, “who can warn us of the pitfalls that lie ahead and lead us around the worst of them.”
“Why, that I can do!” Panyat said, stepping forward, eyes shining. “At least as far as the border of Prester John's land.” He turned to Rokin. “May I accompany them, hetman?”
“You have already had your year of wandering, Panyat,” Rokin said with a frown.
“Yes, but not my fill of travel! Indeed, it is only because I have wandered toward the north that I could be of any use to these strangers.”
Balkis' hopes rose. “We shall pay him a golden coin.”
“Gold means little to us here,” Rokin said, frowning.
“But it means much to the caravan traders who bring the luxuries we cannot make,” Panyat pointed out, “and I shall return knowing where to find them. You were saying only yesterday that it would be good to have more northern ivory with which to fashion statues of the goddess.”
“We have always traded apples, and our weavings,” Rokin told him.
“But it would take so many tapestries to buy one small ivory tusk! I shall bring back the gold coin for the village, Rokin, not for myself.”
An older woman stepped forth from the crowd, resting a hand on Panyat's shoulder. “There is no reason why he should not go, Rokin.”
“The wide world is dangerous, Mishara,” Rokin reminded her. “Your son might not come back to you.”
“His chances are far better with these good people to ward him, especially since they are wizards, and therefore better able to protect themselves and him!”
“Aye, let him go,” said an older man, stepping up to take Mishara's hand. “We must risk him in order to keep him, for if we do not, he will someday leave us.”
“None of us can leave our apples for long, for we would die without their scent, Haramis.” But Rokin was weakening.
“The traders assure us that there are apple trees in other lands,” Haramis returned. “That is why they insist on so many for one little tusk.”
“True enough, though I suspect ours have a far sweeter taste than any others they have eaten.” Rokin sighed. “Very well, let him go—but see he is well supplied.”
They left soon after, Panyat leading the way out of the valley of apples. He wore a wide sash around his waist, a sash that bulged all along the front.
Balkis counted the bulges and said, “Only three apples? Can that be enough to take you to the borders of Prester John's kingdom and back?”
“Easily, friend Balkis.” Panyat looked back with a smile. “I need only their scent, after all.”
The ant couldn't understand why it was taking so long to reach his stolen property. It knew those confounded humans were carrying the gold nugget, but why was it taking so long to catch up with them? Surely its encounters with all the things that tried to eat it hadn't delayed it all that long—had they? Though of course, once it had defeated them, eating had taken much longer than if it had been traveling with a score of its fellow workers. It didn't realize how much more slowly it had been traveling with an overfull stomach, but it couldn't resist eating as long as there was food.
Now, though, it was hungry again, and had come across a trail of honey that it followed avidly, licking the sweetness from the rocks on which it had been spread. It didn't fear the bees that had made the amber delicacy, for it knew they were small inconsequential things that would only try to strike it with their tails—as though that could do any good!
Then it rounded a rock, and saw the honey's source.
CHAPTER 18
The trail of honey came not from a hive, but from the mouth of a man lying on his belly, chin propped on his fists and mouth open with his tongue out—and that tongue was three feet long and fragrant with the sweet aroma!
Well, food was food. The ant started toward the man. Obviously he had set his mouth as a trap for ants. Well, he had caught one.
The man looked just as surprised as the ant felt, but he grinned with hunger and his tongue leaped into the air, swinging sideways at the ant. It glittered as it came.
The ant danced aside and the tongue smacked the ground, then rose again with a dozen pebbles sticking to it. The ant realized it would have stuck just as firmly to itself, possibly even with its legs in the air, helpless, waiting to be dashed against a rock. But it dodged the tongue again and, before it could swing a third time, dashed in to counterattack. Startled, the anteater man rolled up on his side, swinging a fist—but the insect leaped onto the arm and scuttled up to the shoulder, remembering how it had dealt with the uniped. All these humans were built alike, after all, and the neck was always on top of the shoulders.
Under the circumstances, perhaps it was justifiable that the ant ate the anteater.
As they walked northward the land grew daily more arid; grass gave way to rock, and trees to low thornbushes, though there was still the occasional small, tortured pine tree—usually dead and dry. Finally, when they had been traveling a week, they topped a rise and saw, stretching away before them, a rolling beige wasteland where nothing grew and nothing moved, except dust-devils and blowing tendrils of sand.