"That's the hunter's share," the girl said. "Seven tatonka! And on your first hunt, too."
"Tasty!" Rudi said, grinning at her; she was about the age of his sister Maud, twelve or so. "And done just right. Have a bite."
She did, then looked at him. Her eyes went a little wider as she took in the scars; the distinctive puckered arrow-marks on his shoulder and lower back, the long white marks of blades on his arms and legs and along the left side of his jaw. It was a remarkable collection for a man his age, and one who wasn't crippled by it either. If you knew anything about the matter, which nearly everyone in a Sioux camp did, it implied that the people who'd given him the scars were mostly worse off-fatally worse.
"You must be a great fighter!"
He took the skewer back and bit off a lump of kidney, chewing with a solemn, considering look, and said:
"Well, I'd be lying if I said no." Then he grinned and winked at her. "But I prefer hunting to fighting, and also dancing and wine and song and talking to pretty girls."
She laughed, flushing to the roots of her ash-blond hair, and dashed away. Rudi tallied on to a rope and helped hoist up another carcass, heaving with half a dozen others as the pulley clattered. Butchering hundreds of tons of buffalo took a lot longer than hunting them. By the time the late-summer sunset came Rudi could feel the tiredness down in his bones, the way you did at the end of the wheat-harvest back home. And the brief shower under nozzles attached to a wagon bearing a water-tank was inexpressibly welcome.
The night-camp was well away from the butchering site, though relays of guards would be posted throughout the hours of darkness around the racks; he could hear the song of the coyotes already, and fainter with distance the deeper, fiercer sound of the lobo packs signaling to one another. The smell might bring bear or lion as well, which was a good reason to get a little distance before you slept. The water and fuel carts were there, but nobody needed a tent tonight.
"That was… interesting," Odard said, as they settled down around Red Leaf's campfire. "It's certainly not like shooting cows, which I thought it might be. Not in the least!"
Airag tasted better after you'd been drinking it for a week or so, Rudi found. It had a dry flavor beneath the first snail-squeezing impression, and it went down pleasantly with plates of hump steak and slices of juicy buffalo tongue. He took a swallow, upending the leather bottle with the bulk of it supported on his right elbow in the local style, and managing to avoid spilling any over his chin. Then he passed it on to Ingolf.
Mathilda sighed. "I'm having a great time. Things are less… complicated here than they are back home."
Fred Thurston nodded, but Virginia Kane thumped him on the shoulder.
Now, they are getting on well indeed.
"No, it ain't," she said. "You're just seeing part of it, and with an outsider's eyes, too."
Rudi sighed agreement, despite Mathilda's glare; still, even if it was disappointing, it was better to shatter the illusion.
"Matti, if someone were a guest at Castle Todenangst, they might think that your life was nothing but balls and hunts and hawking and tournaments and listening to the minstrels."
"This isn't like that," she replied. "This is working life. And even the festivals at home, you're always looking out for some plot or intrigue or conspiracy or something."
Red Leaf was on the other side of the fire from them. He could still hear, and he chuckled:
"Nah, this is more of a working vacation; more interesting than sitting on your horse looking up a cow's ass, at least. And we've got our politics and problems, same as anyone else-and not just the Cutters. You folks haven't been around long enough to get a handle on them, is all. Plus, you're seeing the best time of year. Hunkered down in a blizzard, things can get sorta stressful, nothing but the same faces for weeks on end. I think that's why the old Lakota had a lot of those rules that look silly when you hear about 'em-not looking at your mother-in-law, and that sort of thing."
Rudi finished up the last spoonful of beans and roasted buffalo sirloin tips. He'd put away a lot of it, and felt an impulse to curl up on a warm rock for a week or two.
It's a good thing I'm not prone to constipation, he thought. This diet would bring it on, sure and it would.
Ingolf poured himself a cup of chicory from the tin pot that rested across two stones in the firepit; he could drink it past sundown and not stay awake, which he claimed was the result of overdosing on the stuff in his career as a paid soldier and salvager. Mary was leaning against his shoulder, blinking into the embers of the fire with drowsy contentment while Ritva plucked out a little wandering tune on Odard's lute.
The man from Wisconsin spoke, his voice a deep rumble:
"Yah, I've been to a lot of places from Oregon to the East Coast and back, and I've yet to find one where life is simple. You might think some plow-pusher's is, but you get close enough to see the details and it's got just as much going on beneath the surface as a Bossman's court. Mind you, there are Bossmen and then there are Bossmen. Des Moines-"
He shrugged. Unexpectedly, Ritva spoke:
"I agree with Matti, a little. A lot of things depend on size. Things are simpler when there aren't so many people."
She grinned. "Not necessarily better. Sometimes Mary and I would go on long winter hunts just to get away from Stardell Hall. There's that point where if you hear Aunt Astrid correcting someone's pronunciation of the Sindarin pronominal verb endings just one more time you're going to start screeching and do something nasty with a hatchet."
She bent her head and began playing seriously, and she and Mary sang a duet. Rudi lay back against his saddle, watching the occasional spark drift upward towards the frosted sky. Matti's hand stole into his and she squeezed forgiveness for the momentary disagreement. He squeezed back, pleasantly aware of the solid warmth of her and the herbal wash on her hair, something the Lakota women made from sunflower oil and boiled-down flowers.
Then the twins started a tune he knew and he joined in with his strong baritone:
"A shadow in the bright bazaar;
A hint of gold where none should shine-"
More of Red Leaf's people drifted over, listening quietly.
"-her gold flanks heaving in distress;
Half woman and half leopardess;
From either side-nowhere to hide It's time to fight or die!"
TheScourgeofGod
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The faithless often treachery suffer;
Ill-will will evil mar
Luck is the gold of the Gods
And open-handed they bestow
To the hero whose courage earns From: The Song of Bear and Raven
Attributed to Fiorbhinn Mackenzie, 1st century CY
He dreamed of drums; drums that beat softly in the distance, and they woke him. His head had slipped from the blanket rolled around spare clothing that was his pillow, and his ear was pressed to the ground.
Hooves, he realized. Many.
He coiled erect, the night air cool on his naked skin and his sheathed sword in his right hand, his left on the long leather-and-wire wrapping of the hilt. A shape moved in the darkness, and he drew a handspan of the sword, moonlight and starlight glittering on the honed edge and the intricate damascene patterns in the steel.