“But not just yet,” Ianna said.
Martin used his fingers to scoop up a fresh mouthful of gruel from the cooking bowl, carefully kept separate from the starter bowl. He chewed it slowly and focused on Tiamat as she walked past them. He concentrated on her clothes, the gear she carried, the way she walked, the way she looked.
Everything about her, from her hair to her animal skin clothes to the way she moved, was perfect. She blended into the camp like a drop of water into a river.
Which was a mistake.
Perfection, of any kind, was an error. Real people, native people, in any timeline, made mistakes. Real people weren’t perfect. Real people always had something out of place, something that wasn’t quite right. Real life forced mistakes and compromises, smudges and dirty hands.
Martin saw the locals, the ones who lived in this place and time, look up as she walked by. Something about her was wrong, something about her disturbed them. She was just too damned perfect.
He spat the chewed gruel into the starter bowl, added a mouthful of water.
“Time to check the beer.”
Ianna stood and stepped up and out into the sun. There were three whitewashed limestone vessels, shaped roughly like horse water troughs, just outside the shelter. Each was hollowed out to hold about one hundred liters of liquid. The first vessel was full, covered with a lid of interlaced green grass, close to ready. The second held a few liters of thin amber starter liquid. The third was empty.
Ianna went to the first vessel, slid the cover to the side. Martin, from several feet away, still winced at the sharp odor, an unpleasant mix of sour and sickly sweet. Ianna hastily pulled the lid back into place.
“That batch is going to be vile. The brewers in Alemania are cursing you from their great-grandmother’s wombs.”
Martin shrugged and leaned back on his heels under the shadow of their hide canopy. He looked around the rest of the camp. Hundreds of tents and travel lodges, even more men and women, worshipers and slaves, traders and priests and hunters, with the constant ebb and flow of small children and dogs, laughing and barking and chasing each other.
“If it’s strong enough, they’ll drink it anyway,” he said. She looked at the vessel doubtfully, then over at him. He relented.
“Add some of that honey we traded for this morning. And more of the wild grapes. Crush them up first. Give it a good stir. We’ll cut back on the hawthorn berries on the second batch. And, just maybe, Artie can keep a better watch on the temperature this time.”
I’m doing the best I can, Artie said defensively. He coughed, even though he had no lungs and no body. I’m dying, you know.
Ianna tended to the beer. Martin turned his attention back to the original piece of flint in his hand. It was getting small. He idly wondered if he should go for a knife or a spear point with what was left. A knife would get them more food from a hunting party, but a knife needed a handle. Or he could get two spear points out of what was left. Were two spear points worth more than a good knife? Maybe if he wrapped leather around the handle before he sold the knife. A finished product should be worth more than a bare knife blade. Or, maybe, he should just go for more arrowheads….
Knife, Artie said, in silent. Definitely. And add a decorative design on the leather. The theme for this circle and the Tall Men is the hunter and the phallus. Draw a crocodile on one side of the handle, a naked man on the other. Then trade the knife to one of the priests.
“Why a priest?” Martin asked, out loud.
Ianna looked over at him.
Shut up! Artie snapped, in silent. Remember where you are, now, and where she’s going to be from, then. Qart-hadast is still a city of priests in the future, even in the university. You want to end up in front of a court of the Kehin?
“Apologies,” Martin said toward Ianna, but really to Artie.
Eabani is going home, back uptime, so we need a local hunter, Artie explained, patiently.
“Buyuwawa,” Martin said, in silent. “Eabani’s been teaching him. He’ll take over. And he’s local.”
Fine. Buyuwawa, then. Tell the local priest he gets the knife if he gives Buyuwawa a blessing before he goes on a hunt. Tell Buyuwawa he gets the blessing if he gives you a bigger share of the meat from the hunt. Artie sounded exasperated. Didn’t they teach you any economics where you come from?
“No,” Martin said out loud.
Ianna glanced over at him.
“You’re talking to him again.” She sounded just as irritated as Artie. “It’s bad manners to talk to your Artie without letting other Travelers listen in.”
“Sorry,” he apologized. “Classified talk.”
“You’ve been out here alone too long,” she said, sympathetically. “You need to go uptime and spend some time with a hot shower, an oculus and a good food printer.” She moved closer to him, pressed up against his side. “Maybe with a warm partner.”
“My contract with the Chayil,” he lied, apologetically.
Ianna was Qart-hadast wins Cannae, Hannibal burns Rome, timeline. The rest of the Travelers in the camp were from the same base timeline with different, minor, variations.
You lying bastard, Artie said, admiringly, in silent. You make it look so easy. I want you to program that into my if-then.
“Not a chance,” Martin replied, in silent. He smiled sincerely at Ianna.
“I can’t leave until I get new orders,” he said to her.
Martin, on the other hand, was always deliberately vague about his homepoint. It was better to let her make assumptions. The fewer lies he told, the better. Easier to keep things straight.
“Perhaps there’s some place we can meet, when your contract is over?” Ianna asked, hopefully. She reached down and rubbed his leg.
“Some place uptime? Some place with a bath tub? And hot water?”
“Yes!”
He shrugged. He looked past her, up toward the plateau and the temple and the Great Circle. The tops of several pillars were just visible. The Tall Men were not up yet.
“Maybe we can work that out. In the meantime…,” he said. He stood and put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her up to her feet. He glanced at the camp, toward where Tiamat had stepped out of sight.
“It will take her at least an hour to work her way here,” Ianna said. “She’ll talk to at least three other Travelers before she reaches us.”
“Well, then,” Martin said. He pushed the hut’s gazelle skin privacy curtain aside. The inside of the hut was dim, not dark, and the pile of grasses they used as a bed was clearly visible in the back. “Perhaps we should enjoy the moment.”
“What about the beer?”
“Artie can take care of the beer.”
This is not fair, Artie protested.
“Yes, he can,” she said, and grinned. She turned and led him by the hand into the room. Martin pulled the leather flap closed behind them.
I certainly hope she knows how this works, Artie said morosely, in silent. Because we sure as hell don’t.
Martin caught sight of Tiamat when she was about five minutes away.
Her skin was hunter browned, colored by sun and wind. Her legs were long and muscled. She carried a flint-tipped spear over her shoulder and a knife tucked into her belt.
She wore a loincloth and tied-on animal skin leggings. This time her hair was tucked under a broad-brimmed straw hat. Her shoes were leather sandals, held together by a bark-skin net which tied tightly around and over her ankles. A decorative bandeau, hand knotted into a geometric pattern and decorated with stone beads and feathers, rested on top of her breasts. A gazelle skin cape and a wood and hide backpack finished her clothing.