Quetti noticed. “And of course you’d need herders, too, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course.”
He blinked and shook his head sadly at me. I could almost believe I saw tears form in those ice-blue eyes. Not like Quetti!
“I’ll scout around—”
I’d had enough—we’d both start weeping like toddlers in a moment. “Stay out of it!” I snapped. “Even if all you do is to divert a herd in this direction, you’ll still be breaking your angel oath. This is my life, wetlander. Let me live it out.”
I clambered out of the chariot, awkward as a landed fish. I slung my bow over one shoulder, my quiver over the other, and I hefted out a bag of jerky.
By then Quetti had moved to the driver’s seat and was leaning on the gunwale. “All right! I promise I won’t send any herds this way. But I’ll come back in—”
“I’ll put an arrow in you. I mean it!”
He muttered something I missed. Then he shrugged. In silence we shook hands and smiled at each other uncomfortably. We had run out of words, and some things do not fit into words very well anyway.
Braced against the thrust of the wind, I stood barefoot in the grass and watched his sails dwindle away along a ridge until they were wiped out by the rippling heat. Then I spun around and roiled off down to the trees.
By the time I reached them, Loneliness was chuckling in my ear.
—4—
I WAS DISAPPOINTED TO DISCOVER that there were no miniroos around, but of course barriers of ocean and mountain would have thinned out the wildlife as much as the people who shared the same habitat. Probably there would be few roo packs, either, although that was a knife with two edges. I made a fishing rod and caught nothing; few grassland lakes contain fish. Birds passed overhead once in a while, but there was nothing I could do about that: only angels have guns.
So my existence was limited by the contents of my grub sack. That made life simple. I stowed the bag carefully in a tree, in case something with three eyes came by while I slept. If something with two eyes came at those times, then I would never awaken, so there was no complication there, either.
Herdmasters scout water holes. If one arrived before I did, then he would almost certainly approach close enough to let his horse drink. He would likely ride all the way around, checking for skulking loners, like me. I could hide in the undergrowth, and my arrows would reach any part of the shore. I was ten times as good with a bow as any herdman. If my shot was true, I would fell him. If his horse did not bolt, I could ride back to his herd and claim it. If I could find it. Life was very, very simple now.
I explored the terrain until my feet were sore. I made myself a comfortable place to sit. I sat. I wished I did not already feel hungry. And I wished that Loneliness would stop laughing.
A shot awakened me. The all-red chariot stood on the skyline. I heaved myself to my feet and reached for my bow. Quetti was already starting down the slope, hatless so that the sun blazed on his golden hair. Obviously he had believed my threats, and the shot had been to avoid catching me unaware and provoking a reflex attack. Good angels are cautious types.
I had eaten once and slept twice. That was not long enough for him to be seriously worried about me. Nor had there been time for me to have changed my mind, so there was something new. I laid down the bow and waddled out of the trees to meet him.
He came to a halt before he was within knife range and warily raised a hand in the sign of peace.
“Approach, friend!” I said. God in Heaven! It was good to see a human face again.
He came closer and stopped again, his faint mocking smile playing over his lips. He needed a shave, and his eyes were a sleepless red. “Doing all right?”
“Fine.”
He chuckled, disbelieving. “Remember when we first met, Knobil? You told me what had happened to your knees—and there you were in a spinsters den.”
“So?”
“I said you didn’t have much luck.”
Again I said, “So?” What was amusing him? If he was playing a game, I could not see what it might be.
He paused to yawn—mostly for effect, I supposed. “Your luck’s just changed.” He gestured a thumb over his shoulder. “I stopped to check out the sweeties at the first camp I came to.”
“And?”
“The herdmaster’s name is Gandrak.” He grinned to let the suspense build…“He’s dying.”
“What? Why?”
“Fell off his horse. I think he’s twisted his gut, or something. Nothing I can help with, Knobil, and he’s very close to death. His women are in a panic.” The pale eyes were wide and guileless.
“This is on the level? You’re not setting this up?”
Quetti shook his head.
“A herdmaster should win his herd by killing a man—”
“No. They need you, herdman. There are no other herds around, not that I can find. Three women and their kids…they can’t ride horses and scout water holes—they’ll die if you won’t come. They need a man, Knobil!”
Holy Father, but it was tempting! I dropped my eyes and scratched my head, pretending to think the matter over.
Either Quetti was lying and had been biding his time behind some nearby ridge, or he had worked a miracle of tracking and navigation to find his way back to this one water hole.
Angels did not believe in miracles, but a herdman could…
“Six horses!” Quetti remarked innocently. “The usual garbage mostly, but there’s one half-decent mare.”
I know I reacted to that, for a slight grin teased at the corners of his eyes. I looked away quickly. I did not want to know how much he had guessed about my dream.
“And at least three of the herders were looking down at me. You’ll have to clean those out real soon.”
He knew! Was he going to block me? I looked up and met perhaps the widest grin I had ever seen on his face.
“It’s on the level, Knobil. You want to say a prayer of thanks now, or something?”
“Maybe I should,” I said. “You first, and the Father next.”
He shook his head gently. “Looks like the Father wants you to succeed! But if you’re plotting what I think you are, you’re going to need a lot more divine help—a lot more! Better thank Him first.”
I thumped Quetti’s shoulder and turned hastily away. “I’ll get my bow,” I said.
—5—
AGAIN I STOOD IN THE GRASS and watched the scarlet chariot sail away over the ridges, creaking and bouncing; but this time I caught a faint snatch of song from Quetti, and we waved our faint goodbyes. He had refused my offer of hospitality. Neither of us wanted to endure another farewell.
Again I lurched down a hillside in my awkward gait, feeling absurdly naked in my pagne and hat. This time I had no sack of meat, and faint thoughts of roast dasher wandered already around my salivary glands.
I headed for the brilliant tents and the anxious crowd awaiting. Smoke streamed from the fire, and two last small herders were racing in from the distant woollies, passing a fresh grave.
I thought of Anubyl and his arrival at my father’s camp, and I remembered my awful terror then. Pushing my hat back on my head, I donned a cheerful expression. Then I remembered what a monstrosity I must seem to them, and I hastily changed my expression to one of studied competence.
I reached the first tent, and there stood a wide-eyed child.
Holding a baby.
Great Heaven! I had forgotten how young…
“Don’t kneel,” I said hastily. “I can’t, so why should you? I am Knobil.”
“I am Jasinala, sir.”