“We’re not stayin’ here tonight, then? I figured it might be time for another dance,” the boy responded.
“It might be, but it’s still fairly early, and we can make it halfway there, if we keep on, and all the way by tomorrow night. Five or ten miles north and I’ll be in country I know well, which helps a lot.”
“You still worried ’bout that zombie guy, huh? He’s way over on the other side now.”
“He’s on both sides—bet on it. And he’s been down farther than this and a little inland before, so I don’t want to take any chances. Not too many years ago, a demon-led army was literally at the gates of Terindell, and not too long ago, some of the towns between here and there were under Sugasto’s control. If he had to pull back because he was reaching his limit, then we’re still within his limit now. I don’t underestimate the S.O.B. I keep doing that and almost dying or worse as a result. And he’s got a particular set of scores to settle with us, just as we do with him. Last time he controlled things; the next time I want to set the conditions.”
The town, like the vegetation, was rather different than the High Pothique ones he’d been in, but the basics were the same. Gone was any trace of adobe; buildings here were of stone and wood, with thick straw or bamboo or even, in a few cases, red slate roofs. The people seemed a bit more prosperous, although that was like going from zero to almost one on a scale of ten, and had a different look about them. It wasn’t a big difference, but the folk of High Pothique looked more Arabic, while these looked more European, their complexions more tan than olive, their features more like die typical white folks he knew back home.
The men tended to wear white cotton in a uniform, baggy style, often with soft leather boots, and about half tended to wear broad-brimmed, rounded white hats. The women, on the other hand, made those of High Pothique seem almost overdressed, most of them wearing little more than varicolored cotton string bikini bottoms or petite cotton loincloths. They tended to be fatter, or chunkier, on average than those of High Pothique, and most all of them wore oversized earrings, bracelets, and the like of bone or copper or something else, and almost all of them tended to cut their hair real short, almost in a man’s trim cut. Like those of High Pothique, they tended to carry huge amphoras or boxes on their heads, and, also like High Pothique, most seemed to be pregnant, carrying babies as well, and having lots of naked kids around.
It didn’t smell much better, either.
Most of the small cafes were just preparing for lunch, though, so it was possible to get hot, thoroughly cooked food, which always made Irving feel a bit better. Cooking still killed little nasties that wanted at your insides. As usual, he let his father order, he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know what some of the stuff was. At this level of cooking, anyway, it all tasted pretty much like whatever it was cooked in, anyway.
Joe picked up his tankard and looked at them. “Two days to real beds and decent food,” he said. He gestured in a sort of a toast. “To the end of the road,” he added, and drank.
The proprietor, over here a man, told them that they’d have to clear border entry at the crossroads; the only road out of town led to there, so it was the border station, to avoid crimping the town’s economy more than any other reason. Travelers who cleared the border here might tend to hurry on past; those who knew they would yet have to usually stopped and spent something. And, of course, going the other way, travelers to High Pothique tended to come here and spend the night before the journey.
The border people would have information on all the roads and routes.
Unlike High Pothique, which seemed pretty loose about its guards and such, this station was almost like a small military stockade built of formidable stone. The blue-and-gold flag of Marquewood flew atop a large pole, and the bordermen were dressed more like soldiers, in uniforms that matched the flag.
Irving looked over next to the flag and tried unsuccessfully to suppress laughing. Standing just beneath it was a huge marble statue of a nude man and woman, bigger than life, looking back at them.
“No wisecracks,” Joe warned. “Besides, we’re going to have enough problems remembering that we’re suddenly nobodies here.”
A soldier, with a trim, brown mustache and military bearing, came up to him. “Do you have any papers?”
“No, sir, although we are all citizens of Marquewood. Although my parents were from a far-off place, I was born in, and am going home to, Terdiera; the lady is of Sachalin origin.”
The soldier nodded, then looked at Irving. “You, young sir, are not of Marquewood, surely.”
“My son,” Joe answered hastily. “I travel a lot in my work.”
The soldier looked at Joe, then the boy, then shrugged. “Apparently so. And from where did you journey?”
“High Pothique, entirely. A well-earned holiday, you might say. Now I am returning to my employer.”
“I see. And who might that be?”
“Ruddygore of Terindell, of course.”
The soldier started a bit. “You work for the sorcerer?”
“Legally, no. But he has first claim on my services.”
The soldier nodded and went to Tiana. “You are of Sachalin?”
“I was born in that city, my lord.”
“And what are you to these two?”
“My lord, I am his slave and mistress,” she responded, pointing to Joe.
The response startled Irving. Hell, she was his wife, wasn’t she? But it seemed to satisfy the guy. Maybe it was an image thing, he decided, or one more of them damned Rules.
“Name and family?”
“My lord knows that upon becoming a slave I gave up my name and family. I am called by whatever name my master chooses, and for now he calls me Ti, after the Blessed Goddess.”
“You were acquired in High Pothique.”
“No, my lord, in Marquewood.”
He nodded, then asked a few specific questions about the far-off city, which she answered perfectly and without hesitation, knowing the place well. He seemed satisfied. “Very well.” He wrote something and handed it to Joe.
“This is your customs entry for the horses and slave,” the border guard told the big man. “She seems to be of Marque-wood and her accent is right, so I will allow her in free of duty. However, if you plan on leaving the kingdom again with her and returning, you should have her fitted with a nose ring to validate her country of origin or you could wind up paying duty.”
Now the borderman walked back to Irving, who had been watching all this with increasing horror. At least he had been properly briefed for his own questions.
“You are not born here?”
“No, sir, first time. I am of age, and my father is taking me to be trained by the one who trained him.”
The border patrolman walked back to Joe. “All seems in order, sir. Left to Terdiera. You are cautioned that most of the route is Royal Preserve—no poaching.”
“Any problems?” Joe asked him. “The last time I was through the Master of the Dead was working down almost past here.”
“He withdrew his forces northward as far as we can tell upon the sorcerer’s return,” the soldier told them. “Your route should be safe, although there are reports of hidden enemy encampments in these parts and occasional bits of nastiness—-cemeteries getting up and taking walks, that sort of thing. Stay on the road and camp only in and around the towns and you should have no trouble. The Majin fairies have been moved in between Hotsphar and Terdiera as they are loyal and have proven resistant to the enemy’s powers, but from a few miles north of here until perhaps the old tollhouse at Grotom Wood there’s been reports of firesprites and possible banshee presence, so don’t camp in there even after dark. Otherwise, no problems.”