“In the dirt. And if the one you pick has sleeve embroidery, smear mud over it.”
More weakly still, “Mud?”
“We’ll hide your some of your silks under the floorboards, and stuff some into our saddle pouches. The three of us will also carry as many of your spices as we can.”
“The dust!” he cried, horrified. “And stuffing them into your saddle pouches? It will ruin the silks, even wrapped as they are!”
“Not unless we splash through puddles, which is unlikely here in the Punja. And if borjuni should appear, they won’t assume silk is in our pouches. Better to keep some than lose it all.”
“And the spices…on your horses, too?”
“Spices smell. They will smell less if they’re packed in our saddle pouches.” Still seated, I dangled the bag of coins in front of me, offering it. “You don’t have to hire us if my requests are too onerous.”
Stiffly, he said, “They are demands, not requests.”
I displayed my teeth in something akin to a grin but wasn’t, quite. “You don’t have to hire us if my demands are too onerous.”
He looked at Del, at her harness and sword lying next to her on her blanket. He looked at Neesha and his sword and harness. Finally he looked back at me. “But you’re the Sandtiger.”
“Then give me credit for knowing about guarding caravans and fighting borjuni. Don’t make yourself an obvious target.” His caravan would be a target regardless, but no need to advertise just how much Mahmood transported. “Make your last wagon the lightest. Some silks, some spices, yes. If any raiders appear, they’re more likely to cut out the last wagon. You’d lose less.”
He was horrified. “Cut out the wagon? But I’m hiring you to guard all four wagons!”
“And we will,” Del said matter-of-factly. “But sometimes you must throw a dog a bone so he doesn’t steal the meat.”
“He’s the Sandtiger,” Neesha put in with a dramatic note of wonder. “A living legend would guard your caravan!”
I slanted him a glance and saw that he was trying very hard not to laugh. But it was enough for Mahmood.
“Yes,” he said, with a trace of annoyance in his tone. “It will be as you say. But I will get the burnous wet and I will drag it through the dirt.”
Which meant it wouldn’t be as worn-looking as I wanted, but I had to give him something for his pride. “Come get us tomorrow morning.”
He nodded stiffly and walked away.
Neesha had the grace to wait until Mahmood was out of earshot before he began to laugh.
“That’s rude,” Del noted acerbically.
Neesha forced words out between blurts of laughter. “But the look on his face! Silks in our saddle pouches? Spices in our saddle pouches? The horror of such a thing!”
Del picked up her water bota and squirted him.
“Children,” I sighed, and tucked away the little bag of coin. In a saddle pouch.
Del, Neesha, and I were up, packed, and ready to go when Mahmood arrived not long after dawn. His expression was one of a rather morose stubbornness. He had indeed sullied his burnous but not by much. It was yellow made somewhat dull with dust, but there was no mud, even on the sleeve embroidery. No cuff bracelets, though, or copper-ornamented belt, and no brooch on his green turban.
“I picked off every stud from this belt,” he announced grimly, “and it took a long time. Do you know what this cost me to buy?”
“No,” I answered, “but your being a merchant, I suspect you traded for it and no coin changed hands. Now, let’s go to your wagons and portion out the silks and spices.”
“You’ll ruin the worth of the fabric,” he moaned.
“Wrinkles,” Del said, “can be pressed out.”
She was in harness now, wearing an indigo burnous that set off the blue of her eyes. She didn’t need embroideries, cuff bracelets, a belt weighted with worked metal or gems to impress or to raise her stature. She needed only herself. And Mahmood, seeing her in the full light of day, realized it. Many Southroners considered her too blonde, too pale, too tall. Too much of everything, especially self-confidence, self-governance, and a dedication to plain speech. Mahmood was not one of those men. His brows slid up, his mouth loosened, and he stared.
Neesha, leading his horse up by Del, snickered. Del herself made a shooing gesture at Mahmood. “Go.”
Apparently it was enough. Mahmood managed to stop staring and led the way to the easternmost edge of the oasis as we led the horses over. Four wagons, as he’d said, and three with drivers on the ground holding the teams. Despite his dress, the canvas-topped wagons were sturdy but unprepossessing; at least he knew to do that much. Nothing of them attracted interest—unless, of course, you just wanted to steal whatever the wagons might carry and discover later if the goods were worth coin or not. Like any self-respecting borjuni.
“All right,” I said. “Find the richest fabric you have.”
With great reluctance, Mahmood let down the tailgate of the lead wagon, climbed in, brought out a muslin-wrapped bundle. Del unwrapped it to view the costly silk, and indeed it was impressive. All colors, with silver threading worked into the weave. Even Neesha and I, not particularly interested in cloth unless it was worn by a beautiful woman, understood why Mahmood was so worried about losing it. Del ran an appreciative hand over the rich blue length on top, feeling the weave, the nubby richness as Mahmood looked on in worry. She tore up the muslin so the individual bundles would be somewhat protected, then she folded the silk and muslin in half and began to roll it tightly. Mahmood let out a strangled protest but was wise enough not to complain outright.
Del handed out tight silk rolls to Neesha and I. “Here. Our pouches won’t hold much, but better than losing it all if raiders find us.”
“The cloth will reek of spice,” Mahmood said unhappily.
Del looked at him levelly. “Better than reeking of blood. And we’re not stupid. We’ll put the spice in one pouch and the silk in another.”
I felt stupid. That had not crossed my mind.
“Perhaps it will add value,” Del observed. “Scented silk.”
Mahmood clearly hadn’t thought of that. Apparently both of us were stupid.
The merchant considered it, his face taking on a thoughtful expression. “Perhaps so.”
Del had now established that she was not stupid. Neesha and I stuffed rolls into our pouches while the drivers watched in interest. For a wonder, Mahmood no longer looked so pained. Del had given his merchant’s brain something new to think about.
We parceled out the rolls and spice bags, filling our pouches. With the drawstrings pulled tight, the pouches appeared fairly innocuous. The rest we divided up evenly and found hiding places except for the last wagon, in which we hid nothing. Silk and spices were obvious. Some visible in the other wagons, as well. Altogether, half of the goods were tucked away.
I clapped Mahmood’s shoulder. “If luck is with us, all of this preparation will be unnecessary.”
His tone was doleful. “If luck is with us, no spices will be spilled, no silk will be soiled.”
“Well, yes,” I agreed. Or perhaps ‘no’ was a better response. “Let’s go.”
Mahmood sighed and looked at his drivers. “We go.”
They climbed up on the wagons. Del, Neesha, and I climbed up on our horses. I looked at Mahmood aboard the first wagon. “We’ll hope this is a boring journey.”
The merchant’s tone was glum. “I’ll pray this is a boring journey.
Chapter 12