I took it as invitation. "Sandtiger," I said.
Now he looked at Del. Now the hand rose to his hair, then indicated his eyes.
Blue-eyed, fair-haired Del said, "The Oracle's sister."
The Vashni closed in. We followed—or were made to understand it was wise to follow—the man with gray eyes.
It was a camp, not a village. A tiny clearing surrounded by boulders, a grove of twisted, many-limbed trees, a fire ring set in the middle with blankets thrown down around it. The stink of blood and entrails as well as the piles of hides told us the Vashni were a hunting party, as did the skinned carcasses hanging from the trees. Likely the village was a day's ride. Perhaps it was even the one where Jamail had been held.
Once in camp, Del and I were motioned off our horses. We dismounted, and one of the warriors led the stud and gelding away to tie them to a tree lacking the ornamentation of meat. The stud was not happy, but he didn't protest. Del's black-painted, fringe-bedecked gelding went placidly and stood where he was tied, lowering his head to forage in thatches of webby green grass spreading beneath the tree. The Vashni mounts were turned loose once their bridles were slipped; apparently even they knew better than to test a warrior's mood.
Gravely the gray-eyed man unsheathed knife and sword and set them down upon a woven blanket. The other warriors followed suit. Then it was our turn.
Unarming before anyone was not something I enjoyed. Doing it before Vashni set a knot into my guts. But a single misstep could get us killed. And they seemed to be peaceable enough—for the moment.
Del and I added our weapons to the pile. The gray-eyed man, whom I took to be the leader, sat down, motioning us to be seated on the blanket across from him, on the other side of the fire ring. We did so. It was a comfortable spot out of the sun's glare, shaded by trees. If we'd been with anyone besides Vashni, it might have been a nice little respite.
Then, surprisingly, the grey-eyed man placed a hand on his chest and identified himself: "Oziri." Botas were brought out and passed around. We were, they made it clear, to drink first, even before Oziri.
Peaceable indeed. Courteous, even. I unstoppered the bota, smelled the pungent bite of liquor, took a surreptitous deep breath, then squirted a goodly amount into my mouth. Even as I swallowed liquid fire, clamping my mouth shut so as not to gasp aloud, I passed the bota to Del. Without hesitation she drank down a generous swallow. Then tears welled up in her eyes, and she went into a spasm of coughing.
It might have been insult. Instead, the Vashni found it amusing. Grins broke out. Heads nodded. One warrior brought out a leather bag, dug inside, then tossed out sizeable chunks of meat to his companions. I was thrown a chunk big enough for two; Del, they clearly judged, was still too incapacitated to catch her own.
"If you die," I told her, "they'll likely take your body back to the village and boil the flesh off your bones."
Her voice was thin and choked. "I'm not dying."
"Here." I divided and passed her some meat. "Maybe this will help."
She cleared her throat repeatedly, then accepted the meat even as she thrust the bota back at me. "What is it?"
"Don't ask. Just eat." I sucked down more liquor. It was unlike anything I'd had before. Already my brain tingled.
Knowing Vashni eyes were on her, Del lifted the meat to her mouth and found a promising edge. She bit into it, froze a moment, then began to gnaw at it. Eventually she pulled the bite free and began to chew. Her expression, despite her attempt to mask it, spoke of a flavor not particularly pleasing to her palate.
Now that Del was eating, it was my turn. No more excuses. I bit into my portion, tore off a chunk, tasted the sharp, gamy flavor, and began the lengthy process of chewing it into something that might be swallowed. The warriors, I noted, had no problems. But then, they likely had been given tough and mostly raw meat from the day their teeth came in.
Del's words were distorted around the bite she was clearly reluctant to swallow. "Wha' i' it?"
I grinned as I risked it—one big swallow to get it all down at once—and tossed the bota back. "Like I said, don't ask. Just eat. Wash it down with that."
Oziri said, "Sandtiger."
I looked at him. "Yes?"
Something very like a smile quirked the corner of his mouth. He pointed to the meat. "Sandtiger. For the Sandtiger."
Oh. Oh.
Hoolies—I was eating my namesake!
Del stopped chewing. She stared at the hunk of meat in her hand, plainly trying to decide if she would be forgiven for spitting out what was in her mouth, or possibly killed for it. As I expected, she took the safer road. She swallowed with effort, then squirted more liquor into her mouth. This time she didn't cough, but a hand flew to her mouth. Droplets fell from her chin.
Sandtiger meat. No wonder it was so tough. They weren't exactly known as a food source. Usually we were theirs.
I bit off another chunk and began to chew before it could chew back. It was impossible to relax, but the Vashni, eating and drinking companionably, gave every indication we were guests, not quarry bound for the cookpot.
Of course, it could just be the last meal prior to the cookpot.
I didn't say that to Del. Just watched her struggle to chew and choke down the meat, leavening it with liquor. Eventually I took the bota back and did the same.
"Sandtiger," Oziri said.
I waited politely, wondering if he were addressing me or identifying my meal.
"The Oracle's sister took you into Beit al'Shahar and freed you of Chosa Dei."
Either that had become legend in his tribe, or this man had been one of the warriors who'd told Del where to find Shaka Obre, after she'd hit me over the head with a rock. Or perhaps he was one of the warriors who'd taken Jamail to the chimney formation where he somehow managed to learn how to speak again despite lacking a tongue.
"Yes," I confirmed.
"You are free now?"
"Yes."
He ran a forefinger along his hairline. "Chosa Dei did that?"
He meant the rim of tattoos at the top of my forehead, not yet hidden by hair. "No. This was done in Skandi. An island far away."
He didn't care about Skandi. "Did Chosa steal your mind?"
I smiled. "He tried. But no. I'm truly free of him." If I weren't, they'd likely boil me. "Thanks to the Oracle's sister."
He nodded once, glancing at Del. "We honor you, Oracle's sister."
Del was startled. But she retained enough courtesy to give him thanks for that, for his meat, for his liquor.
Oziri smiled. "You will be drunk."
Her face was rosy. "I think," she said, "I am."
He nodded once. "Good."
"Good?" she asked faintly.
"Good, yes." He glanced it me. "You, it will take longer."
"Oh, I don't know—I'm already feeling it."
"Drink more. There are tales to be told."
So I drank more, while the Vashni told us tales of the Oracle's prophecies of a man who would change the sand to grass, thus changing the future of the desert. I kept my face free of reaction, but I couldn't help wondering if that kind of future was anathema to them. Yet the warriors seemed merely to accept what their Oracle had prophesied, as if it hadn't occured to them to question what might come. Blind faith, sitting before me.
"Jhihadi," Oziri said, and the others murmured something.
I flicked a sharp glance at him.
"The Oracle said he will change the sand to grass."
I chewed thoughtfully at a final bite of meat, recalling the suggestions I had made to a young man called Mehmet about digging new wells and using cisterns linked to channels to bring the water to areas without. The suggestion had seemed quite logical to me, infinitely practical. So obvious, in fact, I found it amazing no one else had ever thought of it.