And for that suggestion, Mehmet had named me jhihadi.
A man could own a dwelling and a plot of land and call himself a king. A man could have an idea that suited a prophecy, and call himself a messiah.
And there were times when that kind of label could be valuable.
I swallowed the meat, then leaned forward, dug a shallow depression in the dirt, drew a line leading out of it, then poured liquor into the depression. After a moment, it flowed into the finger-wide channel. I reached out, plucked a sprig of grass, and set it at the end of the channel as the liquor arrived.
"Sand," I said, "is grass."
The Vashni stared at my little demonstration. Dark faces paled. Four pairs of eyes fastened themselves on my face, staring in astonishment. Clearly they were shaken.
"But don't mind me," I told them, shrugging. "I'm pretty drunk."
And indeed I was. This morning I had eaten nothing, killed a man, lost the dinner I'd had the night before, and swallowed most of the contents of an unfamiliar liquor under a warm afternoon sun.
"He is the jhihadi," Del declared emphatically. "My brother said so. Was he not your Oracle?" Now it was her turn to be stared at. She blinked, put a hand to her head, then said the words I never, ever expected to hear from her: "Oh, Tiger, I am so dreadfully drunk."
"Sometimes," I said, "this is a good thing." I put my arm around her shoulders, guided her close so she could slump against me without falling over, and smiled fatuously at the Vashni. "And now, if you don't mind, I think the Oracle's sister—and very probably the jhihadi—are going to pass out."
SEVEN
I WOKE UP to the sound of retching. Del, I realized, was no longer beside me. And she'd never been drunk before.
Ah.
I cracked an eye and realized the sun was up, filtering down through the trees. This is not a particularly strange discovery to make unless you've gone to sleep—or passed out—in the late afternoon, and it appears to be the morning sun.
I opened the other eye, squinted up at arching limbs with their feathery, waving leaves, then girded my loins for battle and managed to lever myself up on an elbow. The world wobbled. So did I. I caught sight of Del several paces away, clutching a tree and looking for all the world as if she'd fall down without it.
Poor bascha.
Belatedly, I became aware of a sense of absence. A sharp glance around the camp showed me no Vashni, no Vashni horses, no skins or carcasses. Only the stud and gelding, still tied to trees but unsaddled, and our belongings piled neatly nearby. Including knives and swords.
As I moved to get up, something shifted against my chest, getting caught on the harness. I looked down, saw a handful of ivory ornaments danging against the burnous. Some kind of necklet had been put around my neck as I slept. Closer inspection showed a string of human fingerbones carefully wired together.
Ugh.
But I elected not to take the necklet off in case Vashni were watching from cover. You never know when the repudiation of a gift might get you cooked. And then your fingerbones would adorn someone's neck.
There is no cure for the day after a good drunk—or a bad one, depending on your point of view—but there is something that helps. I groped around, found the bota, sloshed it to test for contents, unstoppered it and drank. The bite was just as bad, the smell just as pungent. But adding new liquor to old would improve morning-after miseries.
I raised my voice. "You going to live?"
Del didn't answer except to be sick again.
I sat up all the way, shut my eyes a moment, kept my own belly down with a massive application of determination, and swallowed more liquor.
Eventually Del made her way back to the blanket, clutching a water bota. I noticed she also had been gifted with a fingerbone necklet but decided against mentioning it just yet. She was very pale—more than usual, that is—and circles had appeared beneath her eyes.
She sat down, leaned her head into her hands, and mumbled, "You must be enjoying this."
"What, seeing you get sick? Trust me, bascha, it's one of the least attractive sights in the world."
"No. That I am sick. After all the times I reprimanded you for getting drunk." She sighed heavily into the heels of her hands. "I don't see how you do it. I don't see why you do it!"
"Well, usually that isn't the point. I mean, not to get so drunk I feel that bad the next day. Unfortunately, sometimes it is the price you pay."
"I don't want to pay it."
"You didn't have much choice. It was the polite thing to do when being hosted by murdering savages."
"You're not sick."
"I did that yesterday, remember?" I gently slapped the bota against one arm. "Here. I know you don't want to, but I promise it'll help."
"I have water."
"It's not water."
She lifted her head and looked at me. "You can't mean more of that horrible spirit!"
"I can. I do. Just a few sips, bascha. Then lie down and go back to sleep."
"Tiger—"
"I've already had my medicine. Your turn." She looked and sounded desperate. "I don't want any!" "Well, I could pour it down your gullet for you . . ." She knew I'd do it, too. Del gritted her teeth, took the bota, winced from the smell, then tipped the skin up to drink. Her hands shook, but she squeezed a couple of swallows into her mouth.
I thought at first she might be sick again, but she managed to keep it down. "Another swallow," I prompted.
She managed that, then thrust the bota back at me. After a moment she lay down on her side with her back to me, one hand over her face. The sun through leaves spread a lattice of dappled shadow across her body.
Smiling, I sorted out her tangled braid. "Sleep. We're in no rush."
What she replied was unintelligible. Probably just as well.
I knew better than to attempt to go back to sleep myself. Once awake after a session of too much liquor, I stayed that way for a while. I'd sleep again later. Besides, other business called me. I got up, suppressing groans, stood there a moment until the world steadied, then made my way into the brush to find a likely bush. After offering a rather prodigous libation to the gods of alcohol, I set about assessing our situation.
First I checked the horses and found them content, lipping up what remained of the grain that apparently the Vashni had given them. Our oiled canvas buckets were on the ground within reach, and each contained enough water that I knew the horses weren't thirsty. Our weapons remained on the blanket where we'd put them, though the Vashni swords and knives were gone. Our saddle-pouches were stacked next to them, and there was an extra leather bag. I loosed the thong drawstring enough to discover the contents were more meat, nearly lost my belly then, and dropped the bag instantly. Later. Maybe.
So. They had guested us in their camp, fed us, given us drink, untacked, fed, and watered our horses, left our weapons and belongings, and gifted us with meat and bone necklets. All in all, I couldn't think of a more polite visit with anyone.
Hmmm. Being the jhihadi has its advantages.
I dug through our pouches and pulled out some dried cumfa. While it's hardly a delicacy, it was somewhat more appetizing this morning than barely cooked sandtiger meat left for gods know how long in a leather bag, plus it was preserved in salt. Salt in the desert is a must. I grabbed up a water bota and went back to the blanket, settling down to a meager breakfast. Del slept on.
Lucky bascha.
When next I awoke, Del was no longer retching. Or sleeping. In fact, she was up doing what I'd already done: checking the horses, our belongings. She was moving with much less grace than usual but had rebraided her hair and changed into a cleaner burnous, since she had, as I had, used her sleeve to clean her face, and looked altogether more prepossessing than she had earlier. Though there was no question she didn't feel good.