Dumery could make nothing of that, but he correctly concluded that in fact the woman didnot speak Ethsharitic.
Surely, though, she might know a few words.
“Dragon hunters?” Dumery asked. “I’m looking for dragon hunters.”
She glared at him. “Ie den norakh Ethsharit,” she said. “D’gash, d’gash!” She gestured for him to leave.
“Dragon hunters!” Dumery repeated. “Please!”
“D’gash!” She pointed angrily at the road.
Desperately, Dumery tried, “Kensher Kinner’s son?”
She paused, peered down at him. “Kensher?” she asked. “Kensherfin Kinnerl?”
Dumery nodded, hoping that she meant the man he was looking for, and that he hadn’t accidentally spoken some inappropriate Sardironese phrase.
She shook her head. “Da khor,” she said. “Pa-khorú.” She pointed down the road in the direction Dumery had been traveling.
Dumery had no idea what the words meant, but the gesture was clear. “That way?” he said. “Thank you, lady! Thank you!” He bowed, and backed away.
She stood and watched until he was back on the highway and heading east again.
Then she stepped inside and slammed the door.
Dumery trudged onward, wondering how far back into these wild hills Kensher was going to go.
Surely, if the woman knew the name, Kensher’s home couldn’t betoo much farther.
Dumery passed five more houses before night fell, and knocked at each one; three were apparently unoccupied, but at the other two a scene similar to his first attempt was repeated-Dumery would ask questions in Ethsharitic, and receive uncomprehending and incomprehensible replies in Sardironese. At one house even the name Kensher evoked no response, and he gave up and went on; at the other, the name elicited immediate recognition and careful directions, using gestures. Dumery took a moment to grasp that when the man there held out his first two fingers, spread wide apart, while pointing with his other hand, that it represented a fork in the road ahead.
Once he had that, though, the crossed index fingers for a crossroads seemed obvious, and running another finger along to show which fork to take, or drawing an imaginary left turn in the air, was clear enough.
The man gave Dumery a list of four forks and two crossroads, which Dumery carefully memorized.
Surely, he thought, it wouldn’t be long now! He marched on almost merrily, and even whistled for a moment or two.
He stopped, however, because it made him notice the cold more when he blew all that air out. The weather had very definitely turned colder-or perhaps it was because he was far to the north, and spring came later here.
Cold or not, though, he expected to find Kensher’s home shortly.
By sunset he hadn’t even reached the first fork.
Not long after he stopped at a marker stone, bearing an inscription he couldn’t make out in the failing light, and decided that he needed to rest. He couldn’t go on in the dark; he might wander off the road or get himself eaten by wolves. Besides, he was exhausted.
He was hungry, too, but there was nothing he could do about that.
He would go on in the morning, he decided.
He spent the night curled up by the road, shivering with the cold and listening to his stomach growl. In the stories he’d heard when he was younger the heroes had wandered about in forests for years, living off nuts and berries and roots, picking fruit from the trees-but he could see no nuts or berries or fruit and the roots were mostly well-hidden, while those that weren’t looked quite surprisingly unappetizing.
Water was no problem; there were streams and pools all through the hills, especially along the valleys between ridges. It was often dirty, stagnant and foul-tasting, but it was water.
Food, though, he could not find.
He had chewed a few stalks of grass as he walked, but that was not really satisfying. He had eaten reasonably well on the barge, but he hadn’t eatenat all since coming ashore, except for the grass, and he was beginning to wonder how long it took to starve to death.
Some of the houses he had passed had had gardens, and he wondered if he might do well to backtrack until he found one and pick a few things, but it was too early in the year for much of anything to be ripe yet, and he didn’t like the idea of stealing.
Besides, it was getting dark very rapidly, and he was afraid he’d lose the trail if he tried to go anywhere.
When he awoke the sun was already high up the eastern sky; his discomfort had kept him awake well after he should have slept, but once asleep his exhaustion had taken over. He rose quickly and started on toward the east once again, but almost immediately began to think about turning back and searching for food, maybe going back to the house where he had gotten directions and begging. That man had seemed kind; surely, he would feed a hungry stranger!
This idea grew steadily more appealing for almost half an hour. Then he topped the next ridge and reconsidered.
Ahead of him, at a fork in the road that was surely the first of the four he had been told about, stood an inn.
It had to be an inn. It was much larger than any of the houses he had seen out here in the wilderness, with a large, cleared yard, and a stable attached at one end. The main building was all wood, but decorated with carvings and paint in a way that none of the houses had been. A large herb and vegetable garden spread across the hillside to the rear, with a wellhouse at one back corner and what appeared to be the roof of an icehouse at the other. A signboard hung over the door.
If he had only gone on a little farther in the darkness-but that didn’t matter now. Dumery staggered happily down the slope; surely, his six bits would buysomething edible here!
When he got closer he saw that the signboard showed a pine tree splitting in half from the top down, with a jagged yellow line in the center of the split that extended up to the top of the wooden panel-lightning, Dumery guessed.
That hardly seemed like a favorable omen, but Dumery didn’t really believe in omens in everyday life.
The front door was open, and Dumery tottered in without hesitation. He found a chair and fell into it, and hauled his few pitiful coins out of his purse.
“Ukhur ie t’yelakh?”
Dumery looked up at the serving maid who stood over him; he had been too busy with his money to notice her approach.
“Do you speak Ethsharitic?” he asked, depressingly certain that she would not.
“Ethsharit?” she asked. “D’losh. Shenda!” This last word was shouted in the direction of the kitchens.
Another, older serving maid appeared in reply. “Uhu?” she asked.
“Da burei gorn Ethsharit.” With that, the younger woman turned and headed for the kitchen, while the older one emerged to take her place.
“Yes, sir?” the new arrival asked.
“You speak Ethsharitic?” Dumery asked, amazed and pleased.
“Yes, sir. What would you like?” Although she spoke politely, Dumery saw her looking askance at the rags he wore.
“I haven’t eaten in two days,” Dumery said. “This is all the money I have left. May I have something to eat? Anything?”
She looked at the coins and considered. “I think we can manage something,” she said. Dumery noticed she had only a very slight Sardironese accent.
She turned and headed for the kitchen, and Dumery sat, waiting nervously.
She emerged a few moments later with a platter and set it before him.
He stared, mouth watering.
There were soft brown rolls, and two green apples, and white-streaked orange cheese, and the remains of a chicken-the legs were gone, and the breast meat stripped away, but one wing was still there, and Dumery could see a fair bit of meat still on the bones.