But that was all right, too. Working his way through the outer camps was not as hard as he thought it might be. They were not expecting anyone like him here. As far as they knew, all Remlaps had ceased to exist.
So within two hours of careful movement he was into Awul-alwaha proper. There were so many people around it was impossible to hide any longer, and there was no need to. He could stand up and walk among the people, or at least slink from alley to alley. If he were glimpsed, it was no great matter to imagine that he was a lost traveler, for Awul-alwaha was filled to capacity with outsiders, men who had not been of the Blaskoye tribe, who had never thought of themselves as Redlanders, but who did now.
They convinced themselves after they saw what got done to those Schlusels, thought Gaspar. And he knew that many others had received the same treatment, including his tribe. It was either join the Blaskoye and call yourself a Redlander-or find yourself made an example of in the most horrible way.
He knew where he was going. At least, he believed he could find the tent.
As the headman of his tribe, in better days he had been invited to visit the sheiks and potentates who had run the Blaskoye clan before Rostov came along.
In many ways, those old days had not been very much different from now. The Blaskoye had been running a protection operation since time immemorial. But in those days you knew where you stood, and you knew that if you paid the proper amounts to the right people, you would be let alone and left to go your way. And if you did not, the most that would happen would be to have your legs broken, a few daks slaughtered or taken. This was not out of consideration for the finer feelings of the herd animals, the other tribes, of course. It was a method for ensuring a steady return over the long-term.
But now all that was gone, and the only thing the Blaskoye-and one might as well go ahead and say it, Rostov-cared about was the present.
Awul-alwaha was not a town in any sense, more an extended encampment, but Gaspar, never having seen a town, was only aware of this fact in the abstract. It seemed enormous to him. The buildings were not permanent, except for a couple of wells and a central bathing area made of adobe bricks. It was the largest collection of human beings that Gaspar ever seen, and he could not imagine how a Farmer town could be more crowded, although he’d heard that they were. Almost he forgot the way along the paths between the tents and other temporary structures that defined the encampment. But there was enough similarity from the last time he had been here, which was nearly three years before, for him to wind his way toward the big tent of white and blue fabric that marked the Blaskoye central living area. Around that tent, clustered like sheep around the salt lick, were the many elaborate structures that formed the corridors of the tribes’ leaders, including the slave quarters and the dont enclosures. There were even separate cook tents and specially floored dining yurts where the masters of the Redlands could sit in comfort and consume their slave-brought meals.
The sounds of the oasis surrounded him. The perpetual flapping of fabric in the wind. The sudden onset of humidity, and the ensuing plague of insectoids. The white shine of the morning sun and play of shadows through breeze-whipped tent walls. The smell of the fabric itself: most of it dakwool, locally made, but some dusty linen bought or stolen from the Valley with its flax mills.
And, as always, the need to watch out for stakes and guylines. They were everywhere, put in wherever there was room. Get off the path, and you were likely to trip, perhaps yank up a carefully planted stake, or do something that would call attention to yourself.
Then he was among the Blaskoye tents, white and trimmed with blue, and his way became less certain. He would have to listen in on conversations and find his way to where he wished to go. It proved easier than he had feared, however, for a steady stream of visitors was headed for the very person he wanted to find. He hid in a shadow behind a large potted plant and listened to two men as they spoke of a report they would soon give. Both seemed nervous and uncertain about how it would be received.
“He won’t like that they are in the Redlands and we couldn’t find them,” said one.
“But it’s better for him to know that they are here than for them to get away with it entirely,” said the other. “I don’t think he’s going to take it out on us. We’ve done what we could.”
“You know that’s not the way he will look at it. He’ll tell us that he might hear the same report from a tribe in for market, so what does he need spies for?”
They continued past Gaspar, and he came out from behind his plant and followed them. Just before they went through a large opening that led to another tent, he ducked to the side and worked his way around the edge of that tent until he came to yet another tent that connected to the larger structure.
This will be the slave quarters for the main area, he thought. I will come in here, and if he is not here, it is still a good way to get to where I must go. A way that he will not expect.
The hard part would be getting himself and the map case through a small opening without being detected. He was about to slit a hole long ways with his rusty knife-an instrument the Farmers had mercifully, foolishly, allowed him to keep-when he realized that this would be immediately noticed and instead reached down and made a horizontal cut along the floor of the tent side just above where it reached the ground and was curled under the flooring circlet that kept it in position. His slit began at one support and ended at another. It was as long as a man. Gaspar got down on his belly and held the map in its case in front of him as if he were hugging a baby. He quietly rolled through the slit.
When he looked up he was inside a large area full of people and frenetic with movement. He quickly stood up and looked around. The people were intent on their tasks and no one had noticed him enter. In fact, he didn’t think any one of them would notice anything unless the entire tent were burning down, so intent were they on following whatever orders drove them.
These had the sliced foreheads that signified they were slaves. Many of the gashes were recent and still healing. The greatest danger he faced at the moment was the fact that he had no such scar on his own forehead. But the presence of the map in its willow tube proved to be exactly what he needed. He looked like a functionary making his way toward the main hall, a Blaskoye minor noble, perhaps, taking a shortcut to get to his destination.
So instead of slinking along and hiding, Gaspar held his head high and walked confidently through the enormous tented area full of bustling slaves. He looked right and left, searching, searching. He looked into the faces of the others, and they averted their eyes, afraid that he was doing the worst thing you could possibly do to a slave-notice them, pick them out for some special duty or punishment.
But he did not find what he was looking for, and he was going to have to ask someone. This might not go so well, he knew, for his garb would immediately be noticed, not to mention his outre accent. For a moment he contemplated luring someone to the shadows and killing them for their clothes, but he didn’t think that he would be able to pull this off in his present state. He was very, very thirsty, and the sight of the slaves taking cups filled with drinks into the main area was maddening.
He walked in circles around the large area, trying to find where they might keep the young slaves, the gleanings from raids and trading among the tribes. Surely a boy of seven would not be put to work that required a great deal of dexterity or strength. They must keep them at some mundane tasks somewhere, and he must discover where that place was. But ducking down side tunnels and into other tents led him nowhere. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t find the boy. After coming so close, he couldn’t find him.