‘I prefer to listen,’ Bardas replied.
‘Very sensible,’ the woman said. ‘One mouth and two ears, like my mother used to tell us when we were children. How far are you going?’
‘Sammyra,’ Bardas said. ‘Apparently I change coaches there for Ap’ Calick.’
The woman was chewing. ‘Ap’ Calick,’ she said. ‘I used to call there when I was younger. The manager of the government brickyard there was a very good customer. Perfume,’ she added, by way of explanation. ‘Twenty years in the trade, either side of when the children were small; took over from my father when I was seventeen, bought out both my brothers by the time I was twenty. I’m hoping my youngest girl will take over from me in due course; she’s very good on the production side, but she doesn’t like the travelling. With me, of course, it’s the other way round, so we work very well together. My son hates me still being on the road, of course; I expect he thinks it makes him look bad, but who the hell cares? Still, I won’t deny it’s a great help having a son in the roads commission. For one thing, I can scrounge a lift on the post whenever I need to, and that’s a real advantage. I’m not sure I’d be quite so keen on the road if I was having to slog across this lot on a mule. Have you been to Sammyra before?’
Bardas shook his head. ‘Just a name to me,’ he said.
The woman sniffed. ‘It’s nothing much, really; been going downhill ever since they lost the indigo trade. The baths are worth a visit if you get time, but I wouldn’t bother too much with the market. You can get exactly the same stuff in Tollambec at about half the price.’
Bardas nodded. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said.
‘Now the best thing about Tollambec,’ the woman went on, ‘is the fish stew. How they ever got a taste for fish living that far from the sea heaven only knows, but the plain fact is I’d rather have salt fish Tollambec style than the fresh stuff any day, and I don’t care who knows it. Do they eat much fish where you come from?’
‘I used to live in Perimadeia,’ Bardas replied.
‘Perimadeia,’ the woman repeated. ‘So, plenty of cod and mackerel, some tuna, eels, of course…’
Bardas shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I’m afraid. We used just to call it fish. It was grey and came in a slice of bread.’
The woman sighed. ‘My son’s just the same,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t know good food if it bit him. That’s such a shame; I mean, so much of life’s about eating and drinking. If you don’t take an interest, it’s such a waste.’
‘I suppose so.’
Just as the woman had said, as soon as it got dark, it got cold. Fortunately, there was a spare oxhide folded up in a corner of the cart, and Loredan crawled into it. The outriders stopped and lit lanterns, then carried on at not much less than the pace they’d set during the day.
‘One advantage of a straight, flat road,’ the woman said. ‘Doesn’t really matter if you can’t see where you’re going.’›
The government rations the woman had spoken so slightingly of turned out to consist of a long, flat coarse barley loaf flavoured with garlic and dill, some strong hard cheese and an onion. ‘They say you can tell someone who’s been on the post from several yards away,’ the woman commented, ‘just from the smell. You’ve got to admit, it’s a pretty obnoxious combination.’
Bardas smiled, though of course she couldn’t see. ‘I like the smell of garlic,’ he said.
‘Do you? That’s – well, each to his own, I suppose. Mind you, in my line of business, you pretty well live and die by your sense of smell.’
‘That must be strange,’ Bardas said.
‘Oh, it is. I find it remarkable how most people just take it for granted. It’s definitely the laziest of the five senses, though that’s nothing a little training won’t cure. My name’s Iasbar, by the way.’
‘Bardas Loredan.’
‘Loredan, Loredan – I’ve heard that name, you know. Isn’t there a bank with that name somewhere in the – out your way somewhere?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Ah, well, that explains it. Does everybody have two names where you come from?’
‘It’s quite common,’ Bardas replied. ‘Does everybody where you come from have just one?’
The woman laughed. ‘Oh, it’s a bit more complicated than that,’ she said. ‘Let me see, now. If I was a man I’d be Iasbar Hulyan Ap’ Daic – Iasbar for me, Hulyan for my father, Ap’ Daic for where my mother was born. Because I’m a woman, I’m plain Iasbar Ap’ Cander; the same idea, but Ap’ Cander because that’s where my husband was born. If I’d never been married, I’d still be Hulyan Iasbar Ap’ Escatoy, which was where I was born. Don’t worry if it sounds confusing,’ she added, ‘it takes foreigners a lifetime to get used to the nuances.’
‘You were born in Ap’ Escatoy?’ Bardas asked.
‘Yes indeed, while my father still had his shop there. I kept meaning to go back, you know, but now of course it’s too late. It was a strange place to grow up in.’
‘Really,’ Bardas said.
‘Oh, yes. They had an absolutely incredible thick soup made with lentils and sour cream; we used to go down to the market with one of those big curvy seashells and get it filled up for a half-quarter, then we’d sit on the steps of the market hall and drink it while it was hot. There was something about it, some special secret ingredient, and I’ve never been able to figure out what it was. Of course, if only I’d thought to ask my mother I’d know what it was, but it never occurred to me. Well it doesn’t, does it, when you’re that age?’
Bardas fell asleep while she was still talking. When he woke up, she wasn’t there any more and the coach was just pulling away from the first stage of the day. She’d left him half a slice of the sticky cake, still in its vine-leaf wrapping; but the jolting of the carriage had knocked it down on to the floor, and it was covered in dust.
‘Temrai?’
He came back in a hurry and opened his eyes. ‘What?’
‘You were dreaming.’
‘I know.’ He sat up. ‘You woke me up just to tell me I was dreaming?’
His wife looked at him. ‘It can’t have been a very nice dream,’ she said. ‘You were wriggling about and making sort of whimpering noises.’
Temrai yawned. ‘It’s about time I was getting up,’ he said. ‘Kurrai and the others’ll be here soon, and I always feel such a fool climbing into that lot with people watching.’
Tilden giggled. ‘It’s quite a performance,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why you bother, really.’
‘It’s to keep me from getting killed,’ Temrai replied, frowning. ‘I don’t wear armour for fun, you know.’ He swung his legs off the bed and hopped across the floor of the tent to the armour-stand.
‘People never used to bother with it,’ Tilden pointed out, ‘not before we came here. Not all that paraphernalia, anyway.’
Temrai sighed. He loathed wearing the stuff at the best of times; it made his movements slow and awkward, and that made him feel stupid. He was convinced he made more mistakes these days just because he was buried under all that metalwork. ‘I don’t know about you,’ he said, pulling on the padded shirt that formed the first layer of his cocoon, ‘but anything that increases my chances of not getting killed is just fine with me. Now, are you going to help me, or do I have to do it all by myself?’
‘All right,’ Tilden said. ‘You know, I’d find it easier to take it seriously if it didn’t all have such silly names.’
Temrai smiled. ‘Now there I agree with you,’ he said. ‘I’m still not sure I know what all the bits are called, either. According to the man who sold it to me, this thing’s a besegew, but everybody else calls it a gorget. Is there a difference, I ask myself, and if so, what is it?’
‘I imagine a besegew’s more expensive,’ Tilden said. ‘And why not call it a collar? That’s all it is, really, it’s just that it’s made of metal. Here, hold still. Why they can’t put bigger buckles on these straps I just don’t know.’
The besegew – or gorget – made it quite hard to breathe. ‘It wouldn’t kill them,’ Tilden observed, ‘to put longer straps on.’ Temrai could have pointed out that if it wasn’t a tight fit there wasn’t much point in wearing it, but decided not to. Eventually he’d be able to take the wretched thing off again, and that would be nice.