The men aimed at a wooden shield, the same type that could be found strapped to each rider's nonthrowing hand. Like the demonblades, the shields were cherished articles, wood oiled for protection from the weather, leather straps sewn tight. Wood, not metal. Metal became too hot in the sun. Likewise, wood slowed a blade's momentum in cases where metal only deflected.
The target piece, however, was worn and cracked and covered with several layers of hide to protect the points of the knives that struck it. Though it was barely wider across than the span of an adult's thumb and middle finger, the throwers rarely missed.
"They're good," Elenya said.
"Yes," Alemar answered. "Better than we."
"Better than you," Elenya said. Alemar didn't dispute her.
"The good ones aren't practicing," she continued. "Like the two on the left there. I can smell others. And isn't it funny how our view is seldom blocked?" Feigning disinterest, members of the tribe stole glances in the direction of the twins. Elenya stared them down.
Eventually she pointed to Lonal. "Heis the best. He's not even on the same scale." The war-leader scarcely watched the proceedings. Even at rest, he projected confidence. When he did move, each action had its place, nothing wasted.
"Better than you?" Alemar asked.
She paused. "I would like to spar with him someday."
At dusk, they mounted their oeikani and proceeded swiftly toward the east. The terrain became more varied. Desert flowers, cacti, and sparse brush appeared. After so long in utter desert, Alemar smelled the increase of water in the air. He shrugged this off as delusion born of exhaustion and nurtured by the knowledge that as they travelled east, they approached the Ahloorm, Zyraii's only major river.
The sun's stifling brilliance gave way to the cool, muted light of Motherworld. The Sister had already climbed high in the sky, her glow no longer dwarfed by the day. Shadows diffused and broadened. Hints of life scurried next to the path. Occasionally a rider would swing out from the group, small bow in hand, to return with a sagecrawler or a small mammal. Tiny feral sounds increased as the darkness deepened. It wouldn't grow beyond twilight until near morning, as Motherworld was in a gibbous phase, bold with her bands of ochre and beige.
At last, the land seemed to live. In the west, the eret-Zyraii, the best that could be hoped for was the rare water hole such as the twins had found that morning. Nature was a bad enemy. It was better here, among human adversaries. People were vulnerable.
They reached the Zyraii camp during midevening. It was a substantial settlement – three concentric rings of goat-hide tents, the largest and best toward the center. A small ritual fire burned at the hub, an area that also contained a spacious, undecorated tent of actual cloth, as well as a smith's forge and the livestock corrals. The first thing Alemar noticed about the place was the scarcity of fire – only the central flame and a few scattered oil cooking braziers. He saw figures bustling to and fro. Sentries had alerted the inhabitants, and children rushed out to greet the incoming warriors. Women hurried in other directions to prepare the reception.
The group rode immediately to the oeikani corral, through a twisting aisle between the tents just wide enough to accommodate their double file. Alemar deduced at once the significance of placing the corrals in the center – the valuable oeikani, sheep, and goats stood less chance of being lost in a raid. Boys came forward to tend to the mounts, including one who trotted up without hesitation to take those of Alemar and Elenya. He stopped short as soon as he saw them closely. The twins read his surprise as they dismounted but, handicapped as they were by lack of language, could only stare back with equal perplexity.
"Rol, yil ta wakani!" Lonal told the boy, who blanched.
The oeikani shuffled impatiently, awaiting their feeding. The boy turned and quieted them by name, glanced back at the twins one more time, and hurried away with his charges.
Alemar felt the blood on his hands.
Lonal ignored the questioning glances and led them through the tents. As they passed, women and children stared at the twins in a manner that the warriors had not, open-mouthed and shrinking back, making ritual signs. They wore no veils. The women dressed mainly in loose, flowing skirts with multilayered wraparound tops, seldom exposing more than head, hands, ankles, and feet. A few wore leather sandals; most were barefoot. Infants and small children ran naked. Fabrics boasted many colors and patterns, some quite plain, others intricate in both the design and the weaving. Only grown men, and not all of these, displayed the white robes of the group that they had ridden with. Eventually, Alemar noticed that those who wore white were the only ones who bore weapons.
Lonal spoke to them as they ferreted their way through the walls of hide. "These are the tents of my clan, the T'krt, largest of all the T'lil. We journey to the Ahloorm Basin. For tonight, you will be shown your tent and introduced to the elders. We will decide what to do with you tomorrow. Your adoption must be recognized, and you will have to be educated in our ways."
Lonal seemed completely unperturbed that he was declaring the long-term fate of two people with a handful of words. He drew off his veil as he spoke and flipped back the cowl, revealing a handsome, hawk-nosed face, much younger than Alemar had expected. There was energy in that face.
He instructed them to wait where they were for a few moments and disappeared into a tent. Soon they could hear him conversing with another man in the Zyraii language. When he returned, a short, lame tribesman followed him.
"This is Fumlok," Lonal said. Fumlok walked with a limp and stood slightly bent. He was thin and leathery, a gaunt face drawn with distinct contours along the bone. His eyes seldom lit on any one spot for long, and he smiled for no apparent reason at regular intervals. Unlike the warriors, he wore trousers and a loose shirt reminiscent of the city dwellers to the south, though his features were unmistakably native.
"Few of my tribe speak Calinin. Fumlok will be your mouth until you learn Zyraii. I will leave you in his hands for the moment. You are to stay near him at all times. He will show you your holdings, while I consult with the elders."
"Our holdings?"
Lonal nodded. "I told you that you were to replace Am and Roel, whom you killed today. They were cousins, the last adult males of their family. What was theirs is yours." He gestured to Fumlok and said firmly, "He will answer your questions now." He marched away, soon to be obscured behind the tents.
Alemar turned and found Fumlok smiling at him. When the twins failed to respond, the translator's happiness vanished.
"So you know the High Speech?" Alemar asked.
"I speak many tongues," Fumlok said awkwardly. His eyes darted from Elenya to Alemar to the ground. "It's what I'm good for."
Alemar wasn't sure if Fumlok genuinely meant to judge himself that way or not; the man stressed his syllables oddly and clearly was no master of the language. But perhaps it was true. The nomads might not tolerate a cripple among them if he couldn't be of some use. Alemar didn't like the little man. Fumlok reminded him of fawning courtiers. But if keeping him near would allow them to communicate, they would put up with him. The sooner they gathered some knowledge, the better.
"Come, come," Fumlok said, leading them toward a modest-sized tent in the second ring. As they walked, observers began to gather, including warriors who had not been on the excursion. Three or four well-armed, well-dressed men followed most closely of all, keeping a distance barely casual.
Five people came out of the tent as the twins approached. All of them prostrated themselves, touching noses to the ground, and waited on their knees with eyes downcast. Four were women; one was the boy who had taken their oeikani from them at the corral, and thereby drew their attention first. He was strong-featured, alert, just short of puberty. There had been members in the party with whom they had ridden who had been only slightly older. Alemar saw a little of himself seven or eight years gone.