"I'm ready," she told Shigmur.
The war-second glanced inquisitively at Lonal. "Go," the latter urged. "I will stay here like a good wife."
They filed out the door and didn't speak until they were well out of Lonal's hearing.
"He'll go crazy, having to just sit and do nothing until we get to Xurosh," Yetem said.
"His hate for the traders will sustain him. Lonal always chooses the hardest roles…though this time I think you may have him beaten."
"It won't be any worse than others I've had to play," she replied.
The wineshop brimmed with activity. Merchants and travellers had been gathering for days; this was the last night before the caravan left, and they meant to make the most of it. Shigmur and Yetem took a table near the front, near the circular platform where entertainers tried to entice tips from the clientele. At the moment, a musician was plucking at a stringed instrument unlike any Yetem had ever seen before.
They had not been there long when a lanky man-at-arms from Ireon joined them at the table.
"The name's Jiustog," the soldier said. "You're journeying with the caravan?"
Shigmur gave him a name and replied affirmatively.
The man smiled beguilingly. "My uncle was in the leather trade. Tried to bring me into it when my sire died. Is it your only source of income?" he asked, staring fixedly at Yetem's breasts.
"I supplement it," Shigmur answered. "One silver crown," he added, saving Jiustog the effort of asking.
The man nodded, eyes still on Yetem. "A mite high, but worth it." He laid the coin on the table. Shigmur covered it with his palm.
Yetem stood. Jiustog took her arm. "I have a room right upstairs," he said.
Shigmur observed them as long as he could. The soldier had his arm about Yetem's shoulders as they climbed the steps. She was laughing at his comments and caressing his side.
"What will God have me do next?" Shigmur muttered under his breath.
The musician finished his song and a pair of companions carried tip boxes through the crowd. One of them paused in front of Shigmur.
"Sholi?" the man asked, using the language common to Shol and Zyraii.
Shigmur hesitated. "Yes."
"What part?"
Shigmur quickly put money in the tip box. "Nijara." This was the capital, the only large population center.
"That was my birthplace," the man said cordially. He seemed to want to talk more, but a pair of jugglers from Tunaets had taken the stage. The man hurried to finish collecting.
Shigmur sighed. The last thing he needed was to run into a man from Shol. It would have taken only a little more conversation for the man to have realized that Shigmur's accent was Zyraii, not Sholi. It was for just that reason that he had selected a caravan that had few travellers from Shol. He relaxed only when he saw the musician and his troupe leaving the wineshop in search of another establishment in which to perform.
He settled back to watch the jugglers, and suddenly realized that Yetem was beside him.
"Is everything all right?" he asked.
"Of course." She poured herself more wine.
"You're back very soon."
She shrugged. "Some men are faster than others."
"Even so."
"Let's say I did my best to be sure that he was quick. He didn't seem displeased."
"And you?" Shigmur almost bit back the comment, fearing that he was being too direct. "You do not find it… distasteful?"
"As I said, there are worse roles. I do it of my choosing. That makes anything bearable. The silver does not buy any part of me that matters. Speaking of money, you didn't charge enough."
"I know," Shigmur said, wincing. "He didn't even bargain."
"Next time start with three silver crowns. The more expensive I am, the less I'll have to do this."
"I understand," Shigmur replied.
The jugglers were very good. Shigmur learned that they were going to be among the caravan. A man at a nearby table waved at their antics and called out, "It's going to be an interesting trip, don't you think?"
"Yes," Shigmur replied.
"Faha ebruzh hephanemeni,"Yetem said.
"Faha ebruzh haphenemeni,"Shigmur repeated patiently.
She tried again, and once more pronounced it incorrectly. Shigmur laughed. She couldn't manage the accent, and butchered Azuraji grammar. Nevertheless, during ten days with the caravan, she had picked up a pidgin version of the trade language that was enough to make herself understood.
"Let me try with them," she said, and nudged her oeikani forward. Soon she had caught up with a pair of Surudainese merchant's sons and struck up a conversation.
Shigmur listened to them laugh. Yetem was a favorite within the caravan, though by now only a privileged few could afford her – Shigmur had been astounded how high an asking price he could get for her. If anything, the relative unavailability of her body heightened her appeal. Falling back on a cheerful manner and keen sense of ribaldry, she had by now ingratiated herself with nearly everyone, allowing her to gather a wealth of detail about where they were going. This was the plan, of course.
Shigmur waved away a cloud of dust. The hardpan and mesa terrain was familiar to him. The caravan was within the T'lil borders. He had, in fact, known the Po-no-pha who had come to collect the tithe. They were over halfway to Xurosh. Most of the expedition consisted of Surudainese and Azuraji traders, but nearby rode the jugglers from Tunaets. The other foreigners included a pair of young drelbs on a rare foray into the Far East, a jeweller from Tamisan, a blacksmith from Numaron, and the soldier from Ireon. The latter frequently dropped by their wagon at night, still hoping that he might be able to rent Yetem's favors for the same price as he had at the wineshop in Thiebef.
Gradually his glance returned to his side. The canvas sides of their wagon were up, allowing the breeze through. Lonal was perched in a matron posture on thick cushions, visible but silent to the world. Even with the veils, it was obvious what he was looking at.
Finally Shigmur said, "If you were to have her, none but I would know."
"I would know," Lonal answered wistfully.
Shigmur nodded. It would be a long road.
XXXII
THE PALACE OFGLOROC TREMBLED. Throughout the structure, even down in the kitchens at the lowest level, the Dragon's servitors felt the vibration and tried to quiet their fears. But their master's distress infected them all, as he reached out aimlessly with the powers that had subdued half a kingdom. Soon many crawled into corners and tried to hide, others became incontinent, and two committed suicide. Even those with strong wills, who were able to detach themselves and understand that their paranoia came from Gloroc and not from the recesses of their own minds, quailed. They had never before known anything that could make the Dragon afraid.
Only Gloroc's high commanders knew the cause of the turmoil, because they alone had been trusted with the knowledge. Of them, only Beherrig, commander-in-chief, could bring himself to approach the great portals and enter the Dragon's Hall.
Inside, the psychic turmoil was much greater. It made him momentarily nauseated, but he succeeded in closing the doors, and crossed the antechamber to the edge of the royal pool. There he took off his robes of office and laid them on the tiles. He would go to Gloroc naked, as all men were when they met the Dragon face to face, whether their bodies were clothed or not. Beherrig took one of the airmakers that waited in the trough by the edge of the pool, fitted the gear over his face, and dived into the water.
He swam the length of the entry corridor carefully, breath regular and controlled, wary of his master's irrational state. Gloroc was at the far side of the tremendous chamber.
The Dragon no longer resembled the gigantic worm of Beherrig's youth. The serpentine torso was longer – now three times the length of a man – and covered with an iridescent mesh of scales. The sight of his teeth could render a man impotent. Two pair of legs, rudimentary though they seemed compared to the rest of his form, were large enough that he could wrap his talons completely around a human waist. The huge wings fanned out to either side like leather sails – Beherrig had to struggle to maintain his position against the current created by their frantic strokes. Only the eyes were the same – deep jewels of indigo that consumed the self-determination of all who looked within them.