Part 50 (1/2)
”Just a little way back along the road, Madame. A few travelers like yourself elect to wait,” the young soldier explained very courteously in careful Vonahrish. ”I will lead the way, if you please.”
The companion of the famous Overcommander Stornzof merited some respect, it seemed, or at least the appearance thereof. She looked back once to see Karsler already retreating, enveloped in a grey cloud of his admiring compatriots, and then she turned her eyes resolutely forward as her guide conducted her back the way she had come along the Trans-Bruzh for a few hundred yards to a break in the trees and a narrow offshoot cutting through the woods to a roughly circular clearing. Two sleighs and a heavy wagon stood there. No telling how long they had waited in that place. Long enough to build a big, smoky bonfire around which pa.s.sengers and drivers huddled.
”Here, Madame,” the soldier declared. ”Here you are out of harm's way. But I cannot say how long before the road opens, and it will be cold here, very cold, come nightspill.”
”Nightfall?”
”Yes. Pardon me, Madame, my Vonahrish is very poor.”
”No, it's excellent.”
”I thank you for your kind words. I offer you best wishes, together with this a.s.surance. You may rely on the men of my squadron, there is nothing we would not do for a friend of the Overcommander Stornzof. If this driver of yours attempts to flee, let us know, and we shall bring him back to you. If anyone in this place troubles you, call on us. We are at Madame's service.”
Grewzians at her service. What a thought. This boy and his comrades misconstrued her connection to Karsler, but their mistake only worked to her advantage. And the gallantry of the offer was practically Vonahrish.
”Thank you.” She flashed her best smile. ”I'll remember.”
He departed, and she alighted from the sleigh to approach the fire. Four men sat there on logs, and her eyes went straight to the face of Girays v'Alisante, whose expression reflected chagrin. Understandably so-he must have thought that he had left her safely behind, and now she had caught up with him. Her sense of satisfaction was short lived. Next to Girays sat a squat, wide-faced frog of a fellow, probably his driver. And next to the driver, a s.h.a.ggy, roughly garbed peasant farmer, presumably the owner of the wagon. But it was the fourth figure, big and muscular and black bearded, on whom she gazed with a shock of unpleasant recognition. Bav Tchornoi. She had not caught sight of him since Quinnekevah Station. She had imagined and hoped that he had fallen somewhere by the wayside, and here he was, gigantic and morose-looking as ever.
And evidently here ahead of her. How in the world?
Four sets of eyes followed her as she seated herself upon a log. She felt her color rise. Her driver planted himself nearby, momentarily drawing collective attention, and then the eyes returned to Luzelle. The silence pressed, and at last she remarked civilly, ”Girays, Master Tchornoi, I hope you are both well.”
”Quite well,” Girays returned with equal civility.
”Well-hah!” Bav Tchornoi exclaimed explosively. ”And how shall we be well when these Grewzian p.i.s.s lickers keep us cooling our heels in the snow until the crack of doom? Cooling our heels-that is funny, yes.”
”How long have you been here?” asked Luzelle.
”Since yesterday afternoon,” Girays told her. ”Spent last night in a warmstop a couple of miles back along the road.”
”I remember pa.s.sing that.”
”And I arrive this morning,” Tchornoi proclaimed. ”Only to find these Grewzians telling me where I can go, where I cannot go, in my own land. I am Rhazaullean, this is my place. That village down below beside the lake-that is Slekya, the village of my mother, where I have people. And these Grewzians puff out their little chests and wave their little guns, and tell me I cannot go there, the road is closed. Closed, by their order! I would like to get my hands on one or two of these fine blond boys, yes.” Pulling a flask from his pocket, he pulled the stopper and downed an irritable draft.
”Yes, it would make me angry too,” Luzelle told him truthfully.
”It would, eh? Maybe so. You have got some backbone, you have proved that. Here, you have some vouvrak.” Tchornoi proffered his flask.
Evidently he had decided to forgive her for drawing a gun on him in the caves of the Nazara Sin. Fine, she had no desire to quarrel with anyone, and she would not reject an obvious peace offering. Luzelle accepted the flask. Eye-watering alcoholic fumes wafted from the interior, and she blinked. Taking a cautious swallow, she felt the liquid fire burn its way down her throat. The heat reached her stomach and spread out from there. Carefully she contained all coughs and sputters.
”Good, eh?” Tchornoi nodded almost affably.
She bobbed her head.
”You have some more, then. Go on, you help yourself.”
In the interests of amity she forced down another mouthful, and handed the flask back to its owner, who thereafter lapsed into thirsty silence. Minutes later, when he had drained the contents, Tchornoi surged to his feet, stalked across the clearing to his sleigh, rummaged therein for a fresh bottle, and returned to his place by the fire.
Time pa.s.sed slowly. Conversation was sporadic. Eventually the anonymous farmer glanced up at the weak sun, now hovering just above the treetops, shook his head glumly, rose, and went to his wagon. Climbing in, he shook the reins and departed the clearing without a word.
Observing this, Girays's driver spoke up in Rhazaullean.
”I do not understand you,” said Girays.
”He says he goes now,” Bav Tchornoi translated, emerging from an apparent stupor for the first time in an hour or more.
”He can't go, I've need of his services,” declared M. the Marquis. He pulled out his wallet.
Typical, thought Luzelle.
Tchornoi shrugged his big shoulders.
”How much to stay?” Girays v'Alisante's dexterous manipulation of paper currency transcended all language barriers.
The driver mumbled.
”He says he does not spend another night in this place for any amount of money. He says he goes home now,” Tchornoi reported.
”Then tell him I'll buy his sleigh and horses.”
Tchornoi translated and the driver shook his head.
”Tell him I'll pay-” Girays named an improbable figure.
”Hah! You are crazy, Vonahrishman. This is like a comedy.”
Bav Tchornoi relayed the message, and the driver's eyes rounded. He nodded. Presently he departed on foot, clutching a wad of cash.
Luzelle's driver observed the retreat wistfully. He leaned his chin on his hand. He said nothing.
Retrieving books from their respective vehicles, Luzelle and Girays sat reading in silence. The driver watched the fire and sang to himself, while Bav Tchornoi drank.
When the atmosphere began to dim, Luzelle looked up from her book to inquire hopefully, ”Anyone want to go ask the soldiers if we can get through yet?”
n.o.body troubled to reply, and she began to wonder seriously, for the first time, if Karsler had not been right. Perhaps she needed to plot an alternative route north. And if so, she should do it quickly, before all hope of victory froze to death in icebound Rhazaulle.
The small pangs of hunger recalled the pa.s.sage of time. The sleigh carried some provisions, a.s.sorted foodstuffs that required no cooking. Luzelle fetched bread, cheese, potted meat, pickled onions, and sh.e.l.led almonds for herself and the driver. Girays went to his own vehicle and brought similar supplies back to the fire. Bav Tchornoi did not bother with food.
They ate in reasonably companionable silence as the sun went down. The air darkened, a new chill descended upon the clearing, and Luzelle's driver threw a couple of logs on the fire. Sparks flew, the flames jumped, and the long shadows stretching out behind them writhed. Luzelle returned to her reading, but looked up in surprise when Bav Tchornoi spoke, his voice slow and slurred.
”These Grewzian c.o.c.kroaches think their campaign is all but won. They think we Rhazaulleans are all finished, beaten, ready to take it up the a.s.s. Hah. They are fools,” opined Tchornoi. ”They know nothing. They forget our great resources.”
”You mean the Rhazaullean climate?” asked Girays.
”Yes, that is one. Spring has come, the weather is warm and mild. Pleasant, yes?”
No, thought Luzelle. Snow lay everywhere, and the evening breezes knifed through her parka.
”Very nice, very comfortable, but what do you suppose happens next?” Tchornoi demanded. ”The sun s.h.i.+nes, the ice melts. The little blond boys trundle their guns north along the frozen River Xana, and one sweet, bright afternoon-crack! The ice gives way beneath their feet, and then The ice gives way beneath their feet, and then splas.h.!.+ splas.h.!.+ The big guns, the caissons, the wagons and horses, and all the little golden lads-down they go into the water. They do not last long there, I think. Or let us say they are not quite that stupid, and they stay off the ice. Then what? They march north toward Rialsq, and the ground softens beneath them as they go, and soon they sink in mud that sucks like quicksand. And as they wallow there, along come our men on The big guns, the caissons, the wagons and horses, and all the little golden lads-down they go into the water. They do not last long there, I think. Or let us say they are not quite that stupid, and they stay off the ice. Then what? They march north toward Rialsq, and the ground softens beneath them as they go, and soon they sink in mud that sucks like quicksand. And as they wallow there, along come our men on grushtyevniks grushtyevniks-that is, what you would call mudskidders-and where are the Grewzians then?”