Chapter 1, Mules and Words
“That’s it, little pony, eat up!”, urged the rightside mule. “Good boy”, the leftside mule added. “Get yourself some bulk on that bony frame!” Seltheen’s horse certainly seemed to be following their advice as it eagerly devoured the thick leafy shrubs that now surrounded the travelers.
They had left the Rinks behind them three days ago, but still she couldn’t help looking back constantly, trying to make herself see the great grassy plains of home. She missed them already. The people, the plains and the grass itself. Oh there was grass here, but it seldom grew higher than ankle level, and then only in isolated clumps. Nothing like the knee high sweet grass of the rinks, or the waist high smoke grass, the chest high pillow grass, or the above the head thickets of spear grass. She even missed the long winding strands of wolf grass with their cruel thorns.
But apparently her horse did not. “Inshaa, you are a glutton!” she scolded. Inshaa lifted his head once, seemed to shrug, and went back to enjoying the local diet. Savory greens was what Yar called them. He had gathered armloads of them to stow in the back of his capacious wagon. They had formed the better part of the last three meals he had made. She had to admit, the conceited entertainer was an amazing cook. Even if he did use entirely too little meat. Unfortunately, he would not agree to her ranging to hunt, so she had had to settle for what she could catch along or near the road. So far they had eaten a lot of small birds and several burrowing mammals.
Not much grass, but lots of trees. Lots of hills and rocky outcroppings too. To Seltheen’s warrior instincts, that meant possible ambushes, another reason to keep looking back as well as every other direction. But Yar was unconcerned. He said that they would be perfectly safe as long as the kept to the road. He took a watch at night, apparently just to humor her, but he spent the days practicing his craft: singing, playing the fuunok, slight of hand, and seduction. She had given up trying to stop the last activity, finally realizing it was just another act to him. Instead she let his blandishments wash over her unheard. He also spent a lot of time napping, in the front of his wagon, straw hat over his face, reins slack in his hands. Fortunately the mules didn’t seem to need much guidance. They trudged along steadily, hour after hour, commenting on everything around them, including their owner’s snores.
Seltheen had asked Yar how come his mules could speak. He only said that it was a secret he would only share under `special circumstances’. Right. Later, he did confide to her that it had taken him a long time to teach them rinker. “We would have learned sooner”, argued the right side mule, “if it weren’t for his atrocious accent.” The left side mule snickered, then quoted one of the many aphorisms that made up the rinkers’ unwritten literature. “A true warrior wields sword and tongue alike in precise strokes.”
While Seltheen had expected their path to head directly north, they had been going mostly west for some time. Yar had begun peppering his conversation with strange words, words whose pronunciation threatened to tie her tongue in knots. He explained that he was getting her used to a new language. “You want me to learn your language?” she asked. “Not my language, I am a waujak. We are heading into chuudib territory, you’ll need to know something of theirs. So pay attention, the chuudibs have a general term for all the different kinds of greens we’ve been eating: `yland’. And their term for singe cooking, that is cooking by hanging something over a fire like this, is `shreeglurlov’, no you have to push up with your tongue to say the rl combination correctly, but don’t turn it into a rolled r, that’s completely different. Now, say adhurrell shreeglurlov yland. That means we are going to singe cook some greens. And `fyendlar grreevluu dhiirlandelli ilfurrell shreeglurlov rrunk’ means my big barbarian lover would like to singe cook a cow’.” “I am not—“ she started, but stopped short knowing it wouldn’t help.
Seltheen endured the language lessons but made no attempt to practice. Instead she kept trying to steer Yar to discussing what lay ahead. He in turn would try to turn every explanation back into a language lesson. She had better luck with the mules, even though they too had begun to speak partly in chuudib.
According to the left side mule, chuudibs could be distinguished from the other hyuumin races by their deep pink complexions and soft puffy hair. The right side mule interrupted to explain that he had once eaten a chunk of chuudib hair and that it didn’t seem any softer than that of other hyuumins. “No matter”, the left side mule replied. “It is all in how the hyuumins themselves perceive it.” It suddenly occurred to Seltheen that if she was going to converse with the creatures she should know their names. After all she knew the name of her horse and he could not speak to her. “Pardon me”, she said. “I don’t believe Yar ever properly introduced us?” she said. Her voice trailed off towards the end as she started to feel self conscious about being social with a draft animal. But the right side mule didn’t seem to notice. “I am called Heave” he said. “My stalwart companion is called Ho. You may continue to address us with those, although we will soon be using the chuudib equivalents.”
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The mules went on to describe items of chuudib society and practice. They seemed to find the details fascinating. But to Seltheen’s ears, well, all settled people were much alike, putting walls everywhere, collecting more possessions than they could easily carry, crowding large numbers into small spaces, fewer warriors and more artisans. And more farmers. It was no wonder that such people became the target of raids.
“Typical rinker” observed Ho. “You excuse your acts of depredation by blaming the victims for being weak.” “Watch it” said Heave. “Don’t talk about the boss’s sweetheart like that!” “I’m not his sweetheart!” Seltheen protested. “Anyway, the thing is, everyone gets raided. Those who let themselves get weak, get hurt. That’s the rule!”
Ho paused to munch some greens. “That may be the rule, but being civilized is not the same as being weak. Or have you forgotten what the nildrer did to your people?” “Actually”, Heave added, “compared to the nildrer, everybody is weak. Or should I say `trlendelgodh’, that’s the chuudib word for military weakness in a defensive position.”
Seltheen decided it was time to change the subject.
Yar wasn’t just changing his language. He also changed his wagon. One day, he turned the wagon off the road to a low sandy area that turned out to be the bank of a stream that Seltheen had previously missed. Now as she looked back, she could make out the narrow line of deeper green in the plant life. She mentally kicked herself; in the Rinks she would have noticed it automatically.
Yar quickly undid the latches on the wagon, allowing all the sides to drop. Then he unloaded all his mysterious crates and barrels. Then he used a bucket and a brush to clean the wagon thoroughly. This surprised Seltheen, he didn’t seem like the type to do that kind of work. He also disassembled the awning he sometimes used and put it to soak. Then he somehow managed to catch a bucketful of fish and little freshwater crabs. “Here, you cook” he told her. “Glomfyuudhurrell shreeglurlov eshid yland, that means go singe cook them over some greens. I recommend shluch and dirrelm, those are the lacy stems with the tiny yellow flowers and the broad leaves with the dark red veins.
When she finished setting everything to cook, er, shreeglurlov, she found him painting. He had already whitewashed the boards of the wagon, and was now adding a second coat of deep yellow. It was for the chuudibs, he explained, they liked everything colorful. “Well then, they’ll appreciate your tunic and pantaloons”, she commented. “Of course”, he said, “that’s a chuudib design, one of the more sedate ones, actually.” “Sedate? Oh dear.”
The next day, Yar stretched out the awning, which had turned pure white in whatever stuff had been in the bucket. The bucket was then dumped over the mules. While the awning dried, he mixed up some more paint and began covering the wagon with tight complex floral patterns in blue and pink. Later he did the same with the awning.
“And now it’s our turn.” He unrolled the tent. But instead of setting it up normally, he folded it around the poles and lashed it tight so that it formed a trough. “This, my precious flower, is our bath tub!” he said, beaming. This current slovenliness is meaningless to soulmates such as us, but now we must be prepared to meet the public, who will judge us by trivial, external matters. So saying, he filled the tub, stripped, and climbed in. “Ah, lilac and passion flower”, he said, splashing happily. “And speaking of passion, I believe there's room for two in here.” “No there isn't!” she said hastily.
She took Inshaa over to the stream and gave him a good scrubbing, but without any of Yar's mysterious concoctions. Then she made her way upstream to where the overhanging bushes were thickest. She took her own bath there, knowing that for all of Yar's sly tricks, he couldn't be in two places at the same time. As long as he was splashing, he wouldn't be peeking. So for the first time in weeks she enjoyed the luxury of a full soak and scrub. Rinkers, even among other rinkers, normally kept their bodies covered up, showing only hands and faces to the world. Even longstanding partners closed their tent flaps all the way and undressed together in the dark. Hence, when there wasn't enough privacy, the general practice was to pour a bucket of water inside one's robes. But now, for once, Seltheen was out of her robes, shirt, drawers, and stockings, which she also cleaned, consuming a whole bar of Yar's scented soap without any feeling of guilt.
By the time Yar finished his own bath, she was back in her inner robe, the rest of her clothes spread out on some branches. To dry faster, she did some weapons drills.
By evening everything was stowed back in place. Dozens of little pennants fluttered from the edge of the bright awning and fanciful knots of colored rope festooned the festive wagon. Yar's thick, deep reddish black hair was now a coppery cloud that floated around his head. He wore only a tight sky blue loincloth with matching open vest at first. But after sundown, much to Seltheen's relief, he put on a long coat made from patches of fur in several shades of gold. And the mules, their coats bleached and dyed a ruddy bronze, had bells and tassels hanging from their tack. Seltheen had refused to accept any alterations in her own garments, but had agreed at last to let Yar buy her new robes at the first opportunity. She only hoped they would be some color she could wear without feeling like an idiot.
It was just a little after dawn. The mules were complaining about the early start, while Yar had roused himself just enough to make ready and was now back to dozing in the wagon seat. Seltheen was seated beside him but she couldn’t bring herself to sleep, that impulse had been schooled out of her years ago. “A true warrior does not mix sleep time and wakefulness, there is neither alertness nor true rest in that.” Actually she knew of several older rinkers who made a practice of napping in the saddle, apparently it was possible to outgrow the aphorisms. Inshaa followed, she could trust him not to stray. Instead she reviewed the small store of chuudib words she had picked up. She thought she could possibly say things like “The loud man is a big phony and we don’t have a relationship”. She also, as always, scanned for danger. “Feeling safe is not the same as being safe” whispered one of the Sacred Ancestors. Or perhaps it was the memory of one of her teachers.