After a silence, Elgart admitted, “I understand that much, Highness. The caravan may not be aware of the library, but the sorcerers of the library are surely aware of the caravan. They are aware of us.
“But our question remains. If our hosts do not know the library, how can they help our search? If they do, will they help it?”
Prince Bifalt spread his hands. “I have no answer. We must learn where we stand with the caravan master and his people. We must test their attitude toward us. And we must do it cautiously. They may be theurgists themselves. If they are not—if they are ignorant—they may resent hearing that they have been used by sorcerers. Or they may be suspicious of us for other reasons.
“Suti al-Suri promised welcome, but we cannot expect the caravan master to trust men with rifles.”
The guardsman scowled around his scar, but he did not argue. “I understand, Highness,” he repeated. “But I do not like it. We are too few. Any half dozen of Suti al-Suri’s scouts can overwhelm us. How can we trust them?”
“They could have let us die,” retorted the Prince.
Elgart sighed. “As you say, Highness.”
While Prince Bifalt rose and gathered his clothing, Elgart went to rouse Klamath.
Taking his garments from the line, Prince Bifalt discovered that the desert air had dried them thoroughly. Grateful for the feel of clean cloth on healed skin, he dressed himself. Briefly, he regretted the loss of his discarded armor. Then he pushed the thought aside. Like all his regrets, it was wasted. Being who he was, he could not have made his choices differently.
Still the weight of his rifle in his hands and his satchel on his shoulder reassured him. His homeland remained unconquered because it had invented rifles. He, Elgart, and Klamath lived because they had rifles. Let the world be as large as the heavens, and as little known. With his strength returning and his rifle ready, he was not defeated.
While Klamath arose, and the two guardsmen readied themselves, Prince Bifalt warned them, “We are at the mercy of the caravan master and his men. We must threaten no one, offend no one. We have been treated as guests. We must behave as guests. But we must say nothing of our quest. We do not know how these people will respond.
“We must accept whatever we encounter until we learn who these people are, where they go, what they want—and whether their generosity requires anything in return. If their goal is ours, I will offer them any service we can give. If it is not, we will still need their help. Without food, water, and some form of guidance, we will remain lost.”
Klamath received this caution with a look of consternation. “Surely they will not spurn us, Highness? Suti al-Suri said ‘gods’ command generousness. I do not know what ‘gods’ are, unless they are high sorcerers. But the caravan master commands it, too. How can they turn their backs on us?”
With unusual kindness, Elgart told his comrade, “It is too soon for worry. Nothing will be resolved tonight. For the present, we have no reason to doubt our welcome. Just smile and nod. Let yourself enjoy what you are given. Listen. If what you hear troubles you, report it privately. The Prince will decide how to act on it.”
Frowning, Klamath studied the scarred guardsman. Then he admitted, “We have too many enemies. And I have killed too many of them. I have seen too many Bellegerins die.” He risked a glance at Prince Bifalt, then faced Elgart again. “I will fight if I must. But these people have been good to us. I hope we can be good in turn. Maybe they will offer us friendship.”
“I do not expect friendship,” declared the Prince. He was impatient to leave the wagon; to meet the conglomeration of foreigners who comprised the train. “It is too much to ask. We do not know Suti al-Suri’s tongue. We may not understand anything said to us. But we must remember we are guests.” Awkwardly, he added, “We must remember to be grateful.”
Unwilling to remain where he was, he moved to the door and slid it open.
The noise of throngs and the light of fires greeted him as if while he slept the wagon train had become a bustling town.
By the last glow of evening and the flames of cook fires, he saw wagons, wains, and carriages settled in semicircles among each other, their teams unharnessed and led away, their passengers busy. Surveying as much as his vantage allowed, Prince Bifalt observed that the semicircles were formed by conveyances and people who clearly belonged together. Nearby were the five flimsy, poorly made carriages, and the folk around them were all men. They were all clad in dun cassocks with white ropes knotted at their waists, all of them wore their hair shaped into tonsures, all were sedate and purposeful in their movements. Prince Bifalt did not see them speak to each other. But when he showed himself, they turned as one and bowed to him gravely.
Opposite those carriages, in a larger curve, the carnival wagons had disgorged a host of individuals who resembled each other only in their peculiarities. While some were obviously laborers, most appeared to be performers of many varieties: clowns, acrobats, contortionists, jugglers, weight-lifters, dancers. Their costumes were gaudy and singular, some voluminous enough to disguise their wearers, others so scanty nothing remained secret. They were boisterous and comradely, and their polyglot shouting back and forth suggested they had been collected from several different realms or races. At Prince Bifalt’s appearance, their shouts became a babble of halloos, or perhaps catcalls.
The tented wagons he had seen before made another arc. There the men tending their gear and preparing food were like Suti al-Suri, bronze-skinned and yellow-eyed, bearing similar weapons, wearing similar garments: surely his fellow scouts. That they slept in tents suggested they belonged to a nomadic race. When they saw the Prince, they stared openly; but he had the distinct impression that they were more interested in his rifle than in him.
Between these half rounds and others, in a space of open stone perhaps fifty paces wide, a high pile of wood had been raised for a bonfire, but it had not been lit yet. Beyond it, on the far side of the open space, the Prince made out several carriages. One was the ornate vehicle which had led the caravan; another, the beribboned conveyance. Others had joined them, all elaborately decorated in one fashion or another. Around them, servants hastened back and forth, but none of the occupants emerged.
The leading carriage, Prince Bifalt guessed, belonged to the caravan master. But the others— Did they carry wealthy merchants? Princes like himself? Highborn maidens traveling to consummate advantageous marriages?
Until now, his world had contained only Belleger and Amika. Here he saw how small his conceptions had been. And only a fraction of the whole train was visible. Other carriages were out of sight, and other wagons, including the huge, covered vehicle following the lead carriage, and those conveying unrecognizable constructs. Presumably, those vehicles and their animals formed the periphery of the large encampment, along with the wagons, wains, and beasts transporting more familiar goods, supplies, and other burdens.
In his immediate surroundings, Prince Bifalt counted five distinct races and at least twice that many styles of dress. Too many. Faced with so much diversity, so much lying outside his experience, he felt an unexpected impulse to draw back. Instinctively, he wanted to retreat to his pallet and sleep until the world shrank to more comprehensible dimensions.
But Elgart and Klamath stood at his shoulders, staring. Elgart gauged everything with eager curiosity. In contrast, Klamath’s anxiety a few moments ago had become a child-like delight, open to wonder. They, too, had never seen so many different people. They had never seen so many people in one place, except in the Open Hand—and when they were riding into hell.
Settling his rifle on his shoulder, Prince Bifalt stepped from the doorway and dropped to the ground.
As Elgart and Klamath joined him, Suti al-Suri appeared around one of the wagons and approached. The chief scout had set aside his weapons—apart from his cutlass—and also his turban, letting his long hair drape down his back. Perhaps chara
cteristically, he hid none of his emotions. His face showed amusement, curiosity, and wariness in quick succession.
His bow lowered his head to his knees, but it was brief. Upright again, he waited for the response of the caravan’s guests.
The Prince returned a less exaggerated bow. When his comrades had copied his example, he said formally, “You honor us, Suti al-Suri. Our lives are in your hands. We hope to repay your generosity, but we do not know your ways. We do not know what you will accept.”
The chief scout grinned, then frowned. “Come.” He gestured toward the clearing around the piled wood. “Talk later. Eat now.” His manner suggested that he did not understand everything the Prince had said.
In the open space, large blankets to soften the stone were being spread to form a wide circle. A variety of men and women clad in half a dozen divergent styles prepared seating on the ground, while others emerged from and between the semicircles carrying ewers and trays. Apparently, these were the servants of the train, although—like the train itself—they had been gathered from different lands.
Then the caravan’s travelers began to arrive: a few teamsters; personal servants accompanying richly dressed masters and mistresses; carnival performers and laborers; others less easily identified, like the tonsured men in their cinched cassocks.
Obeying Suti al-Suri, Prince Bifalt and his men started toward the growing throng. After a few steps, however, the Prince paused. Hoping to spot some personage who might be the caravan master, he scanned the crowd and tried to believe that he would not lose himself in it.
“Come,” repeated the chief scout. “Come.”
The Prince remained where he was. “May I ask a question, Suti al-Suri?” Without waiting for permission, he said, “Your caravan is large. Where do so many people come from? Where do they go?”
What kind of trade required the train to cross this terrible desert? What form of communication between merchants or rulers was possible across such a distance? Was the trek permitted or encouraged or needed by sorcerers?
Suti al-Suri’s wariness became a fierce scowl. A threatened scowl? “South north,” he answered brusquely. “North south. A year journey.”
Before Prince Bifalt could request a fuller reply, the chief scout pointed at the Prince’s gun. “Rifles,” he demanded. “Your people. How many?”
The scout’s scowl was unquestionably a threatened one. Already, the Prince had misjudged his escort. But he allowed himself no sign of regret. Facing Suti al-Suri squarely, he matched the man’s tone.
“Enough.”
The chief scout stepped back; unleashed a torrent of words in his own tongue. Then he appeared to recall his assigned role. Bowing a second time, he said again, “Talk later. Eat now.” After a moment of hesitation, he added, “Caravan master commands.”
Without softening his tone, Prince Bifalt replied, “I mean no offense, Suti al-Suri. I will not question you again.”
The scout nodded. His expression implied relief.
But it lasted for only a moment. Then Elgart said, “I have a question.” His tone was as casual as he could make it. “Those men.” He pointed with a jut of his chin. “Shaved heads. Ropes for belts.” He meant the men in the cassocks. “What are they?”
Prince Bifalt wanted to cuff the guardsman. With an effort, he kept his displeasure to himself. Apparently, Elgart could not contain his curiosity. And the Prince had told his men to behave like guests. It was natural for guests to ask questions.
Suti al-Suri’s frown expressed disapproval. “Monks,” he said curtly.
Almost simultaneously, Elgart and Klamath asked, “What are ‘monks’?”
The King’s son suppressed a groan.
The scout’s frown changed. Now he was clearly struggling for words in a language he hardly knew. When he replied, he managed just three words.
“Give lives gods.”
Then he repeated more strongly, “Talk later. Eat now.”
Turning his back, he strode toward the unlit bonfire.
At once, Prince Bifalt followed. Over his shoulder, he commanded in a fierce whisper, “Be silent. He has no patience for us. He takes offense. Do not anger him.”
“But, Highness,” hissed Klamath. “‘Gods’?”
Under his breath, Elgart added, “Does he mean they make gods live? Or do they give their lives to gods?”
Fuming, the Prince snapped, “Not now.”
With his men in his wake, he pursued Suti al-Suri toward the throng taking places around the ring of blankets.
The scout guided the Bellegerins to an unused blanket. Many others were occupied by men and women sitting cross-legged. The tonsured, silent men, the monks wrapped in their dignity, had one to themselves. Merchants or nobles and their consorts or wives, attired in wealth, sat in loose clusters, claiming enough space to sit comfortably. In contrast, the carnival people packed themselves close together, apparently trying to fit as many of their comrades on each blanket as they could. They jibed and jostled constantly, raucous with laughter, complaints, and hunger in a complex cacophony of conflicting languages. Other folk sat where they could, mixing ebony women among men with skin the hue of moonshine, maidens demurely cloaked with gallants decked in feathers, brazen-eyed matrons with teamsters in cotton shirts and canvas trousers.
Among them, Prince Bifalt noticed, were none of Suti al-Suri’s bronze-skinned race. Although a few scouts roamed between the wagons and carriages, and their chief remained nearby, most of them must have been on duty guarding the encampment. Even in this lifeless desert, apparently, there were dangers serious enough to threaten the caravan.
The Prince could not imagine what those dangers might be, if they did not involve theurgy.
Deliberately, he seated himself on the blanket reserved for him and his guardsmen. Hiding his uncertainty behind a visage studiously blank, he unshouldered his rifle and satchel, unhooked his saber in its scabbard from his belt, and set them behind him: a gesture meant to express peaceful intentions. Then he beckoned Klamath and Elgart to join him.
When they were sitting at his sides, and had put their weapons at their backs, they tried to relax, while he did his best to look confident in his apparent role as guest of honor. No other blanket around the ring was as uncrowded as his. And all of the travelers, including the servants, watched him as if they expected him to vanish suddenly, burst into flames, or begin raving. Clearly, he was as strange to them as they were to the Bellegerins.
Exposed to so much attention, speculation, and suspicion, Klamath stared around with undisguised excitement. Restored by water, food, healing, and sleep, he absorbed every peculiar sight with pleasure, almost with happiness. Left to himself, he might have tried to talk with the nearest foreigners. His interest in “gods” seemed to be forgotten.
Elgart’s manner was more reserved, but his fascination was no less keen. If he shared Prince Bifalt’s impulse to draw back from the size of the gathering, or from this evidence of a larger world, he did not show it. His gaze flashed everywhere, studying every individual and group as if committing them to memory. At every snatch of an alien tongue, he cocked his head like a man who wanted to learn it.
For his part, the Prince concentrated on his search for some sign of the caravan master. But he found no one who appeared to take precedence over the travelers, or to instruct the train’s servants.
Then a man with a torch entered the ring to set the bonfire alight. On that signal, an array of servants carrying ewers of water, clean cloths, and trays approached the blankets so that all the travelers or guests could wash their hands. Prince Bifalt followed the example of people seated nearby, discarding his used cloth on the tray. And when that ritual was complete, other servants delivered plates, utensils, and goblets of brass, and began to carry around large platters of food, offering the guests a chance to serve themselves.
The fare resembled
what the Bellegerins had eaten earlier. As the platters came to them, however, the Prince realized he was hungry again. One meal was not enough to relieve days of scant rations. He helped himself to polite portions, then saw how Elgart and Klamath piled their plates, and allowed himself to take more. Suti al-Suri had assured him that he and his men were guests; that they were safe. For one night, at least, they could take the risk of indulging themselves.
After the meats, fruits, and breads, the ewers returned, now brimming with a ruby wine. While the flames of the bonfire climbed higher, the goblets were filled. Seeing his neighbors drink heartily, the Prince tasted the wine and found it odd, as unfamiliar as the gathering itself, rich with spices and other flavors he could not name. But it was not unpleasant, and he took a few modest swallows, hoping that it would not cloud his mind.
Elgart and Klamath were not so circumspect. They drank the way they ate, enthusiastically, and raised their goblets to request more wine. A short time ago, Prince Bifalt had felt like slapping them both. Now, however, he did not begrudge them their excesses. He had done as much as they, endured as much, lost as much; earned as much. Still, the principal responsibility for their quest was his. The burden of caution was his as well.
And he could not forget that his life was no longer his own. It had been claimed by sorcerers he did not know, men or powers beyond his ability to imagine them. If Klamath and Elgart ate too much and drank themselves fuddled, he could leave them to sleep while he sought answers. They might blurt details he wished to conceal, or ask questions that would cause trouble later, but they would not be harmed. All safe. The watchful presence of Suti al-Suri and the other scouts promised that the caravan master’s welcome would be honored.
The Prince ate well, drank sparingly, and waited for whatever would follow the communal meal.
Soon the heat of the bonfire reached him, and he began to sweat. Fortunately, he did not have to wait long.
From among the servants and scouts, a tall man—a very tall man—came across the clearing. His skin was burnished ebony, and its look of having been oiled and polished was emphasized by the nakedness of his chest. Like the crown of his head, his torso was entirely hairless. For clothing, he wore a long sheet of many-colored cotton wrapped several times around his waist, then around each of his legs, and finally secured by a leather thong. His feet were bare, and he bore no weapons.