Stig strolled up to them as they spoke. He was wiping his forehead with a scrap of rag. He’d taken off his shirt and his shoulders were showing the effects of the sun.
“You’d better cover up,” Thorn told him.
Stig nodded agreement. He leaned against a pile of timber and said casually, “Don’t look too suddenly. But we’re being watched. There’s a rider on the western end of the oasis. And another on the escarpment overlooking the town.”
Casually, Thorn let his gaze wander to the two spots Stig had mentioned. He could see the dark forms, sitting their horses and keeping watch.
“Who do you think they are?” Lydia asked.
Stig smiled at her, but it was a humorless smile. “I’ll wager they work for this Shurmel character we’ve heard so much about. And the minute we set out for Scorpion Mountain, they’ll ride lickety split to let him know we’re on our way.”
He was pulling his shirt on, glad that Thorn had reminded him to cover up. He could already feel the faint sting of sunburn.
“And since we’ll be riding shank’s pony, they’ll get there long before we do,” he continued.
Lydia frowned. “Who’s Shank? And where is his pony?” she asked. She wasn’t familiar with the expression.
“It means we’ll be on foot,” Stig explained.
Her frown deepened. “Then why not say we’ll be on foot or we’ll be walking?”
Stig shrugged. Sometimes, he thought, Lydia could be a little pedantic. Then he modified the thought. Sometimes she could be a lot pedantic.
“It’s more poetic the way I said it,” he replied and she snorted in derision.
“You? Poetic? When did that happen?”
Stig grinned at her. “I’m always poetic,” he said. “I’m a big hit with the ladies back in Hallasholm.”
“Not that I’ve noticed,” she said. “The only poetry I’ve ever heard from you is bad limericks.”
“I take it you’re referring to my ode to the girl from the mountains?” Stig said.
“I’m not sure I’ve heard that one,” Thorn interrupted.
“Oh, it’s a classic of its kind,” Stig replied, and placing one hand over his heart, he thrust his right foot forward in what he considered to be a theatrical, declamatory stance, then intoned the following:
There was a young girl from the mountains,
who fell on her bum in a fountain.
She said in high pique: “That’s the third time this week.”
But her friend said, “The fourth. But who’s countin’?”
He spread his hands wide, as if expecting applause, and looked from Thorn to Lydia and back again. Slowly the expectant grin faded from his face.
“Oh, come on!” he said indignantly. “That’s top-class stuff.”
Thorn scratched his beard thoughtfully. “That’s the sort of stuff you recite to the girls in Hallasholm?”
Stig nodded. “Yes. And that’s just one of them. I have others that are nearly as good.”
“That explains why you were on your own at the haymaking festival,” Thorn told him and Lydia smothered a laugh. Stig’s indignation grew.
“You two obviously know nothing about fine poetry,” he said. “Nothing at all.”
Thorn and Lydia exchanged a glance. Then the old sea wolf said, “And that makes three of us.”
This time, Lydia didn’t bother to smother her laughter. Stig drew himself up straight and looked down his nose at them.
“You’re barbarians,” he said. “Both of you.”
“Perhaps we are,” Thorn replied. “But we’re barbarians with a ditch to finish. Let’s get back to it.”
He glanced up at the escarpment. The rider was still there.
“Then this afternoon, let’s take a look at the theater Gilan was telling us about.”
Lydia cocked her head sideways. She wouldn’t have picked Thorn as a theater buff. “You’re interested in drama?”
He shook his head. “I’m interested in getting a closer look at that rider on the escarpment.”
Lydia looked to the east. The dark form was still evident on the skyline.
“I might come with you,” she said. “I’ve just developed a sudden love for the theater myself.”
chapter thirty-five
The camp was finished by early afternoon. Thorn inspected the defenses with a keen eye, pointing out several spots where the thornbush barricade needed thickening. But on the whole, he was satisfied with the work. The crew knew their jobs, he thought. They had become an experienced fighting band, with skills and abilities far beyond what one might normally expect of such a young group.
Edvin was busy with Hal, working on the mysterious project that the skirl had in mind, so there was no hot lunch. Instead, they scavenged through his supplies and found salted pork and flat bread. They toasted the latter over a small fire and wrapped the pork in it, along with generous helpings of pickles. It was a simple lunch, but after the exertions of the morning, it was nourishing and tasty.
Ingvar gestured toward the high walls of the hippodrome with a roll of flat bread and pork.
“I’d love to know what they’re up to,” he said. The others nodded agreement. Throughout the morning, they had seen Hal and Edvin going into the oasis and returning to the hippodrome dragging long, narrow trunks of bamboo behind them.
“We could sneak over and take a peek,” Jesper suggested. He was a skilled thief and the idea of sneaking in where he wasn’t wanted always appealed to him. But Stig shook his head.
“He’ll have it covered with that canvas,” he said. “Whatever it might be. And if he catches you sneaking in, you’ll be on bilge bailing for the next week.”
Even a well-found ship like the Heron took on water as she rolled and plunged and her seams opened slightly. The excess water would gather in the bilges under the floorboards, stagnant and evil smelling. From time to time, someone would be assigned to lift the floorboards and bail it out with a bucket. It was an unpleasant job and one that Hal saved for people who had displeased him. Jesper thought about it, weighing the possibility of getting caught against the obvious satisfaction of knowing what Hal was doing. He seemed to get more than his share of bilge bailing and it was a messy, smelly job that he abhorred.
“Probably wouldn’t know what he was doing even if I could see it,” he said. The others nodded.
“We’ll find out when he’s ready to tell us,” Thorn said. He’d learned over the years that Hal wouldn’t reveal his ideas until he was ready—probably because, in the past, some of them hadn’t worked out so well.
“Did you want to take a look at the theater?” Gilan asked, sensing that Thorn was looking for a diversion from this talk of Hal and what he was up to.
The bearded warrior nodded. “That. And a look at that person who’s been watching us all morning.”
Involuntarily, they all looked toward the escarpment, where the solitary rider was still silhouetted against the bright sky. The other rider at the edge of the oasis was no longer in sight. But he may have retired into the shade and shelter of the trees there.
“Anyone not interested in a cultural outing to the theater?” he asked the group in general.
Jesper shrugged. He had no wish to study a group of crumbling stones. “Include me out,” he said.
Gilan raised an eyebrow—a skill he had copied from his long-time mentor, a Ranger named Halt. “Interesting way of putting it,” he said.
Jesper looked at him curiously. He saw nothing unusual in his statement.
Thorn gestured around the campsite. “Right. You keep an eye on things here. Keep Kloof with you.” The big dog thumped her tail on the ground at the mention of her name. She was lying on a warm flat rock in the sun, her chin on her forepaws, her eyes constantly busy, watching them. “If there’s any sign of trouble, blow that horn and we’
ll come running.”
He indicated a battered ram’s horn hanging from a pole inside the rough guardhouse-cum-shelter they had built inside the ditch, at the point where they had constructed a gate in the palisade.
“I’ll blow to wake the dead,” Jesper assured him with a grin.
Thorn was never comfortable when Jesper said such things. The former thief had a way of sneaking off and avoiding extra duties. Thorn was willing to bet that the moment they vanished into the town, Jesper would be flat on his back snoring. Still, he thought, Kloof would keep a good watch.
“If I come back and find you asleep,” he said in an ominous tone, “you might not wake up yourself.”
Jesper’s grin widened. “Trust me, Thorn,” he said.
Thorn raised his eyes to heaven. It was a statement that was almost exclusively said by totally untrustworthy people.
“How I wish you hadn’t said that.” He turned to the others. “All right, let’s get moving.”
They straggled out of the camp behind him. It was noticeable that, although nothing was said, they brought their weapons with them.
The mounted figure on the escarpment remained in place as they made their way through the derelict buildings of the town. When they began to climb the slope toward the theater, he slowly turned his horse’s head and moved away, disappearing from sight. But they had managed to get close enough to make out some details.
“He’s not Tualaghi,” Gilan observed. “His head dress and cloak are red and black, whereas the Tualaghi’s headdresses are blue.”
“Maybe red and black are the Scorpion cult’s colors,” Lydia observed. “Do you want me to climb to the top of the escarpment and see where he’s gone?”
Thorn shook his head. “It’s a safe bet to assume he’s out of reach. He’s mounted and we’re not. He’ll just move away, staying out of bowshot and continuing to watch us.”
Gilan was pacing the performance area enclosed by the steep tiers of stone benches. He looked around, fascinated by the symmetry of the half circle of seats that rose steeply away into the side of the hill. Ingenious design like this fascinated the young Ranger. He had been in several Toscan theaters in the past and this one conformed to the usual overall design. He knew that the rising arc of seats provided an ideal acoustic setting for the actors who would have performed on the hard-packed sand stage—carrying their every word to each member of the audience. He gestured to the very top row of seats, some thirty meters above them, and said to Thorn, “Climb up to the back row and you’ll hear how perfect the acoustics are.”
Thorn frowned at him. “How will I hear that?” he asked. He didn’t share Gilan’s fascination with scientific matters. Hal might have, but Hal wasn’t here.
“Well, I’ll stay down here and say something. And you’ll hear it.”
“Why should I climb all those stairs when I’m right next to you now. What are you planning to say?”
The stairs were steep, and since they doubled as seating, each one was the best part of a meter high. Clambering from one to the next would be a considerable effort. But Gilan gestured in frustration. Thorn was missing the point—and Gilan suspected that he was doing so intentionally.
“I don’t know. Nothing important.”
“Then I’m not going to climb all that way for something that’s not very important. If you want to say something to me, just say it now while I’m standing next to you.”
“No. I want to demonstrate . . . ,” Gilan began. But he saw a slight gleam of amusement in Thorn’s eye and stopped.
“I’ll go,” Lydia said. Then, with a wicked smile in Thorn’s direction, she added, “After all, those steps do look a little steep for a poor old dodderer like Thorn.”
And having said that, she ran lightly up the steps, leaping from one to the next with speed and grace until she was at the very top. Thorn glared at her.
“Go ahead. Say something,” she called. The acoustic properties of the theater were such that her voice carried clearly to the small group in the center of the stage.
Gilan opened his mouth, but as often happens at such times, his mind went blank and he couldn’t think of anything to say. He shut his mouth again. He suddenly felt it was important that he didn’t say something banal or meaningless. In times past, he’d seen theater assistants and actors testing the acoustics by saying “Two! Two! Two!” repeatedly. But he’d always felt that was vaguely mindless and he didn’t want to say that now. So he hesitated, searching for inspiration.
Stefan was standing off to one side, an interested spectator. Over the past months, Stefan had begun to feel a sense of frustration. He was a skilled mimic and, growing up in Hallasholm, he had often caused confusion by mimicking important people like the Oberjarl or his hilfmann, or their instructors on the brotherband course. But it had been a long time since he’d had the opportunity to put his unique skill to use and he was missing it. Jesper, on the other hand, had been frequently called upon to employ his ability to open locked doors or padlocks and Stefan was feeling a little deprived by comparison. Now he saw an opportunity for mischief. He moved a few paces away from Gilan and Thorn, turned his back on Lydia high above him, and said, in a perfect imitation of Thorn’s voice:
“You know, Lydia should lay off those honey pastries. She’s getting a bit wide in the beam.”
Lydia’s head shot up as the comment was carried clearly to her by the curving amphitheater. She glared at Thorn, who was standing innocently beside Gilan. The comment was all the more pointed because Lydia had developed a weakness for the little layered squares of pastry, honey, walnuts and pine nuts since they had been introduced to them at the guesthouse in Al Shabah. At her request, Edvin had procured the recipe and barely a meal went by when she didn’t help herself to two or three of the delicious treats. Or even three or four.
“You shut up, old man! I’ll give you wide in the beam with one of my darts!” she shouted at him. Lydia, of course, was anything but wide in the beam. Even though she did indulge in the pastries, she was fit and active and kept herself in excellent shape.
Thorn looked up in surprise. He could hear the anger in Lydia’s voice, and see it in the way she stood, hand on hips and feet apart, glaring at him. For a moment, he wondered what had set her off. Then he heard a muffled snigger. Stefan was a few meters away, his back turned and his shoulders shaking with suppressed laugher. Stealthily, Thorn moved toward him, measuring the distance to his backside and drawing back one booted foot.
“Owwwww!” Stefan howled in surprise and pain as a battering ram seemed to smash into his unsuspecting backside, lifting him half a meter off the ground and propelling him several meters across the open space of the stage. He turned and gave Thorn an injured look—injured in both pride and in body.
Thorn made an exaggerated bow in Lydia’s direction.
“It seems our tame mimic had something he wanted to share, princess,” he said.
Lydia transferred her angry glare to the hapless Stefan, who was rubbing his bruised posterior. “I’ll settle with you later, Stefan,” she threatened.
“No need, Lydia. I’m well and truly settled,” he replied in a miserable tone. He flinched as Thorn stepped closer, but the old sea wolf was planning to speak, not give him a repeat dose of his boot.
“Next time you mimic me, boy, make sure you’re not in kicking range.”
A very subdued Stefan nodded his head several times. “I’ll definitely keep that in mind, Thorn.”
chapter thirty-six
T hey trudged slowly back to the campsite. Thorn grinned to himself as he watched Stefan. The mimic was careful to stay well away from Lydia, who still eyed him from time to time with a scowl. At the same time, he contrived to keep a reasonable distance between himself and Thorn.
The old sea wolf made this more difficult for him by constantly changing his own pace and direction, and straying to within ea
sy kicking distance of Stefan.
Whenever Stefan noticed, he would shy hastily away, then realize he was getting dangerously close to Lydia, and skip off in a third direction, sometimes taking shelter behind Stig or Ingvar, or one of the others. Whereupon Thorn would repeat his own action and set the whole sequence in train again.
Gilan noticed the wordless pantomime taking place and smiled quietly. He estimated that, by the time they reached camp, Stefan would have walked three times as far as anyone else in the party.
As they approached the entryway through the ditch and thornbush barrier, Kloof greeted them with a single, deep bark. Almost immediately, they saw a head appear over the barrier to one side of the entrance. Not Jesper, Thorn noted sourly, but Hal.
The skirl greeted them cheerfully as they entered. There was an air of suppressed excitement about him that Stig and Thorn had seen before. It told them that, whatever he had been working on, he had been successful.
“Where have you been?” Hal asked.
Stig gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “We’ve been absorbing some culture at the theater.”
Hal frowned. That didn’t sound like his crew. “Why are you limping, Stefan?”
But before the mimic could reply, Thorn answered for him. “He had a problem,” he said, smiling evilly.
“With his ankle?” Hal asked.
Thorn shook his head. “With his mouth.”
“Oh . . .” Hal stopped as he digested that statement. It didn’t really make sense, but then, Thorn often spoke in riddles. He decided to let the matter drop. He had more exciting things to discuss and to show them. “So,” he said, pausing dramatically, “do you want to see what we’ve been up to?”
Stig and Thorn exchanged a quick glance. They had discussed this on the walk back from the theater. Hal’s secretive ways could get to be too much after a while and they had decided it was time to take him down a peg or two.
Thorn pretended to consider the invitation, then shook his head. “Naaah. Not really.”
Stig took his lead from the battle master. He feigned a huge yawn and stretched his arms out wide. “Think I’ll get in a nap before supper. All that digging has made me sleepy.”