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nomad shrugged; if the Greek cared to take chances for the sake of some
scratchings, that was his affair.
Surveying Goudeles' pudgy form, Lankinos Skylitzes said, "You'll float better
than I do, anyhow, pen-pusher." Goudeles sniffed.
Gorgidas twitched the reins and urged his mount forward. It tried to swerve
when it realized he wanted it to go in the river, but he kicked it in the ribs
and kept it on a straight course. It swung its head back resentfully. He
booted it again. Like a bather testing the water with one toe, it stepped
daintily in, then paused once more.
"Ithi!"
the exasperated Greek shouted in his own tongue. "Go on!" As he swung a foot
free of the stirrups for another kick, the horse did.
It gave a frightened snort when its hooves no longer touched ground, but then
struck out strongly for the far bank. Seen from only a few inches above the
water, that seemed impossibly far away.
Back on the eastern bank, a trooper's remount balked at entering the Shaum.
Arigh prodded it with his sword. It neighed shrilly and bolted in, dragging
the two beasts behind it along willy-nilly.
The Shaum's current was not as strong as Gorgidas had expected. It pulled the
swimming horses and their masters south somewhat, making the journey across
the river longer than it would have been, but did not really hamper their
swim. The water was cool and very clear. The Greek could look down to the
rocks and river plants on the bottom. About halfway through the crossing he
started in alarm the dun-colored fish rooting about on the bottom was longer
from nose to wickedly forked tail than his horse was. "Shark!" he shouted.
"Nay, no sharks in the Shaum," Skylitzes reassured him. "They call it a
mourzoulin hereabouts; the
Videssian name is sturgeon."
"I don't care what they call it," the Greek said, frightened out of curiosity.
"Does it bite?"
"No, it only has a little toothless sucker-mouth for worms and such."
"Salted, the eggs are very fine," Goudeles said with relish. "A rare
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
delicacy."
"The flesh is good smoked," Prevalis Haravash's son added. "And from the swim
bladder we make what is the word for letting some light through?"
"Translucent," Goudeles supplied.
"Thank you, sir. Yes, we make translucent windows to fit into tent panels."
"And if it had a song, I suppose you'd use that, too," Gorgidas said darkly.
The ugly brute still looked dangerous.
Prevalis took the Greek seriously. "On the plains we use everything. There is
too little to waste."
Gorgidas only grunted, keeping an eye on the sturgeon, or mourzoulin, or
whatever it was. It paid him no attention. After a while, he could not see it
any more.
By the time the western bank drew near, his arms were exhausted from holding
the mouth of his leather bag above water, even though he had taken to
switching it from one to the other. That also meant his grip on his horse was
not what it should have been. The shore was only about thirty yards away when
he and the animal parted company. He thrashed frantically and felt his feet
scrape bottom; the steppe pony was still too short to touch. Now it was his
turn to help his horse. Sighing with relief, he did so, and led the beast and
his remounts up onto the land of Shaumkhiil. Save that the river was behind
him, it seemed no different from Pardraya to the east.
Skylitzes splashed ashore a few feet away from him. He reached into the bag
and dug out a stylus.
"How do you spell 'mourzoulin'?" he demanded. Looking resigned, Skylitzes told
him.
Robes swirling about him, Avshar paced his tent like a caged panther. His
great height and long strides made it seem cramped and tiny, built for a race
of dwarfs. The sorcerer lashed out with a booted foot. A cushion flew across
the tent, rebounded from the tight-stretched felt of the wall, and an image of
a black-corseleted warrior hurling a brace of three-spiked thunderbolts
thumped to the ground.
The wizard-prince swung round on Varatesh. "Incompetent!" he snarled.
"Lackwitted, poxy maggot! You puling, milk-livered pile of festering dung,
cutting your filthy heart out would be revenge too small for your botchery!"
They were alone; even in his rage, Avshar knew better than to revile the
outlaw chief in front of his men. The wizard's contempt, the lash of his
words, burned like fire. Varatesh bowed his head. More than anything else, he
wanted the regard of this man, and bore abuse for which he would have killed
any other.
But he reckoned himself slave to no one and said, "I was not the only one to
make mistakes on this venture. The man you sent me after was not the one I
found. He " [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]