Stymied, they sat tight for long minutes. The forest-brethren began to descend from the trees, remaining at a considerable distance from the wagon. Some of them danced and cavorted now in the roadway, setting up a ragged, tuneless chanting, formless and atonal, like the droning of huge insects.
Erfon Kavol said, “A blast from the energy-thrower would scatter them. It wouldn’t take long for us to incinerate the birdnet vine. And then—”
“And then they’d follow us through the forest pumping darts at us whenever we showed our faces,” said Zalzan Kavol. “No. There may be thousands of them all around us. They see us: we can’t see them. We can’t hope to win by using force against them.” Moodily the big Skandar wolfed down the last of the dwikka-fruit. Again he sat in silence for a few moments, scowling, occasionally shaking fists at the tiny folk blocking the path. At length he said in a bitter rumble, “Mazadone is still some days’ journey away, and that woman said there was no work to be had there anyway, so we’ll have to go on to Borgax or maybe even Thagobar, eh, Deliamber? Weeks more before we earn another crown. And here we sit, trapped in the forest by little apes with poisoned darts. Valentine?”
Startled, Valentine said, “Yes?”
“I want you to slip out of the wagon the back way and return to that warrior-woman. Offer her three royals to get us out of this.”
“Are you serious?” Valentine asked.
Carabella, with a little gasp, said, “No! I’ll go instead!”
“What’s this?” said Zalzan Kavol in irritation.
“Valentine is—he is—he gets lost easily, he becomes distracted, he—he might not be able to find—”
“Foolishness,” the Skandar said, waving his hands impatiently. “The road is straight. Valentine is strong and quick. And this is dangerous work. You have skills too valuable to risk, Carabella. Valentine will have to go.”
“Don’t do it,” Shanamir whispered.
Valentine hesitated. He had not much liking for the idea of leaving the relative safety of the wagon to travel on foot alone in a forest infested with deadly creatures. But someone had to do it, and not one of the slow, ponderous Skandars, nor the splay-footed Hjort. To Zalzan Kavol he was the most expendable member of the troupe; perhaps he was. Perhaps he was expendable even to himself.
He said, “The warrior-woman told us her price was five royals.”
“Offer her three.”
“And if she refuses? She said it was against her honor to bargain.”
“Three,” Zalzan Kavol said. “Five royals is an immense fortune. Three is an absurd enough price to pay.”
“You want me to run miles through a dangerous forest to offer someone an inadequate price for a job that absolutely must be done?”
“Are you refusing?”
“Pointing out folly,” said Valentine. “If I’m to risk my life, there must be the hope of achievement. Give me five royals for her.”
“Bring her back here,” the Skandar said, “and I’ll negotiate with her.”
“Bring her back yourself,” said Valentine.
Zalzan Kavol considered that. Carabella, tense and pale, sat shaking her head. Sleet warned Valentine with his eyes to hold his position. Shanamir, red-faced, trembling, seemed about ready to burst forth with anger. Valentine wondered if this time he had pushed the Skandar’s always volatile temper too far.
Zalzan Kavol’s fur stirred as though spasms of rage were contorting his powerful muscles. He seemed to be holding himself in check by furious effort. Doubtless Valentine’s latest show of independence had enraged him almost to the boiling point; but there was a glint of calculation in the Skandar’s eyes, as though he were weighing the impact of Valentine’s open defiance against the need he had for Valentine to do this service. Perhaps he was even asking himself whether his thrift might be foolishness here.
After a long tense pause Zalzan Kavol let out his breath in an explosive hiss and, scowling, reached for his purse. Sourly he counted out the five gleaming one-royal pieces.
“Here,” he grunted. “And hurry.”
“I’ll go as fast as I can.”
“If running is too great a burden,” said Zalzan Kavol, “go out the front way, and ask the forest-brethren if you may have leave to unhitch one of our mounts, and ride back to her in comfort. But do it quickly, whichever you choose.”
“I’ll run,” Valentine replied, and began to unfasten the wagon’s rear window.
His shoulder blades itched in anticipation of the thwock of a dart between them the moment he emerged. But no thwocks came, and soon he was running lightly and easily down the road. The forest that had looked so sinister from the wagon looked much less so now, the vegetation unfamiliar but hardly ominous, not even the pockmarked bunch-fungus, and the fern-trees seemed nothing but elegant as their spore-sheaths glistened in the afternoon sun. His long legs moved in steady rhythm, and his heart pumped uncomplainingly. The running was relaxing, almost hypnotic, as soothing to him as juggling.
He ran a long while, paying no heed to time and distance, until it seemed he surely must have gone far enough. But how could he have run unknowingly past anything so conspicuous as five dwikka-trees? Had he carelessly taken some fork in the road and lost the path? It seemed unlikely. So he simply ran on, and on and on, until eventually the monstrous trees, with the great fallen fruit beneath the closest of them, came into view.
The giantess seemed nowhere around. He called out her name, he peered behind the dwikka-fruit, he made a circuit of the entire grove. No one. In dismay he contemplated running onward, back halfway to Dulorn, maybe, to find her. Now that he had stopped, he felt the effects of his jog: muscles were protesting in his calves and thighs, and his heart was thumping in an unpleasant way. He had no appetite for more running just now.
But then he caught sight of a mount tethered a few hundred yards back of the dwikka-tree grove—an oversize beast, broad-backed and thick-legged, suitable for carrying Lisamon Hultin’s bulk. He went to it, and looked beyond, and saw a roughly hacked trail leading toward running water.
The ground sloped off sharply, and gave way to a jagged cliff. Valentine peered over the edge. A stream emerged from the forest here and tumbled down the face of the cliff to land in a rock basin perhaps forty feet below; and alongside that pool, sunning herself after a bath, was Lisamon Hultin. She lay face down, her vibration-sword close beside her. Valentine looked with awe at her wide muscular shoulders, her powerful arms, the massive columns of her legs, the vast dimpled globes of her buttocks.
He called to her.
She rolled over at once, sat up, looked about her.
“Up here,” he said. She glanced in his direction, and discreetly he turned his head away, but she only laughed at his modesty. Rising, she reached for her clothing in a casual, unhurried way.
“You,” she said. “The gentle-spoken one. Valentine. You can come down here. I’m not afraid of you.”
“I know you dislike being disturbed at your repose,” Valentine said mildly, picking his way down the steep rocky path. By the time he had reached the bottom she had her trousers on and was struggling to pull her shirt over her mighty breasts. He said, “We came to the roadblock.”
“Of course.”
“We need to get on to Mazadone. The Skandar has sent me to hire you.” Valentine produced Zalzan Kavol’s five royals. “Will you help us?”
She eyed the shining coins in his hand.
“The price is seven and a half.”
Valentine pursed his lips. “You told us five, before.”
“That was before.”
“The Skandar has given me only five royals to pay you.”
She shrugged and began to unfasten her shirt. “In that case, I’ll continue to sunbathe. You may stay or not, as you wish, but keep your distance.”
Quietly Valentine said, “When the Skandar tried to beat down your price, you refused to bargain, telling him that there is honor in your profession. My notion of honor would require me to abi
de by a price once I quoted it.”
She put her hands to her hips and laughed, a laugh so vociferous he thought it would blow him away. He felt like a plaything beside her: she outweighed him by more than a hundred pounds, and stood at least a head taller. She said, “How brave you are, or how stupid! I could destroy you with a slap of my hand, and you stand here lecturing me about faults of honor!”
“I think you wouldn’t harm me.”
She studied him with new interest. “Perhaps not. But you take risks, fellow. I offend easily and I do more damage than I intend, sometimes, when I lose my temper.”
“Be that as it may. We have to get to Mazadone, and only you can call off the forest-brethren. The Skandar will pay five royals and no more.” Valentine knelt and put the five brilliant coins in a row on the rock by the pool. “However, I have a little money of my own. If it’ll settle the issue, I’ll add that to the fee.” He fished in his purse until he found a royal piece, found another, laid a half-royal beside it, and looked up hopefully.
“Five will be enough,” Lisamon Hultin said.
She scooped up Zalzan Kavol’s coins, left Valentine’s, and went scrambling up the path.
“Where’s your mount?” she asked, untethering her own.
“I came on foot.”
“On foot? On foot? You ran all that way?” She peered at him. “What a loyal employee you are! Does he pay you well, to give such service and take such risks?”
“Not particularly.”
“No, I suppose not. Well, climb on behind me. This beast would never even notice a little extra weight.”
She clambered onto the mount, which, though large for its kind, seemed dwarfed and frail once she was on it. Valentine, after some hesitation, got on behind her and clamped his hands around her waist. For all her bulk there was nothing fat about her: solid muscle girdled her hips.
The mount cantered out of the dwikka-tree grove and down the road. The wagon, when they came to it, was still shut up tight, and forest-brethren still danced and chattered in and around the trees behind the blockade.
They dismounted. Lisamon Hultin walked without sign of fear to the front of the wagon and called something to the forest-brethren in a high, shrill voice. There was a reply of similar pitch from the trees. Again she called; again she was answered; then a long, feverish colloquy ensued, with many brief expostulations and interjections.
She turned to Valentine. “They will open the gate for you,” she said. “For a fee.”
“How much?”
“Not money. Services.”
“What services can we render for forest-brethren?”
She said, “I told them you are jugglers, and I explained what it is that jugglers do. They’ll let you proceed if you’ll perform for them. Otherwise they intend to kill you and make toys of your bones, but not today, for today is a holy day among the forest-brethren and they kill no one on holy days. My advice to you is to perform for them, but do as you wish.” She added, “The poison that they use does not act particularly quickly.”
6
Zalzan Kavol was indignant—perform for monkeys? perform without fee?—but Deliamber pointed out that the forest-brethren were somewhat higher on the evolutionary scale than monkeys, and Sleet observed that they had not had their practice today and the workout would do them some good, and Erfon Kavol clinched the matter by arguing that it would not really be a free performance, since it was being traded for passage through this part of the forest, which these creatures effectively controlled. And in any case they had no choice in the matter: so out they came, with clubs and balls and sickles, but not the torches, for Deliamber suggested that the torches might frighten the forest-brethren and cause them to do unpredictable things. In the clearest space they could find they began to juggle.
The forest-brethren watched raptly. Hundreds upon hundreds of them trooped from the forest and squatted alongside the road, staring, nibbling their fingers and their slender prehensile tails, making soft chittering comments to one another. The Skandars interchanged sickles and knives and clubs and hatchets. Valentine whirled clubs aloft. Sleet and Carabella performed with elegance and distinction, and an hour went by, and another, and the sun began to slink off in the direction of Pidruid, and still the forest-brethren watched, and still the jugglers juggled, and nothing was done about unwinding the birdnet vine from the trees.
“Do we play for them all night?” Zalzan Kavol demanded.
“Hush,” said Deliamber. “Give no offense. Our lives are in their hands.”
They used the opportunity to rehearse new routines. The Skandars polished an interception number, stealing throws from one another in a way that was comical in beings so huge and fierce. Valentine worked with Sleet and Carabella on the interchange of clubs. Then Sleet and Valentine threw clubs rapidly at one another while first Carabella and then Shanamir turned handsprings daringly between them. And so it went, on into a third hour. “These forest-brethren have had five royals’ worth of entertainment from us already,” Zalzan Kavol grumbled. “When does this end?”
“You juggle very capably,” said Lisamon Hultin. “They enjoy your show immensely. I enjoy it myself.”
“How pleasant for you,” Zalzan Kavol said sourly.
Twilight was approaching. Apparently the coming of darkness signaled some shift in mood for the forest-brethren, for without warning they lost interest in the performance. Five of them, of presence and authority, came forward and set about ripping down the barricade of birdnet vine. Their small sharp-fingered hands dealt easily with the stuff, which would have tangled anyone else hopelessly in snarls of sticky fiber. In a few minutes the way was clear, and the forest-brethren, chattering, faded into the darkness of the woods.
“Have you wine?” Lisamon Hultin asked, as the jugglers gathered their gear and prepared to move along. “All this watching has given me a powerful thirst.”
Zalzan Kavol began to say something miserly about supplies running low, but too late: Carabella, with a sharp glare at her employer, produced a flask. The warrior-woman tipped it back, draining it in one long lusty gulp. She wiped her lips with the sleeve of her shirt and belched.
“Not bad,” she said. “Dulornese?”
Carabella nodded.
“Those Ghayrogs know how to drink, snakes that they are! You won’t find anything like it in Mazadone.”
Zalzan Kavol said, “Three weeks of mourning, you say?”
“No less. All public amusements forbidden. Yellow mourning-stripes on every door.”
“Of what did the duke die?” Sleet asked.
The giantess shrugged. “Some say it was a sending from the King that frightened him to death, and others that he choked on a gobbet of half-cooked meat, and still others that he indulged in an excess with three of his concubines. Does it matter? He’s dead, that’s not to be disputed, and the rest is trifles.”
“And no work to be had,” said Zalzan Kavol gloomily.
“No, nothing as far as Thagobar and beyond.”
“Weeks without earnings,” the Skandar muttered.
Lisamon Hultin said, “It must be unfortunate for you. But I know where you could find good wages just beyond Thagobar.”
“Yes,” Zalzan Kavol said. “In Khyntor, I suppose.”
“Khyntor? No, times are lean there, I hear. A poor harvest of clennet-puffs this summer, and the merchants have tightened credit, and I think there’s little money to be spent on entertainments. No, I speak of Ilirivoyne.”
“What?” Sleet cried, as though he had been struck by a dart.
Valentine sorted through his knowledge, came up with nothing, and whispered to Carabella, “Where’s that?”
“Southeast of Khyntor.”
“But southeast of Khyntor is the Metamorph territory.”
“Exactly.”
Zalzan Kavol’s heavy features took on an animated cast for the first time since encountering the roadblock. He swung round and said, “What work is there for us in Ilirivoyne?”<
br />
“The Shapeshifters hold festival there next month,” Lisamon Hultin replied. “There’ll be harvest-dancing and contests of many kinds and merrymaking. I’ve heard that sometimes troupes from the imperial provinces enter the reservation and earn huge sums at festival-time. The Shapeshifters regard imperial money lightly and are quick to dispose of it.”
“Indeed,” Zalzan Kavol said. The chilly light of greed played across his face. “I had heard the same thing, long ago. But it never occurred to me to test its truth.”
“You’ll test it without me!” Sleet cried suddenly.
The Skandar glanced at him. “Eh?”
Sleet showed intense strain, as though he had been doing his blind-juggling routine all afternoon. His lips were taut and bloodless, his eyes were fixed and unnaturally bright. “If you go to Ilirivoyne,” he said tensely, “I will not accompany you.”
“I remind you of our contract,” said Zalzan Kavol.
“Nevertheless. Nothing in it obliges me to follow you into Metamorph territory. Imperial law is not valid there, and our contract lapses the moment we enter the reservation. I have no love for the Shapeshifters and refuse to risk my life and soul in their province.”
“We’ll talk about this later, Sleet.”
“My response will be the same later.”
Zalzan Kavol looked about the circle. “Enough of this. We’ve lost hours here. I thank you for your help,” he said without warmth to Lisamon Hultin.
“I wish you a profitable journey,” she said, and rode off into the forest.
Because they had consumed so much time at the roadblock, Zalzan Kavol chose to keep the wagon moving through the night, contrary to his usual practice. Valentine, exhausted by a lengthy run and hours of juggling, and feeling some lingering haziness from the dwikka-fruit he had eaten, fell asleep sitting up in the back of the wagon and knew nothing more until morning. The last he heard was a forceful discussion of the notion of venturing into Metamorph territory: Deliamber suggesting that the perils of Ilirivoyne had been exaggerated by rumor, Carabella noting that Zalzan Kavol would be justified in prosecuting Sleet, and expensively, if he broke his contract, and Sleet insisting with almost hysterical conviction that he dreaded the Metamorphs and would not go within a thousand miles of them. Shanamir and Vinorkis, too, expressed fear of the Shapeshifters, who they said were sullen, tricky, and dangerous.