CHAPTER FIVE

 

BUKHAM REALISED HIS little thief was there and his chance was now and that he must do something. But at the very same moment of this revelation the fascinating little woman with the golden bracelets also realised the same thing.

He saw her look over his shoulder and take a breath—to shout out that the girl was there, he thought, to ruin any hope he had left of not having to catch her in an ugly scene. In his mind’s eye he saw terror in the little girl’s face, screaming, hating him so he was completely thrown when he saw the conspiratorial wink from the woman’s large, beautifully painted, dark eye. Then the woman screamed and had a theatrical fainting fit. The stall collapsed. It was a bit overdone but effective, no doubt, there was even twitching and spasming among the crushed berries.

He was so grateful he didn’t pause, but leapt over the remains of the counter, scattering apples and poms, sticks of spice and little trays of fragrant leaves. In a burst of yellow good-powder, meant for helping stomachs ruined by eating the Kinslayer’s leavings, he bent low to the fallen customer, showing himself heroically involved in helping. At the same time he fervently hoped the little one escaped somehow and his obligations with her.

Uncle Ghurbat was swift on the scene, bringing his box of remedies with him, a moment of two after Aunt Cherti had arrived with smelling salts and Authentic Djinni Waters, which had cost an entire box of dried violet stamens two years back when the last of the glamorous, aethereal Elennae came past, trading their fabulous nostrums. An argument over the twitching body promptly ensued as each insisted their care must be administered first. Bukham was pushed aside as of no interest, his efforts to make sure there was nothing to choke on, no stone too close, all ignored as the physicians went head to head. As he was elbowed away he saw the downed woman cast a quick glance at him through her heavily painted eyelashes and he gave her clear-eyed assessment a helpless shrug. Seeing he was of no use she went back to her twitching, careful to thrash the first dropper of Authentic Djinni Waters firmly away from her face with a well-timed swing of one arm. As Cherti trilled a note of horror and doom Bukham backed off and looked around.

His bunches of barsoon were all over the place. He went towards the cattle pens, searching, and was filled with doubt and a creeping sense of self-loathing as he found nothing. He went around the pen but the ground was churned with prints and it had been dry for days. Two more times he tried but wherever he’d once seen the eyes staring at him there was nothing to find and he knew in his heart she was gone. To his surprise this was worse than the prospect of him trying to return her to the refugees.

By the time he returned to his stand the woman was on her feet, waving away the attentions of his aunt and leaning on his uncle’s arm. He went to clean up, doing his best to be ignored, but the dreaded touch on his arm and clearing of his uncle’s throat soon stopped him.

“Well?”

“She ran away,” Bukham said, pulling the basket that had held the bait off the plank it had been nailed to. “I looked all over, but I couldn’t find her. She’s gone.”

“Who’s gone?” The woman who had fainted was standing there too. She had let go of Ghurbat’s arm now. Her accent was exotic, strange, he couldn’t place it among any of the many tribes and groups he had known. She had a way of speaking that was, in itself, peculiar—a very soft, almost gravelly tone that was absolutely clear to the ear in its meaning and articulation even though it seemed much quieter than the surroundings. He felt uneasy but since he’d nothing to know worth the knowing it seemed no matter to say,

“Some girl that came from the Refugees. Stayed on, hiding out here. Now she’s gone.”

“Ah, I see.”

“You saw her?” Ghurbat asked, turning.

“No, no, I was only curious,” the woman said. “It is late. I will go to my tent. Thank you for your kindness.”

“Let me walk you there.” Ghurbat was at her side in a flash. He turned back to Bukham as an afterthought. “You can pick up Murti and go look for her in the morning. She can’t have got far. We have responsibilities, you know, to care for the lost. We are not animals.”

Bukham stared after their backs, realising that this speech was really for her benefit and not his. After he had picked up and sorted the stock he packed a basket ready for the morning, counted the tally and found he couldn’t account for a set of ready-measured spices arranged in pretty little pouches which his cousin made. Where they had gone he’d no idea but he thought of the slow wink. Well, if she was a thief too she was Ghurbat’s problem now. Then he went to tell Tubayu the good news about her job for the morrow.

“You should find her and bring her back here,” Tubayu said immediately, once she’d recovered from the notion that she had to debase herself by running the produce stand. “It’s not safe. This lot tell me there are bands of Yorughan making forays north, and other bandits.”

“But we can’t keep her.” He knew he was repeating Ghurbat’s line, more to test it.

“Of course we can,” Tubayu said. “Just one. She never stole anything other than food, did she? Well, then she’s not a natural thief. Only hungry.”

“All right.” Bukham felt better, hearing his own feelings repeated in her words. She always had more conviction than he did and once he heard her he felt convinced too. “But first I have to find her.”

“Murti can do it. Don’t take too long though. I have other things to do than stack canarops and swish flies. That’s for lesser beings.”

Murti was in the main tent at Taib, where all visitors were housed. He was with another priest who had come lately down from the north and they were bent together in conversation, cross-legged on the carpets, a little brazier heating their tea and warming some flatcakes. Bukham didn’t want to interrupt them but as he entered the room Murti looked up and waved him over with an air of expectation and impatience.

The priest was very old. His skin combined wrinkle markings and weather-wear into something that looked like worn-out boot hide and all that remained of his hair were a few tufts no longer in communication with each other across the bald dome of his head. Their white strands straggled down around his neck or stuck up like the down of a baby bird, directly into the air. His clothing was tough traveller’s wear, rougher by far than the pleasantly cut robe and trousers that Bukham had on, and in one glance he had more intensity than Bukham had possessed in his entire life. Bukham was scared of him. He approached, bowed, and sat down where he was directed.

“This is Bukham, son of Oshmet,” Murti said to the other priest. “He’s just starting out.” He beamed confidently and with a kind of pride. Bukham was confused. He thought Murti must have got it wrong. He wasn’t going on a journey to start Wayfaring. He was going on a journey to get the girl and return her to the camp. That was all. It was only a journey. It wasn’t a Journey journey.

“Wait. What? I’m not…” but Murti cut him off with a swift wave that turned into a flapping hand that meant he was to pipe down.

“Ah, well, a good time to be moving,” the other priest said and Bukham was astounded to discover from the sound of the voice that the wizened husk of a thing, barely Oerni any more and certainly skinnier and more bent than any person should be who was still alive, was a woman. Or had been. Woman seemed the wrong word too. He felt a terrible flustering inside him as he suddenly doubted himself.

“I’m Tillaray, good to meet you, priestling.” A hand like a curled rook’s claw thrust itself, dark and dusty, from the ragged clothing and made the sign of the Wanderer in a brief manner. Bukham felt amusement and a keen attention on him although Tillaray’s face was hidden in wrappings and scarves so that only two gleams like the glint of the moon on a steel blade were briefly visible. The oddness of the name struck him as very un-Oerni but he wasn’t about to ask.

“Stifling your curiosity, boy,” Tillaray said. “Got to stop. How will you ever learn? On the road you have only yourself to answer to, hm? What’s this journey then?”

“I uh… I’m not here to join the priesthood,” Bukham said, feeling it needed clearing up quickly before things got any more out of hand.

“Ah,” Tillaray said. “I’m sure you think so, however mistaken you are. Pass my tea.”

Bukham passed one tepid cup over and then looked at Murti for guidance. “I came to tell you that we don’t have to go anywhere. The girl. She’s gone. I’m going to look for her and then my sister’s going to take her in.”

“Oh,” Murti said and scowled. He took up his own tea and tossed it straight in Bukham’s face. “Go get your clothes on and get ready to leave.” He muttered something about the youth of today under his breath.

Bukham wasn’t entirely surprised, although he had started. Priests were notoriously short-tempered and prone to dramatic actions and he wasn’t hurt. He felt tea dripping off his nose. He mopped it up with his sleeve. But he did need to make it clear that there wasn’t going to be any Journey. “I…”

“Stop talking. We’re going to lose her. Go get your things, you can’t walk all the way to the coast in those sandals. Your uncle said you’d be ready. What’s going on?”

“But…” Bukham began, feeling himself digging in as the dampness of the tea started going cold on him. Why was the old man talking about the coast? What had that to with anything? “I am not a priest. My uncle has played an unkind trick on you. I’m not going anywhere.”

“We’re leaving in an hour,” Murti said. “Moon’ll be up then, easy walking. Move your arse.”