“Well enough.”

“Would you come with me?”

Ghan quirked a faint half smile. “Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

“Why, then, I will be more than happy to come.” He dusted the horse hair from his legs, and when he took his first steps they nearly wobbled from under him.

“Let me help you, there,” Ghe said, and took a firm—even painful—grip beneath his arm and began escorting him toward the fore of the party.

“I must admit, Ghan, I've been angry with you,” Ghe confided as they walked along. “Though that isn't precisely why I have avoided you these past days.”

“Oh? Have you avoided me?”

Ghe tsked. “You betrayed me, Ghan, and betrayed Hezhi, too, though I'm sure you pigheadedly thought you were helping her. I have avoided you to save your life, however. Every time I look at you, I desire to empty your withered shell of its spirit. And yet I thought some use might still exist for you. And, as it proves out, there ¿s.”

They were almost to the other leaders now, and Ghe slowed a bit—perhaps so that he would not appear to be dragging him. Ghan opened his mouth to ask Ghe what use he might have, but then they were there, the Mang chieftain watching him with bright eyes.

He was weary-looking, clad in the same manner as any of the Mang around him: long black coat, breeks. The only marked difference was that he wore no helmet. The most astonishing thing was his age; he couldn't be more than sixteen.

“You are the one named Ghan,” he said in heavily accented but comprehensible Nholish.

“That is what I am called.”

“You and I have much to talk about, along with these others,” he said, indicating Ghe and the rest. “You may be happy to know that Hezhi is still alive and well.”

Ghan blinked as the words sorted into sense, and with comprehension came a flood of sudden emotion, cracking the levees which had so long held it in place.

“How do you know?” Ghan asked.

The chieftain tapped his chest. “I see her, in here. Not long ago I rode with her.” He placed his hand on Ghan's shoulder. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am shaman and war prophet of the Four Spruces Clan, and also by the will of the River and heaven, the chieftain of the three northwestern bands.” He swept his hands to encompass all of the men and horses who stood dismounted in the valley, awaiting his command.

“But you, my friend, may call me Moss.”

XXX The Roadmark

PERKAR drew a sharp breath and stiffened when Harka suddenly hailed.

“What?”

“Fifteen men at least in the rocks ahead, ” the weapon replied.

“Within earshot?” he whispered.

“Shouring, I would think. ”

“Mang?”

“How should I know? I only know they haven't certainly decided to attack you. They are waiting for someone or perhaps guarding something. ”

Perkar noticed Hezhi staring at him. He flashed her a little smile.

“Just pretend we're talking about something innocuous,” he said softly.

“I thought we were,” Hezhi answered, recalling the conversation Harka had interrupted, about the merits of red cattle as opposed to brown ones.

“There are warriors up ahead of us.”

“They weren't there last night,” she assured him.

“Well, now they are. Ngangata, do you hear all of this?”

“Yes. I say we go back the way we came.”

“Too late for that,” Perkar said. “They surely know we're here. When I give the word, all of you bolt for the cover of those trees. I don't think we're in line-of-sight for bows yet, anyway—”

“You aren't going to fight them all by yourself,” Hezhi hissed.

Perkar smiled weakly and reached over to touch her hand. “I don't intend to fight them at all, unless I have no choice. These are most likely my people, considering where we are. But in times of war, rash, unplanned things can happen. If they shoot too hastily at one of you, it might kill you. If they make the same mistake with me …”

He said this with confidence he certainly did not feel. They rode in a gorge so narrow that only the merest sliver of sky lay above them. Would he heal if a boulder were pushed onto him? What if his legs were broken by some snare and they simply hacked him to pieces?

“If they make the same mistake with me,” he went on, “the results won't be as dire. If they attack me, you can all feel free to come to my aid, though some of you should stay back to protect Hezhi.”

“I'm not helpless,” she reminded him, not quite sharply but with considerable insistence.

Since their time alone on the peak five days before, the two of them had gotten along well. Very well, in fact. And so he answered that with a little smile, leaning close, so that only she could easily hear him. “Is that the only stupid thing I've said lately?”

“More or less,” she replied. “In the last few days, at least.”

“Then you should be proud of me.”

“Oh, I am. And be careful.”

He nodded assurance of that, then looked over his shoulder at the others in time to catch Ngangata rolling his eyes.

“What?” he called back at the half man.

“They could decide to come this way at any moment. You two had better save your courting for some other time.”

Perkar clamped his mouth on an indignant protest and dismounted. Trying not to think about what he was doing, he strode forward. The others clopped quickly into the trees.

Despite his efforts, he felt as if he were walking through quicksand. Only the gentle pressure of his friends' surely watchful gazes kept the appearance of confidence and spring in his step.

Fifty paces he went before a rock clattered nearby. He slowed up.

“I've come to talk, not to fight,” he shouted.

A pause then, and he heard some whispering in the rocks above and to his right.

“Name yourself,” someone shouted—in his own language.

“I am Perkar of the Clan Barku,” he returned.

More scrambling then, and suddenly a stocky, auburn-haired man emerged from the fallen pile of rubble that leaned against the cliff face.

“Well, then, you've got some explaining to do, for you ought to be a ghost, from what I hear.” He shook his nearly round head, and it opened into a broad grin. ”Instead you've turned Mang, it seems.”

“You have the advantage on me,” Perkar answered. “Do I know you?”

“No, but I've heard tell of you. My name is Morama, of the Clan Kwereshkan.”

Perkar lifted his brows in amazement. “My mother's clan.”

“Indeed, if you are who you say you are. And even if you aren't—” He shrugged. “—you are certainly a Cattle Person, despite those clothes, so we will welcome you.”

“I have companions,” Perkar said.

“Them, too, then.”

“Two of them are Mang; the others are from farther off still.”

To his surprise, the man nodded easily. “If you are Perkar—and I believe you to be—then we were told to expect that. You have my word and Piraku that they will not be harmed unless they attack us first.”

“I'll bring your promise back to them, then.” He started to go but suddenly understood the full import of the man's remarks.

“What do you mean, you were ‘told to expect that’? Who told you?”

“My lord. He said to tell you, lama roadmark.' ” Perkar did turn back then, a faint chill troubling his spine. Karak.

HEZHI lifted her small shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I'm not sure what I pictured,” she told Perkar. “Something like this. It looks very nice.”

Perkar chewed his lip. She knew he was probably trying to suppress a scowl with a show of good humor. “I know it isn't your palace in Nhol. But it has to be better than a Mang yekt.” He said this last low enough that Brother Horse and Yuu'han wouldn't hear; the two warriors were nervously walking about the bare dirt of the compound.

“That is certainly true,” Hezhi said. “I'm anxious to see the inside.”