leg over. Amazingly, everything
stayed attached.
"Well, bascha, I guess—" But I didn't finish, because Del arrived with the gelding in tow, thrust his
reins at me urgently, and disappeared with haste behind a clump of trees.
This time I didn't tease her. I dug out some of the red silk left over from my Skandic clothing,
unhooked a water bota, and handed both down to her without comment when she reappeared. Del
rinsed her mouth, spat, then washed her face. She looked terrible.
I made the sacrifice. "Maybe we should stay here another night."
"No." Del took the gelding's reins back from me, flipped them over his neck, and mounted. She was
clearly shaky, but determined. "I know how badly you want to get your hands on your jivatma. If it
were mine . . ." She shook her head. "We'll go on."
The poor, pitiful bascha had reverted to cold-faced Northern sword-singer. I knew better than to
attempt to jolly her out of it.
Besides, she needed to concentrate on keeping her belly where it belonged.
I realized within a couple of hours that we were not going to make the chimney before nightfall.
Though I was feeling much better as the day wore on, and Del seem resigned to a generalized discomfort
—at least she wasn't sick anymore—a faster pace might upset the balance. Not only that, but footing
was tougher as we wound our way closer to the dramatic rock formations in the distance, beyond the
foothills. Skull-sized boulders sprouted like shrubbery, abetted by drifts of bedrock peeping above the
soil. "The horses had to pay more attention to where they set their hooves, and we had to pay more
attention to the occasional misstep, prepared to bring equine heads up to reestablish balance before they
went down onto their knees.
Then a sandy area caught my eye. Like water spilled from a pitcher, it wound its way through rocks,
then spread into a wider patch.
"Over here," I called to Del, riding behind me. "Footing's better."
And indeed it was. The sandy area went down a rocky hillock and opened into something very like a
shallow streambed, except there was no water. There had been once, before desert took it over. But
now it was dry, with an underlayment of hard and uneven stone intermixed with sandy pockets and
water-smoothed, hollowed-out boulders. Amazingly, there was a scattering of vegetation here, edging
the streambed. Tough, reedy-looking shrubbery of a pallid green hue.
"Look ahead—there." Del pointed. "Are those wagon ruts?"
"Out here?" But even as I asked it, I saw what she meant. A few paces up there indeed appeared to
be wheel ruts running across the streambed, visible only when they hit sand pockets. I moved the stud
into a faster pace, then pulled up when I reached the ruts. "Hunh," I commented. "Someone's been out
here in a wagon."
Del reined in beside me. "It makes no sense. There is nothing out here for settlers or caravans."
I shook my head. "Not enough tracks for a caravan. One wagon, I'd guess. Two mules. Maybe
someone got lost." I marked how the ruts entered the streambed on one side and exited the other. "Let's
follow the tracks," I suggested, reining left. "Maybe whoever we find will invite us to supper."
If they haven't already been someone else's supper."
'I'm not sure we're still in Vashni territory," I said. "Which reminds me ..." I untied the increasingly
odiferous bag of sand-tiger meat from the saddle and let it drop into the edge of the streambed as the
stud climbed out. The gelding followed, white head swinging on the end of his long neck. Gold fringe
dangled lopsidedly. "You know, you could always hang your Vashni neck-let across your horse's face.
He's already wearing axle grease and wine-girl fringe . . . human fingerbones might give him a little added
class."
Del, not surprisingly, did not deign to reply.
We followed the tracks as they wound their way through the rocks and sand. After a while they
turned in toward the mountains on our left, gaining in
stayed attached.
"Well, bascha, I guess—" But I didn't finish, because Del arrived with the gelding in tow, thrust his
reins at me urgently, and disappeared with haste behind a clump of trees.
This time I didn't tease her. I dug out some of the red silk left over from my Skandic clothing,
unhooked a water bota, and handed both down to her without comment when she reappeared. Del
rinsed her mouth, spat, then washed her face. She looked terrible.
I made the sacrifice. "Maybe we should stay here another night."
"No." Del took the gelding's reins back from me, flipped them over his neck, and mounted. She was
clearly shaky, but determined. "I know how badly you want to get your hands on your jivatma. If it
were mine . . ." She shook her head. "We'll go on."
The poor, pitiful bascha had reverted to cold-faced Northern sword-singer. I knew better than to
attempt to jolly her out of it.
Besides, she needed to concentrate on keeping her belly where it belonged.
I realized within a couple of hours that we were not going to make the chimney before nightfall.
Though I was feeling much better as the day wore on, and Del seem resigned to a generalized discomfort
—at least she wasn't sick anymore—a faster pace might upset the balance. Not only that, but footing
was tougher as we wound our way closer to the dramatic rock formations in the distance, beyond the
foothills. Skull-sized boulders sprouted like shrubbery, abetted by drifts of bedrock peeping above the
soil. "The horses had to pay more attention to where they set their hooves, and we had to pay more
attention to the occasional misstep, prepared to bring equine heads up to reestablish balance before they
went down onto their knees.
Then a sandy area caught my eye. Like water spilled from a pitcher, it wound its way through rocks,
then spread into a wider patch.
"Over here," I called to Del, riding behind me. "Footing's better."
And indeed it was. The sandy area went down a rocky hillock and opened into something very like a
shallow streambed, except there was no water. There had been once, before desert took it over. But
now it was dry, with an underlayment of hard and uneven stone intermixed with sandy pockets and
water-smoothed, hollowed-out boulders. Amazingly, there was a scattering of vegetation here, edging
the streambed. Tough, reedy-looking shrubbery of a pallid green hue.
"Look ahead—there." Del pointed. "Are those wagon ruts?"
"Out here?" But even as I asked it, I saw what she meant. A few paces up there indeed appeared to
be wheel ruts running across the streambed, visible only when they hit sand pockets. I moved the stud
into a faster pace, then pulled up when I reached the ruts. "Hunh," I commented. "Someone's been out
here in a wagon."
Del reined in beside me. "It makes no sense. There is nothing out here for settlers or caravans."
I shook my head. "Not enough tracks for a caravan. One wagon, I'd guess. Two mules. Maybe
someone got lost." I marked how the ruts entered the streambed on one side and exited the other. "Let's
follow the tracks," I suggested, reining left. "Maybe whoever we find will invite us to supper."
If they haven't already been someone else's supper."
'I'm not sure we're still in Vashni territory," I said. "Which reminds me ..." I untied the increasingly
odiferous bag of sand-tiger meat from the saddle and let it drop into the edge of the streambed as the
stud climbed out. The gelding followed, white head swinging on the end of his long neck. Gold fringe
dangled lopsidedly. "You know, you could always hang your Vashni neck-let across your horse's face.
He's already wearing axle grease and wine-girl fringe . . . human fingerbones might give him a little added
class."
Del, not surprisingly, did not deign to reply.
We followed the tracks as they wound their way through the rocks and sand. After a while they
turned in toward the mountains on our left, gaining in
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