Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [52]
He beat a hasty retreat, avoiding my gaze. Stone and sea, what was wrong with these men?
Whatever it was, I didn’t learn the answer that night. When dusk fell over the steppe, they extinguished their fire with care, retiring to the safety of their tent. Huddled in my cocoon of furs, I watched the moon rise and spill its silvery light over the plains, thinking and thinking, my mind restless.
I wondered if I could shift the cart.
I tried. Scuttling underneath it, I found the wooden chocks that braced the front wheels and pried them loose. When I banged them softly together in my fists, it made a very satisfying sound.
Scrambling out from beneath the cart, I got to my feet and went to the end of my short tether. Throwing my weight into the effort, I tried to drag the cart toward the tent.
I failed.
There were chocks bracing the rear wheels, too, and those I could neither reach nor dislodge, no matter how hard I strained. My tether was too short, and the cart was too heavy. I could not do it.
In the end, I gave up. I was cold and tired and heartsick, and tomorrow was another day. Sooner or later, I thought, an opportunity would present itself. When it did, I would take it and flee.
Gathering my furs, I crawled beneath the cart.
There, I curled up like a dog, and slept.
EIGHTEEN
On the morrow, my situation looked as bleak as ever.
The Vralians were careful not to give me any opportunities for escape or violence—not that I could have taken either easily, entangled in a clinking, rattling mass of chains as I was, unable to take a single full stride.
They gave me hard black bread and water to break my fast in the morning. When I explained to the older fellow that I needed to answer nature’s call, he shook his head, not comprehending. Clearly, his limited Tatar vocabulary did not extend to encompass the mortal body’s most basic requirements.
“I need to piss!” I said in frustrated Alban, using a vulgar slang term and knowing he wouldn’t understand a word of it. I pointed at his crotch, and mimed a man holding his phallus and relieving himself. “Gods! Do you people lack bladders as well as hearts?”
He flushed to the roots of his hair, his face darkening with embarrassment and disgust. But at least he unlocked the chain that tethered me to the wagon and pointed toward the outskirts of the camp.
I made my clanking, mincing way over the plain. Whatever else the Vralians were, they weren’t voyeurs. Both of them turned their backs on me as I concluded my business. And an awkward business it was, hovering in a narrow squat, trying not to let urine splash on my bare feet, my felt trousers, or the bedamned chain between my ankles.
The sheer misery of the experience nearly brought me to tears.
I breathed slowly until the moment passed, distracting myself with thoughts of flight. It was impossible, at least for now. I could barely walk, let alone run. Still, the thought of forcing them to chase me down held a certain grim satisfaction.
But there was no point in rousing my captors’ ire for the sake of a foolish whim—and my body was stiff and aching from the wagon’s jolting. So instead I hobbled back to rejoin them like an obedient dog.
For a mercy, they didn’t force me to hide beneath the tarpaulin today, but allowed me to ride atop it, pointing out a spot where I could sit atop some covered bales of wool. As such things went, it was reasonably comfortable.
We set out once more, heading due north. The younger man drove the cart, his hands firm on the reins. The older sat beside him. Their backs were rigid and upright, and they exchanged few words. There was only the sound of the breeze and the steady clopping of the cart-horses’ hooves.
I endured the silence for the better part of an hour, staring at the backs of their heads and despising them.
“May I ask why your god wills this?” I asked in the Tatar tongue, forcing myself to speak politely.
The older man turned his head in my direction without actually looking at me. “To save you.”
“To save me, yes.” I was as perishing sick of the phrase