Pathways - Jeri Taylor [68]
But one step at a time. They would map the stockade, looking at details of terrain, geological elements, location of guard posts, and anything else that might be useful as they made their plans.
B’Elanna found herself with Chakotay and Brad Harrison, heading for the corner of the stockade they had designated the southwest. This was territory no one had ventured into yet, a rolling, undulating part of the meadow, teeming with ragged prisoners. B’Elanna felt many curious eyes on them as they made their way along the rough road they had dubbed Main Street, which ran the length of the stockade, perpendicular to Broadway. She was aware that her group was better dressed and better fed than anyone in the prison camp, and that they would be objects of both envy and resentment.
“How about it, B’Elanna?” queried Chakotay. “Are you going to tell us your story tonight?”
B’Elanna felt her cheeks flush. “I’m not much of a talker. Better pick someone else.”
“I’ve never known you to be at a loss for words,” retorted Chakotay, and she shot him a quick glance, seeing that his lips were turned up in a characteristic grin. “We’ve heard the tale of two men—time for a woman’s story.”
“You might hear some things that would shock you,” she said wryly, and his grin became wider. “I’d be interested in hearing just what those might be,” he shot back. “I bared my soul pretty completely, and Harry was painfully honest. It wouldn’t do for you to be anything less than forthcoming.”
B’Elanna declined to respond. If she didn’t commit, maybe he’d choose someone else tonight. But she didn’t have time to think beyond that, because they became aware of a shouted tumult ahead of them. A cluster of prisoners off the road to their right was gathered around something, or someone, they couldn’t see. B’Elanna thought this was in their favor; if the crowd was distracted, they could go about their business more easily.
A tide of prisoners was now streaming toward the knotted mass, and the shouting became more intense, a cacophony that rose into the dank morning air like water vapor from a forest floor. What was happening? B’Elanna had to sidestep to avoid being run down by a trio of pale, scrawny humanoids who were covered with sores, but who were apparently desperate to get to the scene of whatever was happening.
Ahead of them, a filthy, hunched old man was waving at the approaching crowds, beckoning them toward the growing cluster of observers. As B’Elanna and the two men neared him, he scrutinized them, puzzled. His nose was huge, and hooked, like that of a predatory bird. Long, stringy hanks of dirty gray hair hung from his head, and he twisted one nervously as he talked.
“Are not you wishing to see the fracas?” he asked, in a voice that sounded like a death rattle. “Myself will I hold the wagers, for you be not wanting to trust any others.”
“What’s happening?” asked Chakotay, and the man seemed even more surprised.
“Do not you know that this is the sometime waited-for challenge by Loord the Noarkan against the brute Troykis? Many suns in the waiting, with ill attitudes climbing ever so high. Will not you wager? And if may I offer, Loord is much determined to depose Troykis. Assume his victory and reward will be reaped.”
“No, thanks,” B’Elanna said. This was the perfect time for them to do their mapping, when so much attention was going to what sounded like a grudge fight.
The old man shrugged and immediately lost interest in them, waving a bony talon toward others who were hurrying along. B’Elanna, Chakotay, and Harrison stayed on their course for the southwest corner of the stockade, feeling something like salmon swimming against the stream.
The southwest quadrant of the camp had thinned out considerably, although not everyone had gone to see the fight. Those who were too old, too infirm,