The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [135]
According to its inhabitants—at least as best as any of Malconio’s men could understand them—Duvré was about ten leagues south of Paldh. They had planned to go by land to Eslen anyway, so they had decided that they might as well get started.
With a sigh, she rose and started back toward the village, to make sure Cazio was doing what he was supposed to be doing, and not playing nip with Austra someplace. The brief solitude had been nice, but it was time to get going.
She found him in the tavern, of course, along with z’Acatto, Malconio, Austra, and a crowd of locals. It was close and smoky inside and smelled overwhelmingly of the dried cod that hung everywhere from the rafters. The two long tables were pitted and polished by use, and the floor—like the walls—was built of a sort of plaster made of ground-up seashells.
Malconio was speaking—something about the wonders of a city named Shavan—and a wizened little man with no more than three or four teeth was making a running translation in Gallean. Children in red and umber tunics of rough wool and women with their hair wrapped up in black cotton scarves all leaned in, laughing sometimes and commenting among themselves. They glanced at her when she entered, but quickly returned their attention to Malconio.
Anne put her hands on her hips and tried to catch Cazio’s eye, but he either hadn’t seen her or was ignoring her in favor of Austra, who—with him—was quaffing wine from a ceramic jug.
Z’Acatto was slumped with his head on the table.
Impatiently, Anne pushed through the crowd and got Cazio’s attention by patting his shoulder.
“Yes, casnara?” he asked, looking up at her. Austra turned her head away, feigning interest in Malconio’s story, which just rolled right along.
“I thought you were buying supplies and horses.”
Cazio nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m doing,” he said. He patted the shoulder of a stout, middle-aged man with a sunburnt face and startling green eyes. “This is Tungale MapeGovan. I’m doing business with him.”
The man—who seemed well on his way to being thoroughly drunk—smiled up at Anne.
“Hinne allan,” he commented, scratching his belly.
“Well, can’t you hurry it up?” she asked, ignoring the disgusting fellow.
“They don’t seem to do things in a hurry here,” Cazio remarked. “My kind of people, really.”
“Cazio.”
“Also, we don’t have enough money,” he said.
“You’ve money for wine, it seems.”
Cazio took another swig. “No,” he said, “we’re earning that with stories.”
“Well, how much do we need?” she asked, exasperated.
He set the jug back on the table. “He wants twice what we have for an ass and four days’ provisions.”
“An ass?”
“No one around here has a horse—even if they did, we could never afford it.”
“Well, one ass hardly seems worth the trouble,” Anne said. “Just buy the food.”
“If you want to carry it on your back,” Cazio remarked, “I’ll settle that right now.”
“If I have to, I will. We can’t wait here any longer.”
Someone tugged lightly on her hair. She gasped and discovered Tungale fondling it.
“Stop that,” she said, brushing his hand away.
“Ol panné?” he asked.
Cazio glanced at the translator, but he was still busy with Malconio’s tale.
“She’s not for sale,” Cazio answered, shaking his head.
That was a little too much.
“For sale?” she shouted.
Malconio stopped in midsentence, and the table erupted in laughter.
“Ne, ne,” Tungale said. “Sé venné se panné?”
“What’s he saying?” Anne demanded.
The translator smiled broadly, emphasizing his mostly toothless condition. “He wants to know how much your hair costs.”
“My hair?”
“Sé venné se?” he asked Tungale.
“Té,” Tungale replied.
“Yes,” the translator said. “Your hair. How much?”
Anne felt her face burning.
“Her hair isn’t—,” Cazio began, but Anne put a hand on his arm.
“The ass and food for a nineday,” she said.
Austra turned at that. “Anne, no.”
“It’s only hair, Austra,” Anne replied. She nodded at the translator. “Tell