Land of the Burning Sands Read Online Free PDF Page A

was no comparison. Even carrying three bags to Amnachudran’s one, Gereint found he had to slow his stride to match his… master’s. At first, he followed the other man. Then, seeing it made Amnachudran uncomfortable to have him at his back, he came up unbidden to walk beside him. The man gave him a grunt of acknowledgment and for a time they walked in silence. The woods dripped. Birds sang. Somewhere high overhead, a hawk cried. Gnats whined, but fortunately did not seem inclined to bite.
    Amnachudran called a halt after about two hours. He dropped his saddlebag and the packs heavily to the ground beside another of the many little streams and stood for a moment with his hands braced on his knees. At last he straightened slowly, with a groan. He looked older now. The plump softness gave him a young sort of face, but Gereint revised his estimate of the man’s true age upward.
    Gereint dropped his three heavy bags beside the one. He wondered what was in them. Nothing that rattled or clanked or chimed. Unless it was packed so as not to rattle or clank or chime. Maybe he would find a chance to look through a bag later. Maybe Amnachudran would catch him at it. Maybe the things in those bags were secret and important, mages’ things. Exactly the wrong kinds of things to be caught examining. He measured Amnachudran with a covert glance. Then he made a fire, found the small pot, filled it with water, and got out the packet of tea and a mug.
    Amnachudran watched all this, frowning. “I didn’t tell you to do that.”
    “I have to do everything you say.” Gereint measured out tea. “That doesn’t mean I can’t do anything without your command. Do you not want tea… master? Ah, forgive me. Amnachudran, sir.”
    Amnachudran ignored this small provocation. He asked, “Why did you get out only one mug?”
    Gereint was honestly surprised. He sat back on his heels, regarding the other man. “You expected me to get out two? That
would
be presumptuous.”
    “But you seem—” The other man stopped.
    “Ah.” Gereint felt a tug of reluctant amusement. He kept forgetting Amnachudran’s perceptiveness. Or wanting to trust his kindness. Or even both. Worse than foolish: dangerous. And surprising. He said after a moment, “Yes, but carefully. Nothing quite so blatant as… ah… getting out two mugs.”
    “Get another out,” said Amnachudran. He sat down on a rock beside the stream.
    Gereint found the mug with the broken handle and measured out more tea.
    “How long have you been…?”
    Gereint didn’t look up. “Nineteen years.”
    A short pause. Then, “How old are you?”
    Gereint brought his master a mug, kneeling to hand it to him so he wouldn’t loom over the smaller man. “Forty-two.”
    “Almost half your life… What
did
you do?”
    “Murdered the governor of Breidechboden.”
    Amnachudran choked on a mouthful of tea, coughed, caught his breath, stared at Gereint, and at last laughed incredulously. “You didn’t!”
    “Well, no, I didn’t,” agreed Gereint. He went back to the fire, folded his hands around the other mug. Sipped, watching Amnachudran carefully over the edge of the mug. “I was caught plotting to assassinate the king himself, which he should have expected after he forbade public houses to serve ale after midnight. What does he expect young louts to get up to if they’re thrown out on the streets while still sober enough to stagger?”
    Amnachudran, undoubtedly remembering the uproar about that short-lived law, laughed again.
    “No,” Gereint conceded. “Not that either. I told you, I didn’t do anything. I had the wrong enemies and not enough friends.” Not enough friends and too many cousins, and too many of those had turned out to be among his enemies… He hadn’t intended to speak truth to this man, and paused for a moment, hearing bitter truth echo unexpectedly in those last words.
    Trying to shake off a sudden surge of bitterness—not a helpful emotion, for a slave—he said,