Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 Read Online Free PDF Page A

great age."
                "It isn't my belly I care
about, it's my mouth."
                Kellin edged his way more slowly
through the throng with Rogan and the watchdogs following closely. "By the
time it gets to my belly, it's tamed."
                "Ah. Well, here you are."
                Here he was. Kellin stared at the three
women kneeling around the bowl-shaped frying surface.
                They had dug a hollow in the sand,
placed heated stones in the bottom, then the clay plank atop the stones. The
curling links of sausage were cooked slowly in their own grease, absorbing
spiced oil-The women were black-haired and black-eyed, with skins the color of
old ivory. Two of them were little more than crones, but the third was much
younger. Her eyes, tilted in an oval face, were bright and curious as she
flicked a quick assessive glance across the crowd, but only rarely did she look
anyone in the eye. She and her companions wore shapeless dark robes and bone
jewelry—necklaces, earrings, and bracelets. The old women wore cloth
head-coverings; the youngest had pulled her hair up high on the back of her
head, tying it so that it hung down her back in a series of tight braids. Two
yellow feathers fluttered from one braid as she moved-
                "A harsh place, the
Steppes," Rogan murmured.
                "You can see it in their
faces."
                "Not in hers," Kellin
declared.
                "She is young," Rogan said
sadly. "In time, she'll grow to look like the others."
                Kellin didn't like to think so, but
filling his mouth was more important than concerning himself with a woman's
vanishing youth. "Buy me some, Rogan, if you please."
                Obligingly Rogan fished a coin out
of the purse provided by the Mujhar, and handed it to one of the old women. The
young one speared two links with a sharpened stick, then held it out to Kellin.
                "Ah," Rogan said, looking
beyond. "It isn't merely the women, after all, that attract so many . ..
Kellin, do you see the warrior?"
                Tentatively testing the heat of the
spiced sausages, Kellin peered beyond the women and saw the man Rogan
indicated. He forgot his suhoqla almost at once; Steppes warriors only rarely
showed themselves in Mujhara, preferring to watch their womenfolk from the
wagons. This one had altered custom to present himself in the flesh.
                The warrior was nearly naked, clad
only in a brief leather loin-kilt, an abundance of knives, and scars. He was
not tall, but compactly muscled.
                Black hair was clubbed back and
greased, with a straight fringe cut across his brow. He wore a plug of ivory on
one nostril, and twin scars bisected each cheek, ridged and black, standing up
like ropes from butter-smooth flesh,
                Kellin lost count of the scars on
the warrior's body; by their patterns and numbers, he began to wonder if
perhaps they were to the Steppes warriors as much a badge of honor and manhood
as lir-gold to a Cheysuli.
                At the warrior's waist were belted
three knives of differing lengths, and he wore another on his right forearm
while yet another was hung about his throat. It depended from a narrow leather
thong, sheathed, its greenish hilt glinting oddly in the sunlight of a Homanan
summer. The warrior stood spread-legged, arms folded, seemingly deaf and blind
to those who gaped and commented, but Kellin knew instinctively the Steppesman
was prepared to defend the women—the young one, perhaps?—at a moment's notice.
                Kellin looked up at his tutor.
"Homana has never fought the Steppes, has she?"
                Rogan sighed. "You recall your
history, I see-No, Kellin, she has not. Homana has nothing to do with the
Steppes, no treaties, no alliances, nothing at all. A few warriors