To the High Redoubt (6 page)

At first Arkady accepted this treatment, but as he became aware of what she was doing, he resisted. “No, Surata,” he said, feeling her body pressing close to his. “This isn't right. It wouldn't work right now anyway. Surata…Surata, you've got to stop.”

She paid no heed to him, knowing that the chill that held him was more dangerous than the cut in his arm. Calmly, she continued her work, and when she at last drew the blanket close around both of them and nestled her head against his neck, most of his protests were stilled.

“Surata,” he said a bit later, “you don't understand what this could do to me.” To his astonishment, he felt idiotic saying this to her. “You don't…”

She put her free hand to his mouth, wishing he would go to sleep.

“I have to tell you this,” he said through her fingers. “And it doesn't matter that you don't understand what I'm saying. You have shown your worth to me, and I am in your debt. I won't disgrace myself by refusing to acknowledge all you've done for me. Without your warning, I would be seriously wounded or dead now, and the Holy Saints alone know what might have happened to you.” He sighed, his strength going out of him more quickly than he wanted. “That's all.” His head rolled back and he allowed himself to groan, now that he would not shame himself.

Surata brushed his hair back from his brow, letting her palm rest briefly on his forehead. She was not yet certain there would be fever, but she was content that he had got no colder. Before she started to drift toward sleep, she took hold of the cinquedea, in case the unconscious bandit should trouble them later in the night.

When morning came, both the bandit who had fallen by the fire and the body of the leader were gone. Surata propped herself on her elbow and listened to Arkady as he fumbled to start the fire again. “You did well,” he said to her once again. Working with one hand, he felt incredibly clumsy. His head still ached and his arms and legs were stiff from hurt. “It will take me a little while to get this going,” he explained.

“Arkady-immai,” she reproached him, attempting to convince him to get back into his blanket. He resisted the tone of her voice and the gentle force of her arms.

“Leave off!” Arkady snapped, trying to shove her aside. But he knew that he was being foolishly stubborn. The night before, Surata had laid the fire and all that was needed was a spark from his flint and steel. When she urged him to lean back, he stopped fighting her. “All right, Surata. If you insist that I keep still, I guess I'll have to.”

Surata wrapped the blanket around him and then set off to find more wood, walking with little steps and bending over to feel the ground in front of her. At first glance, it seemed a slow and inefficient method to find wood, blindness or no, but in far less time than Arkady would have thought possible, she had gathered up several dry branches and an assortment of kindling twigs and brought them back to their campfire. Then she set about laying the branches so they would burn well.

“You're good at that,” Arkady admitted, doing his best to keep the grudging tone out of his voice. “I'm surprised at how well you manage.”

She continued her work without any response. When she was done, she moved back and waited for him to spark the kindling.

Reluctantly, Arkady left the warmth of the blanket. He liked its comfort more than he wanted to, and yet he found fault with himself for enjoying it. “I'm turning soft already,” he grumbled as he prepared to start the fire.

Surata came to his side and once again showed her skill in nursing a little red dot into a flame. As soon as there was enough kindling burning, she pointed in the general direction of the blanket, and for once Arkady obeyed her meekly.

When the fire was well-established, Arkady stumbled off into the trees to relieve himself, returning to find that Surata had somehow managed to find her way to the stream and bring enough water to make more gruel and to set out a little leaf tea, which Arkady regarded with suspicion. As he sat down on the blanket roll, his legs still treacherously shaky, he eyed the bowl of tea. “Where did you get that?” he demanded.

This time Surata did not respond quite as she had in the past. She pointed to Arkady. “Arkady-immai,” she said, then pointed to the fire. “Chim?”

“Uh…fire,” Arkady said.

“Uhfire?” she repeated.

“No, just fire, Fire.” He took her hand in his and pointed to it. “Fire.”

“Fire,” she said. The next thing she touched was the bag of grain. “Chim?”

“Food,” he said. “Grain. Food.”

“Foodgrainfood,” she echoed.

“Food,” he corrected her.

“Food,” she agreed.

By the time they had finished their gruel, she had added five more words to her vocabulary and was smiling with pleasure.

Arkady watched her, surprised at how quickly she learned and how methodically she went about acquiring information. He could not help but smile at her, taking an unexpected pride in her abilities. There were so many others who were blind who would not have bothered to learn, but this foreign slave-woman was insisting that he tell her more words. She was moving her hand through the air, making it dive and tremble.

“Wind,” he said, guessing at what she meant. He leaned over and blew on her fingers. “Wind.”

“Wind,” she agreed. “Fire, food, ground, rock, wood, sword, blanket, wind.”

“Very good!” He laughed aloud. “You're doing very well, Surata.”

“Chim?” she asked, and by now he knew the meaning of that word.

“Surata…” He tried to think of some way to convey what he meant. He reached over and patted her on the arm, very much as if she were a young soldier who had fought well. “Good.”

Immediately she patted him on his arm. “Good.”

“No,” he sighed. “Never mind. I'll try to explain it later.”

It was almost midday when they moved on, going slowly along the road, letting the horse choose its pace, making no effort to urge it. As they went, she learned more words.

“Tree. Horse. Hand. Foot. Head. Hair. Face. Arm. Fingers. Water. Boot. Saddle.”

When they stopped to purchase dates and figs from a farmer, Surata learned her first abstract. She tugged at Arkady's arm and put her hand on her stomach. “Chim?” To make sure, she opened her mouth. “Food.”

“Hungry,” he said. “So am I.” He chuckled as she repeated that along with her other words. “You're amazing, Surata. I couldn't do half as well, and I can see.”

She caught the approval in his tone and smiled at him. Still smiling, she reached up, almost touching his eyes. “Chim?”

He swallowed hard before answering. “Eyes.”

“Eyes.” She hesitated, then pointed to her own. “Eyes?”

“Eyes.” he agreed with difficulty.

She frowned shaking her head. “Dumet eyes.” She passed her hand in front of her. “Eyes?”

“Eyes.” he insisted. “Blind.”

“Ah. Blind.” This satisfied her, and she nodded, repeating the words to herself.

Arkady was grateful to see the farmer coming toward them with a jug of goat's milk and a few rounds of cheese. He finished the figs he held and reached into his wallet for one of the silver coins he had. “Good. Very good,” he told the man and grinned at the farmer's blank smile.

The farmer had few teeth, and so he said very little, and what he said was in a sibilant whistle. He took the money Arkady offered, and pointed toward his well.

“Food?” Surata asked as she bit into a date. She was near the horse so that she could reach out and touch the sack of grain. “Food.”

“Grain-food,” Arkady explained, then touched the dates in her hand. “Fruit-food.” He reached for the reins. “I have to water the horse.”

There were two words she recognized, and she said them both. As Arkady started to lead his horse toward the well, she reached up and took hold of the unstrung bow hanging from the saddle and followed him toward the well.

“Bow. Arrow. Well. Bucket. Stone. Stirrup. Bridle. Rein. Sack. Cheese. Milk. Cup. Bowl. Sand. Bench. Sun. Shade. Grape. Vine.”

They sat in the farmer's grape arbor out of the afternoon glare. The gentle drone of insects was the only sound they heard aside from their own voices and the munching of the gelding as he cropped weeds near the well.

Arkady stretched out his legs, wishing they were a little less stiff. It was so pleasant here, he thought, if only he were not so sore.

Apparently Surata noticed how he moved, for she suddenly put her cup of milk aside on the bench and reached out for him, her hands seeking out the bandage on his arm. Deftly she untied the cloth, paying no heed to his objections, then said, “Water.”

Arkady sighed. “All right.” He had to admit that it would feel better if some of the grit was washed out of it. He stood up and went back to the well, filling his empty cup with water and coming back to the arbor. “Here. Water.”

She took the cup and sniffed at it. Then very carefully, she began to wash out the wound. “Arm. Water,” she informed him.

“Yes,” he said wearily. “Thanks.” This last was half-sarcastic, but also grudgingly respectful. “You do that well.”

“Well?” she repeated, surprised.

“No. Good.” He winced as she deliberately set the cut to bleeding once more. “Don't do that.”

“Water,” she said patiently.

“Water, hell, that's blood.” He took his free hand and touched her fingers near the cut. “Blood.”

She sniffed her fingers. “Blood. Water blood,” she said very calmly, and continued to wash. When she was through, she hacked off more of the hem of her robe—“Knife. Cloth.”—to bandage the wound once more. “Water. Blood. Cloth,” she declared, relinquishing her hold on him. “Arm.”

“True enough,” Arkady said to her, wondering what else she might take it into her head to do. He longed for a cup of wine but had discovered that it was not often found in this part of the world. Still, he thought lazily, trying to keep his mind off the throbbing in his arm, if the farmer here had this arbor, he might have wine. He was attempting to think of a way to find out when he felt Surata nudge him.

“Cheese?”

“Do you want some more?” he inquired.

“Cheese. Sack. Saddle.” Her features were inquiring, and from the way she held her head, she was suggesting this to him.

“Good idea,” he allowed and decided that it might also provide him a way to find out about wine.

“N'yeh, Arkady-immai,” she said merrily, her manner growing more lighthearted. “Horse. Water. Food. Arkady-immai, Surata, water. Food. Cheese.”

“Yes, I know,” he assured her. “I'll talk to the farmer and see what I can arrange.”

“Sack. Saddle,” she added.

“Yes, I know,” he answered a bit curtly, as much because he knew she was right as any other reason. “I'll take care of it.”

“Fruit-food. Grain-food. Cheese,” she called after him as he started toward the farmer's house.

“Fruit-food, grain-food, cheese. And wine,” he whispered to himself. “For love of the Archangels, let there be wine.”

He was pleasantly startled to find his prayers had been answered. The farmer produced several rounds of dry cheese; some hard, flat bread; a large jar of dates; and two skins of a rough red wine that was as welcome as any Arkady had ever tasted. As an afterthought, he also purchased a generous comb of honey and had it put in a tight wooden box. He paid two silver coins for the lot and thought himself very fortunate to have so much for so little.

“Tonight we will feast,” he said to Surata when he came back to the arbor. “Cheese, bread, dates, honey, wine, it's all here. If I can get a rabbit for us, it will be fine.”

“Cheese,” she said, nodding happily. “Food.”

In spite of the aches that plagued him, Arkady mounted his gelding in far better spirits than he would have thought possible. He reached down for Surata. “Give me your hand, Surata. I'll lift you up.”

“Hand. Arm.” She stretched toward him.

“Up you go,” he said, pulling her up behind him.

“Up you go,” she repeated.

“Up,” he corrected her, then took her hand that had gone round his waist and lowered it. “Down.” As he raised it, “Up,” and lowered it again, “Down.”

“Up,” she said, bringing her hand back to his waist.

“Good,” he said, starting his horse off toward the road once again.

Chapter 4

Not long before sunset, they found a goatherd; and after many gestures and two copper coins, he indicated in mime that there was a good place to rest for the night not far from the road. He led them part of the way and pointed out the spot.

“It looks fine,” Arkady said, nodding emphatically, offering the goatherd a handful of dates in addition to the coins.

The goatherd smiled and bowed and babbled incomprehensibly, then went back to tending his flock, munching on the dates as he went.

“I'll gather wood for the fire,” Arkady told Surata. “You wait for me.”

She knew four of the words he said—wood, fire, you, me—and decided that she would be warm soon.

As Arkady unsaddled his gelding, he took his blanket and handed it to her. “You look chilly. Wrap up in this.” He was getting more used to talking to her, and much of the frustration he had felt at the beginning was gone. Once he had set the saddle on the ground, he wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. “There.”

“Blanket,” she said, fingering it. “Fire.”

“Warm,” he corrected her. “Blanket warm.”

“Warm,” she said and stood beside the bay while Arkady hobbled him.

“I'll be back shortly,” he said, and went off in search of wood, grateful that it was still light enough to make the task simple. He brought the wood back to Surata so that she could lay the fire and went to find a few more branches so that they could keep the fire built up at night. The air was already chilly, and he knew they would need to provide more heat than the blanket alone would give them.