Did it even matter anymore? He was about to lose his command.
There was so much sand in the air that the time of day was impossible to tell. Around sunset, the Norsari headed back toward the Kaz River, marching in the ever-deepening gloom. Every hundred yards or so Alex stopped to orient himself by the Northern Wheel. Sometimes it took a full minute to find the right stars, the dust was so thick.
Alex gave up and ordered the men to stop again and set up camp sometime around midnight. He was standing on the windward side, trying to decide if he wanted more guards on the perimeter, when he heard it: a voice carried on the wind, speaking a language he didn’t recognize.
He grabbed Lieutenant Gramwell. “Do you hear that?”
Gram listened for a few seconds, then nodded. “Doesn’t sound like Demoran. Two voices at least.”
“Keep setting up, but post more sentries. I’m taking a squad to investigate.”
“Do you want a big tent up?” The two-man tents they carried were designed to be combined into larger ones. The unspoken question was whether any “guests” Alex returned with would be held there.
Alex nodded. “Make one out of four.” With so many sentries posted, there would be less need for shelter among the men.
Gramwell saluted smartly but added, “Don’t get lost.”
Alex returned the salute. Fear of getting lost was first in his mind, too; with the wind, tracks in the sand disappeared in a matter of minutes. He selected and briefed eight men, then signaled for them to maintain silence, though the wind appeared to be in their favor for carrying sound. Alex counted his paces, keeping one eye on the wheel to the north.
After about a quarter hour, the voices stopped for a few minutes, but then were heard again, much louder this time, definitely not speaking Demoran. Alex checked his weapons’ readiness and headed toward the sound.
A voice suddenly called out. Alex stopped and looked around, catching the faint flicker of a light about thirty yards away.
“Uncover the lamp,” he whispered to the man next to him, who promptly lifted the shutter on the lantern he carried. “Wave it around.”
At the signal, two shapes came running toward them, at least as much as men could run in the wind and sand. Alex kept his hand on his sword but didn’t draw it.
“Wohlen Sperta!” the man without a lantern said, reaching out to clasp arms with one of the Norsari. Too late, he and his companion realized they were not among friends.
Nine against two wasn’t a fair fight, but Alex didn’t care.
*
The crescent moon was barely visible through the haze when Alex returned.
“Set a level-five perimeter,” he told Gramwell. It meant fewer men to guard the captives, but the pair had obviously been searching for lost companions. They’d come running toward the Demorans without hesitation, so it was safe to assume at least ten more Casmuni were still out there.
The combined tent Gram had set up was large enough to keep a clear space around the prisoners. Alex waited for the men to be tied up. He had no way of communicating with them, and both Casmuni looked as exhausted as he felt. Alex guessed they’d been wandering alone for a long time. Once the men were secure to his satisfaction, he left the tent.
Both squires were standing outside, watching from a safe distance. The pair had avoided him for the past few days, which wasn’t unusual under normal circumstances. All the boys were a little afraid of him, even the prince, but curiosity had apparently gotten the better of their fear this time. He’d had just as much awe for captains when he was their age—officers always seemed so sure of themselves. Now he knew commanders were stumbling through their duties as much as any squire, trying not to fail or get somebody killed. Alex suddenly envied the boys. Their lives and duties were so much simpler.
The prisoners would be impossible to hide from them. Alex figured it was better to let the boys see more, rather than let their imagination add details where they had none. He also knew what it was like to be in their boots, desperate to see one of their enemies for the first time—under safe conditions.
Alex smiled a little. “Get these men some water and camp biscuits,” he called, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. For a few seconds, he considered supervising the encounter, but decided against it. The squires were old enough to handle themselves, and they needed the confidence boost of their captain’s trust.
Also, he needed a nap.
38
SAGE ENTERED THE tent with quaking knees. Nicholas slipped in behind her, and the soldier on guard left to wait outside. Even the large tent couldn’t contain the five of them comfortably. Undoubtedly the man thought the squires were fine alone with two restrained and exhausted men.
The Casmuni sat back-to-back, resting bound wrists on their legs, which were stretched out with ankles also bound. Judging from the creases in their short, robelike shirts, they’d been wearing belts, but Alex must have taken them. Sage estimated the age of the man facing her to be about thirty. A long white scar ran across the deeply tanned skin of his forehead, and black stubble of about four days’ growth covered his face and neck. His hazel eyes were bright with intelligence as he studied her. She pushed her head scarf back and tugged it away to let him take in every detail of her face and hair. He sniffed a little but said nothing.
Sage took a deep breath. “Bas medari,” she said.
The man’s eyes widened. Too late she realized how ironic it was to wish a captured man “good fortune,” but then the man bowed his head slightly and replied, “Basmedar.”
He made it sound like one word, which could be the difference between spoken and written Casmuni or three hundred years of language evolving. Or he had a sheep herder’s accent or something. But he understood her. Nicholas remained silent as she’d instructed.
After water has been shared and good will established, said every document she’d studied, then shall negotiations begin.
Sage reached under her tunic and pulled out a small chalice, counting on its formality to distinguish it from anything the man might have already received. Turning to Nicholas, she gestured for him to fill it from his canteen. When he was done she pivoted back to the prisoner and took a slow, deliberate sip, knowing the Casmuni was watching her every move. Then she knelt and offered the cup to him.
After a long, silent moment, during which Sage’s courage nearly failed her, the man licked his lips and held up his bound hands to accept the chalice. He grasped it awkwardly but brought it to his mouth and drank all the water down. Sage motioned for Nicholas to fill it again, which he did. This time the Casmuni took a deliberate sip and offered it back to the prince. “Drink it,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying above the wind outside.
“I’m not stupid,” he muttered, taking it and doing as she said.
The Casmuni tilted his head toward his companion behind him, who watched everything over his shoulder. Nicholas rushed to fill the cup for him.
“Pala wohl seya,” the man before her said. I thank you.
“Pala wohlen bas,” Sage replied. I am well thanked. She sat back on her heels and put her hand on her chest. “Sage Fowler.”
“Saizsch Fahler,” he said gravely, then gestured to himself. “Darit Yamon.” He tipped his head to the man behind him, who had a green scarf still over his head. “Malamin Dar.”
She repeated the names, and he nodded. So far, so good.
“Sey basa tribanda?” she asked. Are you well accommodated? At least that’s what she hoped she said.
Darit’s eyebrows shot up, the white scar disappearing into the wrinkles on his forehead, and a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He raised his hands. “Palan pollay basa hastinan.”