As the sun approached its setting, a meal was offered. Bad Bone enjoyed gnawing the meat of several spiny-horned lizards, roasted on skewers, with wild carrots and onions. Cakes of wild berries, meal and cherries followed. Cold water washed down what he pronounced “a hearty meal worthy of the many years I have waited for it!”
When the meal was over, Bad Bone strolled down to the river with Borjent. He learned that Borjent was the son of Borswen, the Coyote chieftain Bad Bone had grown close to during his first visit with the Borf. “My father died a year ago, “ Borjent related. “A royal caravan was taking a large number of trallés to deal with a slave trader by the name of Milky Joe. The High One buys slaves to build his castle—paying for them in trallés.” He paused, eyes flashing with fearsome anger as he gazed across the river. “The Borf hate the slaving. When we can, we raid the caravans and steal the trallés.” He paused and a hint of a grin passed over his face. “When our raiders attack a trallé caravan,” he continued, “we hit them with such surprise that the attack is over before they can resist.”
Demonstrating the throwing of nets with arm motions, the Borf leader explained how royal caravans were plundered. “After the guards are trapped in nets, other nets, especially for the purpose, are rolled out and the trallés loaded on them. Then, the trallés are quickly carried off by runners bearing the nets. My father loved running with the trallé carriers—but he wasn’t as strong as he once was, and his heart failed him on that raid.”
“I’m so sorry,” Bad Bone responded. “He was a great leader and a dear friend.”
“He gave his life for the cause of justice,” Borjent replied. “That’s how I remember him—and why I now run with the trallé carriers myself. Every caravan we plunder is one less serving the High One’s hellish project.”
“Why do you sell trallés?” Bad Bone asked.
“You know we are a simple folk,” Borjent replied. What need do we have for trallés? Only the wealthy want them. They’re useless to us. But why stand by while beasts are enslaved to build a worthless tomb for a tyrant? Our raiders are brave, we can free some doomed beasts...On the frontier of law and disorder the High One’s nice rules don’t apply. There’s some wild and unsavory places—dubious bazaars where slavers sell to anyone who pays the going rate in trallés.” Borjent paused, a smile spreading across his face. “And the raiding is sport for us! What better fun than ruining the High One’s cursed trade?”
Bad Bone’s mind was reeling. So much came into focus. So many things understood in a flash—The Hedgies carrying up their ‘sacred stones’ but not actually building Maev Astuté...The sacred climb reserved for Hedgies, but the actual building work being beneath their station...With so many workers needed to build the Crowning Glory, where did they come from? Now Bad Bone knew the answer.
He was silent for a time. At last he inquired if Borjent knew a safe place to cross the river. From Bad Bone’s viewpoint, the river was still too dangerous to cross safely. The Borf homelands were in the mountains on the other side of the river, however, so they must know how to cross.
“A half-day’s march further downstream, it joins another river—the Sar Jeeves—twice as large,” Borjent replied. “Where the rivers merge, they cross a level plateau known to us as the ‘Confusion of Hopes.’ The Bor Jeeves splinters into many smaller streams that twist and meander as they flow into the larger river. The Bor Jeeves stops being an impassable torrent, and becomes a multitude of small, gently flowing streams. For the traveler, the long dangerous river appears to be tamed. At the beginning, the countless streams all look promising, as if they will take you somewhere if you follow them in a boat. Most of them, however, flow into bramble thickets and rock-choked channels that cannot be floated in a boat. But, if you ignore the hope of riding in a boat, the confusion of streams can be crossed. That is the way to our homelands.” Drawing many wavy lines on the ground to represent the rivers coming together, he piled large stones on one side to show the steep mountains where the Borf lived. Drawing a straight line across the wavy ones into the pile of stones, he concluded, “In those mountains, beyond the junction of the rivers—we live in plenty, safety, and peace. You are welcome among us.” The Coyote chieftain pointed toward the horizon where his clan lived.
Bad Bone made no reply, but only gazed into the distance where Borjent pointed. “Come with us,” Borjent urged. “You can be one of us. Our folk love you. We could use someone with your climbing skills in our raids. You would have no more worries about the High One...instead, you would be a worry for him!”