“I would not think of disputing such a deeply felt description.” The herdsman stepped over a series of inch-high rills that ran across the surface in a straight line. Deposited eons ago by water action, they looked fragile, but were in fact hard as rock and sharp enough to slice open a man’s flesh where it lay exposed between the protective straps of his sandals.
“Over there I see a fisherman’s hut by the ocean,” he declared. “Not the ocean below my village, but another ocean.”
“How can you see a difference?” Simna squinted in the indicated direction.
“Because this sea is calm. It is rarely calm beneath my village. There are always waves, even on clear, windless days. And no Naumkib would build a fishing hut so close to the water. Too much effort for too little reward, as the first storm would wash it away.”
“I see the sea,” the swordsman admitted, “and the hut, but what makes it a fishing hut?”
Ehomba pointed. “Those long blades of crystal salt there near the bottom. Those are the fisherman’s poles, set aside while he rests within.”
“I could use a rest myself, and something to eat that isn’t dried and preserved.” The swordsman turned slightly in the direction of the formation and wandered away for a moment before rejoining the others on their chosen course. In response to the herdsman’s slightly stern, questioning look, he shrugged diffidently. “Hoy, I know it’s made of salt—but it doesn’t hurt to dream for a few seconds.”
“That’s a sentiment I’ll confess to sharing.” Ahlitah had come up behind them. As usual, so silent was his approach that even the reactive Ehomba was unaware of his presence until he spoke. With his head, the big cat nodded leftward. “For example, over that way I can see a large herd of saiga standing one behind the other, fat and plump and slow of foot, just waiting to be run down and disemboweled.”