It was uncertain if the ape comprehended the herdsman’s words, but he certainly understood his tone. Releasing his grasp, he raised a spindly arm and jabbed a finger violently upcanyon. “Khorixas, Khorixas!”
“Hoy, what’s a Khorixas?” Simna’s hand had slid away from his sword, but his fingers remained loose and easy in its vicinity. “Maybe an outlying town this side of Ehl-Larimar itself?”
“Possibly.” Smiling reassuringly, Ehomba stepped away from the visibly agitated macaque and retreated slowly, taking one careful step at a time. “It is all right. My friends and I can take care of ourselves.” Even as he tried to explain he wondered if the ape understood any of what he was saying: These people spoke a language different from that of old Gomo and the People of the Trees.
Arm rigid and still pointing westward, the aged macaque rumbled “Khorixas!” one more time before lowering his hand. With a sad-eyed shrug, he turned and rejoined his comrades. When he paused briefly for a last look back at the travelers, it was to shake his head dolefully from side to side.
“Grizzled old fella must not care much for this Khorixas, whatever it is.” Striding confidently forward, Simna kept a careful watch on the steep slopes that walled them in. Nothing he saw or heard as they continued to hike upward led him to believe they might be walking into some kind of ambush, or a trap. Silhouetted against the scudding clouds, a few dragonets and condors soared on the updrafts. Marmosets and pacas scampered over the boulders and talus in search of nuts and berries. Thanks to the deep canyon, the travelers’ line of march remained well below the tree line. The temperature dropped at night, but not precipitously so. When their blankets proved inadequate to the task of warding off the cold, Ehomba and Simna simply moved their bedding closer to the radiant bulks of Hunkapa Aub and the black litah.