“Ah!” Baver grasped the opportunity. “There I can help! I can get maps for you! I should even be able to get them printed in your own language. The computer— The— An implement on the skyboat, can make them quickly for you.” Baver’s mind raced, and with it his words, in Anglic now, which the Yngling knew, though not every word. “I know something of the country off east. We studied it on my world, with the old library computer brought to New Home from Earth, eight hundred years ago. And I’ve seen something of it from the air, when we first got back here. There are great mountains—some of them eight kilometers above the sea— partly covered with glaciers, jöklar, that stretch for days. And there are vast scorching deserts; one of them, the Dasht-e-Khavir, is little more than a thick crust of salt on top of soft salty bogs. There are places where a horse can break through.” Well, he amended mentally, a loaded truck at least. Maybe a horse, in places. “There are places where, if a traveler misses the crossing, the mountains crowd you southward to a vast sea, and to go between the mountains and the sea, you have to cross more deserts, or vast dangerous marshes. While the people . . .”
He became aware that the Northman was grinning at him—the look boyish despite the eyes—and Baver left his sentence unfinished.
“And how am I to get such maps,” Nils said, “without turning back and waiting till someone brings them to me?” His face was serious now. “Shall I govern my life by a wish for gifts?”
Not only the Northman but the boy was staring curiously at Baver, and the ethnologist flushed. “Matt or Nikko can bring them to you. Possibly today. I have a radio.” He patted his saddlebag. “I’ll stay with you till I get in touch with them. Then one of them can”—he
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groped for a word—”can aim the skyboat at my radio and fly out with the maps.” At which time, he added silently, the responsibility becomes theirs, and I can get back to my own work.
Nils nodded. “You’re welcome to come along.” He paused. “But now it’s time to walk.”
Baver knew what he meant. The Northmen, who mostly were too poor in horses to have remounts, made a practice of walking from time to time, or running, leading their horses to rest them. Nils swung from his primitive saddle, Hans following his example.
There was no question who was leader here. Baver too got down, then they started off through grass belly deep and deeper. And thick. It was not easy walking. They hiked for eighteen minutes by Baver’s watch, then rode again. Shortly they intersected the broad trail of the clans which had come to the ting from the north, and the way became easier. They rode and walked by turns, the time in the saddle about twice as long as the time on foot. Just at sunset they rode down a mild slope to the bottomland above the Danube flood plain. It was sporadically wooded, here mostly with poplars. The woods were much browsed and rubbed by cattle, for this had been Orcish grazing land for years. The three men hobbled their horses and made camp.
There was a small axe in the gear on the pack horse, and by twilight a leather lean-to was set up, a fire burning before it. They were squatted down by it, laboriously chewing jerky, when Nils paused, and seemed to listen. Seeing this, Mager Hans listened too. After a minute the apprentice poet got smoothly to his feet and moved to his bow as if to string it.
Nils shook his head. “Let be,” he said. “This regards me, not you.”
Baver still had heard nothing. After a minute though, he heard a horse snort—a horse or something—some distance off. “What is it?” he whispered.
“The family of Jäävklo. They hold me to blame for his death, and intend to avenge it.”
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Baver stared into the darkness, feeling the hair bristle on his neck. If they killed the Yngling, surely they’d leave no witness. His hand slipped into a pocket and found his pistol. Despite Nils’s comment, Mager Hans had finished stringing his bow, and had two arrows in the hand that held it. Nils still squatted, staring into the deep twilight.