He said it in two installments, Achikh interpreting by halves. When he was done, the woman peered long at the Northman without speaking, taking in his size, his obvious great strength, his strange eyes. Finally she spoke briefly, perhaps a dozen words.
“She asks how you can see what you claim to see.”
Nils said nothing, simply reached up a hand to his eyes and removed them. He stepped toward her, the glass semi-orbs on one callused and very large palm. She looked at them, then at his face, and her breath hissed out as she backed away. There was scurrying, but no one shot. Over a subdued hubbub of voices, she barked extended orders in Turkic.
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“She told them not to harm you,” Achikh said. “She told them you are not an ordinary shaman, but a shaman from Allah, which is the name they give to Tengri, that is, God.”
She spoke again, this time to Achikh, not looking at Nils now. “She asks you to please put your eyes back in your face,” Achikh interpreted.
Nils did, and the whole crowd seemed to relax. Once more the woman spoke, looking intently at Nils, no longer hostile.
‘ She says she will trade horses with us, two of theirs for each of ours. She asks how many we have to trade.”
“Tell her we do not wish to take advantage of her generosity, that our people are great runners, and use orses for trade. Tell her it is running that makes us stronger than other people. Nonetheless we will take seven, and leave them the three we came with.” While Achikh translated for her, Nils turned to Hans and Baver. “Hans, run to camp and bring the horses. Ted, go and help him.”
They turned and loped off. As he reached the top of the rise, Baver glanced back at the Kazakh camp, awed at what had happened. Seemingly Nils had been right about the Kazakh warriors. And about her son’s name. How had he known?
The only answer he could think of was that Nils had read it in her mind despite the language difference.
FOURTEEN
They spent the entire day at the Kazakh camp while women tailored boots for each of them, well and closely stitched, handsome and comfortable! The chiefs mother was no longer hostile or even suspicious, only displeased that they wouldn’t stay long enough for the boots to be properly decorated.
The next morning they left. Now Achikh had a remount again, and the others each a horse. The seventh horse was an additional pack horse which carried gifts, including a maikhan—a sizeable leather tent for traveling—and large bags of fermented mare’s milk, the now familiar airag, which the Kazakhs called kumyz. Each of the travelers had also received a heavy, short-handled axe about sixty centimeters long. Baver wondered what use these would be on the steppe, unless— Perhaps they were weapons.
As they rode, Baver asked Nils how he had known what he had about the Kazakh warriors. Nils explained that when asked if she knew where the warriors were, the truth rose to her near-consciousness. Where he perceived it, with pictures and related concepts, although her spoken answer was a lie.
This time Baver believed what he was told.
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On the sixth day, while they rested at noon, eight horsemen caught up with them, fierce-looking Kazakhs closing at a gallop, trailing a dust cloud. They were armed of course, with some thirty remounts trailing.
Baver stood watching with serious concern and a hand in his holster pocket as they pulled up in a big cloud of dust. While the dust settled, the leader sat his saddle perhaps four meters away, looking quietly at Nils as if evaluating what he saw. ‘ It is you again,” he said at last in groping Anglic. “I thinked that, but hard to believe.”
‘ And you. I am glad to see you again, Shakir.”
Nils said it slowly, that the Kazakh might more easily understand. The man looked surprised for just a moment, then swung down from his saddle. “You learned my name from my mother,” he said.
Nils grinned and nodded.
“You know what I am called. What are you called?”