"But you are a foreigner and a captive," she said.
"As long as I am, it would be wise to be useful, would it not." He let her consider her answer; when she did not speak, he went on, "I will do what he requires of me to the full extent of my capabilities, not entirely because I want his favor, but in part because I have pride in my skills. I do not want to fail Timur-i because I do not want to fail myself."
She stifled a laugh. "You are as bad as I am."
He smiled, and this time it worked. "You take pride in your skills, too."
"Of course. I earn my living through them," she said, and considered him. "I suppose you do, too."
"Upon occasion," he agreed.
"Yes; you have not always treated the sick— you seem too prosperous, and your manner is too elevated." She moved a little closer to him. "Are you a grand prince, cast out of your kingdom, or a leader of men who has been betrayed? Or were you the betrayer?" She considered the last and added, almost to herself, "No, I do not think so. Perhaps another of your family was a betrayer and you have paid the price."
"Nothing quite so exciting, I fear," he said, glancing at Djerat to be sure the hirsute woman was still asleep.
"But there must be some mystery. You are from the West, yet you were found in Delhi." She stared at him eagerly. "How is that possible?"
"Men from the West travel," said Sanat Ji Mani. "Not as far as Delhi, most of them, but some have gone all the way to China." He thought back to his days in Lo-Yang and wondered how this curious young woman would respond to knowing he had taught in China in the years before Jenghiz Khan invaded from the north. "You, too, have a tale to tell, by the look of you."
"Nothing remarkable," she said quietly.
"Still, I would like to hear it. You are inquisitive; so am I." His eyes held hers, compelling an answer.
Tulsi lowered her voice to just above a whisper. "My father came from Kiev in Lithuania— or so he said. He trained bears. My mother was a contortionist, from Shang-tu. They met in Samarkand. I was
born there. I was given my name by a fortune-teller from Budaun: Tulsi Kil. All those in our troupe were named by him, for luck."
"Samarkand is Timur-i's city," Sanat Ji Mani said.
"Yes." She waited, a frown growing between her brows. "Well?"
He studied her face. "What do you wish to know?"
"Where you come from, of course, and how you happen to be here." She made an impatient gesture.
"Oh." He leaned back, wondering how much he should tell her. "I am not from Delhi, as you have said. I am from the West."
"That is obvious," she said. "I knew that before you told me anything. You have heard what I think of you. How have I erred?"
"I am from mountains far to the west of here, called the Carpathians. Just at present, Hungary and Wallachia rule the region where I was born. I am an exile." Nothing that Timur-i had heard from Josha Dar would contradict that, Sanat Ji Mani knew.
"You are a captive of Timur-i Lenkh," she corrected him, sounding weary. "We are all his captives, one way or another."
"True enough," Sanat Ji Mani said. "But captive or not, I am still an exile."
Tulsi smiled a little. "You are more than that. I can see it in your face."
Sanat Ji Mani touched the peeling skin of his forehead. "If you can see anything but this burn, you astonish me."
"You know what I mean," she said with a chuckle. "You are not so hidden as you think."
There was something in her remark that struck him deeply. "Why do you think I am trying to hide?"
"I have not discerned that yet," she admitted. "In time I will." She stretched again. "You may want to remain awake, but I do not. We must be moving again at first light or Timur-i will kill us for being stragglers." She lay back on her pallet and pulled the two rough-woven blankets up to her throat. "Keep guard, stranger."
"I will," Sanat Ji Mani assured her.
She raised her head to look at him. "I believe you," she said, and turned away to rest, her head on her outstretched arm.
He went to where the mules were tied and had the first sustenance he had had in days; it was little enough, but it gave him some strength,
and he began his restoration, patting the mule on the neck, saying to the animal, "It was not enough to harm you, and it has revived me." He limped back to the wagon, moving faster than he had before.
Morning saw them on the road again, the army moving at a steady pace toward the River Indus. Mounted soldiers rode back and forth along the line, keeping all the carts and wagons together, allowing none of them to fall behind.
Djerat sat on the driver's seat and managed the reins with the easy competence of long practice; she paid no attention to Sanat Ji Mani and Tulsi, who remained under cover of the tent. As the day wore on, the wind picked up and soon, both Tulsi and Sanat Ji Mani were busy keeping the tent tied to its wooden frame; it proved a difficult task and made the two of them work increasingly harder as the afternoon brought stronger gusts of hot, dry air from the south-west.
"The stay is torn!" Tulsi shouted as a flap of cloth pulled away from its moorings; the tent sang like the sail of a ship as the wind took gleeful hold of it.
Sanat Ji Mani went to her side, a length of braided silk cord in his hand. "Here. This will hold," he said as he caught the tattered stay and pulled the flap against the frame, knotting the cord to the end of the tent fabric. "This will tighten the more it is pulled." He had learned it from Roman sailors when he had crossed the Oceanus Britannicus the first time in the company of the troops of Julius Caesar.
Tulsi examined the knot skeptically. "I will check it later," she said, and went to secure the rear opening once more. Fine, silky grit filled the air and scoured everything in its path. "The mules will have harness sores tonight."
"I have a medicament that may help them," Sanat Ji Mani volunteered. "When we have stopped at the end of the day, I will tend to them." And, he added to himself, he would have the chance to take a little blood from the mules again— not enough to weaken them, but sufficient to sustain him for a time; the lack of a supply of his native earth, and having just one boot to keep it in was beginning to take a toll on him. Without blood or his native earth he would soon fall into a stupor and waken from it only for ravenous appetite.
"Will you treat animals as well as men?" Tulsi asked in some surprise.
"If it is necessary, of course I will." He took hold of one of the stays holding the ceiling of the tent and refastened it to the frame. "When this storm is past, the stays will all need to be resewn. Otherwise, they will snap in the next hard blow." Half-standing in the moving wagon with a thick wooden block under his right foot was no easy trick, but Sanat Ji Mani was still strong enough to manage.
"I suppose you will help me?" Tulsi said, making no excuse for her sarcasm.
"Yes, if my hands are no longer too burned. I know how to use a needle." He was pleased to see her surprise. "I am not an incompetent, Tulsi Kil. I have learned a few things in my travels."
"So you may have," she conceded, and tucked in a portion of the lining of the tent that the wind was attempting to tease out of the rear flap.
It was an enervating afternoon, and by the time the order came to stop for the night, everyone was worn-out; the horses and mules all drooped with fatigue, and many of the men and animals were irritable with fatigue. Only the wind capered on, lively as ever.
"I hate dust," said Djerat as she attempted to remove it from her hair using a small ivory comb; her thick, curly hair was standing up and sparking, and every effort to tend it brought another crackle.
"Use one of the mules' brushes," Sanat Ji Mani recommended, his manner kindly and his tone polite. "You will have less trouble."
Djerat stared at him. "I may have hair all over me," she said slowly and with immense dignity, "but I am not yet an animal."
"I never thought so," Sanat Ji Mani said at once, trying to undo any slight she may have assumed, "but I think the brushes for the mules might get the dust out with less discomfort than a comb: it is what they are designed to do."
Tulsi was laying a campfire in anticipation of the evening meal; this suggestion claimed her attention. "He may have an idea, Djerat."
"Do you take his part?" Djerat countered sharply. "He is a stranger. I am your travel companion. And this is my wagon."
"He also has offered something useful. Try the brushes. If they do not get rid of the dust, you can always go back to combing." Tulsi went to the wagon and pulled out a box of rough planking, containing the brushes, picks, and salves used on the mules. She took out the
smallest of the brushes and tossed it to Djerat. "There. See if it works."
Grudgingly Djerat took the brush and, beginning on her forearm, began to ply its stiff bristles along the grain of her hair. "It is quicker," she conceded.
"I will help you as soon as the fire is going," Tulsi said, and glanced at Sanat Ji Mani.
He took her meaning. "I will start the fire. You may help Djerat, if you like."
Tulsi smiled. "Yes. Another good idea."
Sanat Ji Mani went to the stack of wood and dried dung that Tulsi had piled up. He took flint-and-steel from the small wallet hanging from his belt and gathered up a small mound of wood scraps and dried bark. Cupping his hands to keep out the worst of the wind, he struck the flint with the steel and saw a spark leap; the third one caught, and a tiny spot of flame poked out of the kindling. Using a small stone, Sanat Ji Mani shoved the kindling inside the stack of fuel, and watched as it began to burn in earnest. "There," he said as he rose awkwardly to his feet, trying to balance on his uneven footing.
"There will be supper shortly," said Djerat, her tone a bit more cordial. "You can have a share."
"Thank you, but I will fend for myself," Sanat Ji Mani said. "Among my people, it is considered improper to… to feed with more than one person."
"An odd tradition," said Djerat, shrugging. "If you do not want to eat with us, so be it. Feed or starve as you like." She signaled to Tulsi. "Bring the pot. There are goats being slaughtered tonight and I will go get our share."
Tulsi did as she was ordered, returning with a good-sized metal cauldron in her arms. "Here," she said as she handed it to Djerat.
"Good. You tend the fire and I will go get our meat. Bring the rice and the onions and a good measure of water so we may get to cooking as soon as I return." Djerat swung away and was about to go off to the center of camp for their rations of goat when Sanat Ji Mani claimed her attention once more.
"If you do not mind, I will examine your mules and see they have no injuries from the dust. I can treat them if they do; I will check their hooves, too, in case of any trouble—"
Before he could go on, she gave him a curt response. "Do as you like." Saying that, she toddled off, the pot held clasped to her front like an enormous, metallic pregnancy.
"You must not mind her," Tulsi said from her place beside the fire, which she was building up by adding small, cut branches to it. "Djerat has not often been shown anything but mockery, and that makes her doubt courtesy. She is not accustomed to accommodating strangers, and she is— she wants to guard me from harm."
"Ah," said Sanat Ji Mani as he went to take grooming brushes from the box Tulsi had opened. "Have you need of guarding?"
"Sometimes. Not very often. The soldiers get drunk now and then, and they do not—" She broke off.
"They are allowed to drink?" Sanat Ji Mani asked. "I have been told followers of the Prophet do not drink." Brushes in hand, he walked back to the line to which the mules were tethered.
"Not wine. But mare's milk that has fermented is another matter, or so Timur-i has been told by his teachers." If Tulsi thought this was an odd interpretation of Islamic law, nothing in her voice or manner revealed it.
Sanat Ji Mani reached the mules and stood still while they took stock of him. Then he moved toward the first one and began to brush his neck, working down and back. Dust flew from his coat in plumes and the mule dropped his head, ears flopping in satisfaction. Brushing the close-cropped mane proved a bit more difficult, but the mule did not protest the care. Sanat Ji Mani continued back and down until he had brushed off the rear legs and the scruffy tail; he had found four abrasions from where the harness and dust had worn away hair and skin, leaving a small scab on the pale coat. "I'll treat that later," he promised the animal before moving to the next in line. By the time Djerat came back with her allocation of goat, Sanat Ji Mani was working on the fifth mule. He was prepared to bring his medicaments to tend the hurts as soon as the grooming was done, and he reported as much to Djerat.
"Do as you must," she said, setting down the pot next to the fire. "Tulsi, bring the onions. Why haven't you fetched them before now? Quickly. I want to eat before the night is half-gone."
