"You might find safety in other cities— cities Timur-i has not touched," Tulsi ventured.
"That is
his
opinion, is it not?" Djerat said, and spat. "You have no thought about what is to come, do you? You listen to his tales and declare that you are in agreement with all that he says. But you do not consider that a man who cannot stand to walk in the sun may have a hard time in the world. You would be his servant, and he could offer you little for your devotion. He says he is an exile, that his country is in the hands of those who are not his people, and you do not question this."
"Why should I?" Tulsi countered with some heat. "All he has said has been true, when I have tested it."
"And what can you test, you stupid girl?" Djerat demanded. "He knows medicaments, I will give you that. But how can you show any of his other claims are true? He may be nothing more than a charlatan who has assumed a role for himself; you cannot put him to the test to find out. He cannot swear on the
Qran
, and it might not mean anything if he did, for he is not a Muslim. You are willing to believe him, but there is no good reason you should. He is from far enough away that he might claim anything with impunity. You say he has jewels and gold in his pack, along with medicaments and other supplies. How do you know that he does not have bits of colored glass and base metal painted in saffron to look like gold? Many another has been fooled by such ruses." Her derisive chuckle was high and shrill.
"Why would he say they are jewels when they are not? And the gold is gold," Tulsi protested. In their two long days of travel she had been worn down by Djerat's constant belittling of Sanat Ji Mani. Now that they were at a ford, she realized matters had reached a head. "He has done much for us. Have you no gratitude?"
"No; why should I? I did not ask for his help. I never wanted it." Djerat sighed. "He is an intruder who chose to follow us into the river. Neither you nor I summoned him. He is nothing to either of us but a man riding in the wagon. All that has come after is on his head. I cannot say anything to his credit because of what he did." She pursed her lips. "If he makes us his responsibility, what is it to me?"
"Your mules have survived, thanks to him," Tulsi pointed out. "You lost only two, but without him you might not have any left."
"They have benefitted him as much as they have me. And, yes, two of them drowned, in spite of him." Djerat shrugged.
"But he has done all he can to be useful. Surely that is worthy of regard." Color mounted in her face. "He is a—"
"He is another set of hands, yes. He is strong enough, and has some abilities that are useful, and many problems that are not: he cannot endure the sun. He is a foreigner from a place that will provide him no ransom, or so he claims. He has habits that are not the habits of our people. He is also a man with a staple through his foot. He might as well proclaim himself a criminal and be done with it," Djerat jeered.
"Is that what you believe? It is almost as if you think he has imposed upon us," Tulsi said, astonished at what Djerat told her.
"Well, has he not?" Djerat inquired softly. "From the first, he has made us beholden to him, and expressed demands because of it."
"What demands are these— beyond sheltering him from the sun?" Tulsi challenged, her anger coming to the fore.
"He has expected us to comply with his wishes," said Djerat, frowning her resentment as she spoke.
"Why should he not?" Tulsi pursued. "His wishes have been to our benefit as well as his."
"Perhaps," said Djerat. "But we would not have been on the barge when it overturned had he not ordered us out of our place in line. We would still be with the army and safe, not out here in these wild places—"
"There is a village across the ford," Tulsi said, pointing toward the walled cluster of mud-brick houses. Sounds of activity within the walls sounded across the river-ford— shouts and the shrieks of children a reminder of how close they were.
"And who knows what manner of men live there," Djerat said as if in agreement. "You suppose they are there to aid us, but if they are not? What if they prey on those who must cross here? Think of what they might do."
"I cannot imagine what they might do," Tulsi said roundly. "Neither can you. If they are by a ford, they must deal with travelers often."
"Exactly what I mean," Djerat responded. "How they deal with travelers is what we do not know: none of us knows. They might be robbers or slavers or cannibals."
"They might be farmers and builders, too," Tulsi said. "I am willing to take the chance."
"If you do, you will do it without me, or my mules and my wagon." She lifted her head, sensing triumph. "If you follow him, you do so with nothing from me."
"But how are we to manage, if he has no protection from the sun? You see how readily he burns…" Her words trailed off as she encountered the sardonic light in Djerat's eyes. "It means nothing to you, does it."
"No— nothing. I am going to find Timur-i's army and hope that I might be welcome there still. What you do is for you to decide. If you come with me, I will be content with your company; if you go with him, I will be content with my own." Djerat folded her arms. "He has been good to the mules, I will give him that."
Tulsi scowled. "You do not suppose that he has only that to recommend him."
"It is all I have seen of his worth," said Djerat. "Everything else has brought me trouble." She began to walk back toward the wagons, her face so set that the uncompromising lines were apparent in spite of her hair. "You will have to decide, Tulsi Kil, which of us you intend to travel with, for I cannot and I will not go out of my way for him or you."
There were many questions burgeoning in Tulsi's thoughts, but she could not bring herself to continue wrangling with Djerat, who had taken her in and provided her a place in her wagon for the three years since her parents had been abandoned at the side of the road, each with an eye gouged from its socket, both with brands on their arms and foreheads. "He may not want my company," she muttered.
"Then the matter is easily settled," said Djerat, clapping her hands once in satisfaction. "You will remain with me and he may go wherever he pleases. We will be rid of him and think no more of him."
"But I will have to ask him if he wants to travel alone," Tulsi appended, her tone once more assertive. "If he would prefer that I remain with you, then I will. Otherwise I will go with him."
Djerat stopped and turned her disapproving stare on Tulsi. "You are determined to work against me." She stared off at the horizon. "Very well. Let us put him to the test. You will abide by his decision, as will I."
Tulsi swallowed hard. "I will." She began to walk more quickly, her stride lithe and clean, giving no hint of her inner dismay. "Whatever the result, it will be settled."
"That it will," said Djerat, keeping up in steady, emphatic steps that came down heavily on her heels.
From his place in the shade of the wagon, Sanat Ji Mani paused in rasping the hoof of the third mule; the rising sun was beginning to
sap his strength and he relied increasingly on the slight protection of the wagon's shadow. He straightened up slowly, releasing the animal's on-side rear foot as he did, and stepped back to avoid the quick kick the mule gave. He slipped the rasp into his belt where the other farrier's tools hung, clanging softly together as he moved. Although he had given no indication of it, he had heard most of what the two women said, his hearing being keener than most. "I am nearly finished," he called out. "One mule to go."
"I will not keep you from your work long," Djerat exclaimed with a predatory eagerness that caused Tulsi to blush.
"Very well," said Sanat Ji Mani, inclining his head out of courtesy.
Djerat and Tulsi were a few steps from the wagon, both of them intent on arriving first as if they had agreed to race. Tulsi was half a step ahead of Djerat, and she allowed herself the ghost of a grin as she touched the side of the vehicle; behind her Djerat looked glum as she said, "It is time we come to a decision."
Sanat Ji Mani listened attentively, hardly moving; Tulsi glanced at Djerat and began, "You have said you want to cross the river at this ford and go south into the heart of the land." She saw him nod and went on, "Djerat wishes to rejoin Timur-i's army."
"I have said so from the first," Djerat pointed out, not looking at Sanat Ji Mani. "And I will do it."
"Yes," Tulsi said. "That is true; you have said so. We all know your wishes. This is the place where a decision must be made, or so Djerat has decided. She will not cross the river. You intended to cross."
"Where is the difficulty in that?" Sanat Ji Mani asked without any sign of discomfiture.
Djerat took over. "If it were only your leaving, there would be no difficulty, but you wish Tulsi to go with you. I wish her to come with me."
"Then it is Tulsi's decision to make," Sanat Ji Mani said. "I will not tell her what to do, but I would be glad of her company."
"Hah!" Djerat pounced. "You seek to awaken her sympathy for you. You, with the staple through your foot and skin that burns after the touch of the sun. She is a woman who is easily gulled. You are working on her to turn her away from me."
"Not that, surely," Sanat Ji Mani said in a conciliating manner. "I would appreciate her company— and yours, if you were willing to provide it: nothing more."
"What man who is not a eunuch means that?" Djerat asked of the air, then confronted Sanat Ji Mani. "You have sought Tulsi from the moment you saw her. You have planned to take her from my care. You will use her and discard her when she no longer amuses you, and then she will be alone and homeless in the world, and prey to the whims of any man with shelter and a meal to offer her. She will become pregnant and her child will die by the roadside. You will be gone. It will mean nothing to you."
Sanat Ji Mani contemplated Djerat, an unnerving compassion in his enigmatic gaze. "Because such happened to you, it does not follow it must happen to Tulsi. Not all men use women so callously."
Djerat stood as if frozen. "How
dare
you!" she burst out at last.
"It
is
what happened to you, is it not," Sanat Ji Mani said. "You have such concern for Tulsi Kil because of your experience, which is commendable of you."
"You are ridiculous— absurd!" Djerat insisted. "Do not listen to him, Tulsi. He seeks to confuse you."
"Why would I do that?" Sanat Ji Mani asked. "I hope she would have her mind clear to weigh her decision— a decision you require her to make, not I."
"That is another sophistry," Djerat accused. "You want her company you say, which means you, too, must have her decision."
"Hers or yours," Sanat Ji Mani replied. He nodded toward the village across the ford. "There must be a meal to be had there. You have said you are hungry."
"We must all be hungry; I know I am, and that we must be fed, all of us," said Tulsi to forestall further bickering. "As must the mules. If we cross the river, we can eat while a final decision is made."
This recommendation was so eminently practical that Djerat made a brusque gesture of consent. "The mules need fodder. Very well. We will cross. After we have eaten, I will tell you now that I will come back to this side of the river and go toward Lahore. Nothing will change that."
"I will finish trimming the mules' feet while you have a meal," Sanat Ji Mani said. "You will want that done."
"Not that I cannot do it myself," Djerat reminded him. "Tie them to the wagon-tongue, and let us get over the water."
Sanat Ji Mani took the improvised rope harness and hitched up the mules to the wagon. At last he handed the hempen reins to Djerat, who had climbed onto the driving-seat, and swung up into the tent on the wagon. The shadow engulfed him, providing a needed surcease from the sun. He lay back on the floor, prepared for a short period of intense vertigo and discomfort he would receive from the running water.
"Do you want anything to drink?" Tulsi asked from her place in the rear of the wagon. "We have a little water left."
Sanat Ji Mani resisted the urge to laugh. "No; thank you, no water."
The wagon began to roll into the river, the mules splashing as they made their way through the wide, shallow stretch of water; the wagon swaggered after them as the river rose more than halfway up the wheels. Finally the wagon emerged from the water a short distance from the village walls, to be greeted by a group of children, who ran out from the gate shouting and beckoning to Djerat, a few of them staring in disbelief at her hairy visage.
"Get back, you urchins!" Djerat shouted. "Get back. You will frighten the mules."
The children answered in an unfamiliar tongue; a few of the older ones ran back into the village, summoning their elders by the sound of it.
Eventually a man with greying hair appeared at the gate; he stood still, his full attention on Djerat, and finally asked, "Are you alone?" He spoke a variation of the Delhi dialect in a low and deliberate manner as if that would make him more comprehensible.
