Mists of Dawn (60 page)

That
day,
Mark
met
Roqan,
and
his
wife,
Roqal. Roqan
was
an
old
man
as
Danequa
men
went,
perhaps fifty
years
of
age.
His
hair
was
still
dark
and
thick,
but his
face
was
lined
and
wrinkled
far
more
than
a
modern man
of
fifty
would
have
been.
He
seemed
to
be
very 
stern,
and
he
had
an
old
hunting
scar
across
his
forehead
that
made
him
seem
fiercer
than
he
was.
Roqan frowned
constantly,
and
was
treated
with
great
respect by
everyone.
When
he
met
Mark,
he
examined
him
as he
might
have
looked
at
an
insect.

“What
do
you
want
of
us?”
he
demanded
sternly. “I
have
known
your
type
before.
You
have
come
to steal
our
food
and
kill
our
warriors.”

Mark
returned
his
harsh
gaze,
determined
not
to look
away.
He
wished
desperately
that
he
could
speak the
language
well
enough
to
make
an
effective
reply to
the
old
man,
but
all
he
could
do
was
to
stammer
a reply
to
Tlaxcan,
who
answered
for
him
with
a
few ideas
of
his
own.

“My
friend
says
that
he
comes
in
peace,”
Tlaxcan said
to
Roqan.
“His
only
desire
is
to
learn
to
be
wise and
good
as
is
his
brother,
Roqan.
He
has
heard
of Roqan
from
afar.”

“You
He,”
stated
Roqan
flatly,
but
he
was
obviously pleased.
His
old
eyes
twinkled
with
delight,
and
Mark got
the
distinct
impression
that
he
was
disgusted
with himself
for
permitting
his
good
nature
to
shine
through. He
at
once
wiped
the
pleased
expression
from
his
face and
replaced
it
with
his
customary
frown.
But
Mark wasn’t
fooled
this
time.
He
knew
that
he
and
Roqan would
get
along.

Roqal,
his
wife,
seemed
to
be
his
direct
opposite,
at least
on
the
surface.
She
was
very
plump
and
motherly and
bubbling
over
with
friendliness.
Mark
suspected that
she
was
bubbling
over
with
something
besides friendliness,
for
she
seemed
slightly
tipsy.
He
suspected
that
she
was
addicted
to
taking
frequent
snifters of
the
Danequan
equivalent
to
liquor,
a
fermented berry
drink
aptly
named
kiwow.
Roqal
greeted
him with
an
almost
girlish
giggle,
and
let
him
know
in
no uncertain
terms
that
he
was
most
welcome.

Mark
saw
Qualxen,
the
shaman,
again,
and
he greeted
him
like
an
old
friend,
together
with
winking between-us-shamans
secretiveness.
Mark
played
along with
him,
and
was
genuinely
grateful
to
have
friends again.
It
made
the
world,
any
world,
a
much
brighter place
to
live
in.

Mark
only
met
two
people
that
day
with
whom
he could
not
get
along.
One
was
a
thin,
pale
man
named Tloron,
who,
as
nearly
as
he
could
understand
what Tlaxcan
tried
to
explain
to
him,
was
a
holy
man
of some
sort
who
had
great
magical
powers.
Evidently his
power
was
of
a
different
sort
than
Qualxen’s,
because
there
was
no
jealousy
between
the
two
men. Mark
rather
liked
Tloron,
but
he
was
silent
and
kept strictly
to
himself;
Mark
found
it
impossible
to
talk to
him.
The
other
person
who
gave
him
trouble
was an
entirely
different
proposition.
His
name
was
Nranquar,
and
he
was
a
tall,
powerful
warrior
who
appeared to
be
capable
of
tackling
a
mammoth
alone,
without batting
an
eye.
Nranquar
was
suspicious
of
Mark,
and didn’t
try
to
hide
the
fact.
He
let
it
be
known
that
he would
be
watching
Mark
in
action
against
quaro,
the mammoth,
and
Mark
knew
that
he
had
better
come through
with
flying
colors—or
else.