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it to him, belched loudly and patted his belly. "That is a well-made tipple,"
he said, "smooth and strong at the same time, like the hindquarters of a
mule."
"A mule, you say?" Viridovix needed Lipoxais' translations less each day; he
was beginning to understand the Khamorth tongue fairly well, though he still
answered in Videssian when he could.
"Sure and it tastes like a mule's hind end. I miss my wine."
Some of the plainsmen chuckled, others frowned to hear their traditional drink
maligned. "What did he say?" asked Targitus' wife Borane; like most of the
women, she had no Videssian. The nomad chieftain explained. Borane rolled her
eyes, then winked at the Celt. She was a heavy-featured woman, losing her
looks and figure to middle age; as if to turn aside the advancing years, she
affected a kittenishness that went poorly with her girth.
Her daughter Seirem showed her one-time beauty like a mirror reflecting an
image twenty years gone. "If our blood-cousin does not care for kavass,"
Seirem said to Targitaus, "maybe he would
enjoy the felt tent."
"What was that last?" Viridovix asked Lipoxais; he had caught the words, but
not the meaning behind them.
"'The felt tent,'" the enaree translated obligingly. He took the phrase too
much for granted to think it needed explaining.
"By my prize bull's pizzle," Targitaus said, "he doesn't know the felt tent!"
He turned to his servants. "Kelemerish! Tarim! Fetch the hangings, the
cauldron, and the seeds."
The servants rummaged with alacrity in the leather sacks on the northern side
of the tent. Tarim, the younger of the two, brought Targitaus a two-eared
round cauldron of bronze, full almost to the top with large flat stones.
Targitaus sat it in the cookfire to heat. Kelermish gave his chieftain a fist-
sized leather bag with a drawstring top. He opened it and poured a nondescript
lot of greenish-
brown stems, seeds, and crushed leaves into the palm of his hand.
Seeing Viridovix' bewilderment, he said. "It's hemp, of course."
"Will your honor be making rope, then?" The Gaul wished Gorgidas were with
him, to wring sense from this fiddle-faddle. Targitaus only snorted. Tarim and
Kelermish were closing in the space round the fire with felt blankets hung
from the ceiling of the pavilion, making a tent within a tent.
The Khamorth chief looked into the cauldron; the stones were beginning to glow
red. He grunted in satisfaction, fished the bronze pot out of the fire by one
ear with a long-shanked fork. As he carefully set it in front of Viridovix,
his household crowded closer to the Gaul. "You shall have the fine seat
tonight."
"Shall I now? And what'll I do with all these rocks? A hot stone's all very
well wrapped in flannel for a cold winter's bed, but not for much else I can
see. Sure and I can't eat the kettleful of 'em for you."
Had Targitaus been a Videssian, he would have responded to Viridovix' raillery
with some elaborate persiflage of his own. As it was, he dumped the handful of
leafy rubbish he was holding onto the red-hot stones. A thick cloud of smoke
puffed out. It did not smell like the burning grass
Viridovix had expected. The odor was thicker, sweeter, almost spicy; of
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themselves, the Gaul's nostrils twitched.
"What are you waiting for?" Targitaus said. "Don't waste the fine seat; bend
down and take a deep breath."
Lured by that intriguing scent, Viridovix leaned over the cauldron until he
was close enough to feel the heat radiating up into his face. He sucked in a
great lungful of smoke and then choked and coughed desperately as he tried to
blow it out. His chest and windpipe felt as if he had swallowed olive coals.
Tears ran down his cheeks. "Och, my puir scorched thrapple," he wheezed, voice
a ragged ghost of his usual smooth baritone.
The plainsmen found his splutters funny, which only made things worse. "It's
one way to blow the smoke around," Targitaus chuckled, inhaling a less
concentrated draft and holding it in his lungs until the Gaul wondered that he
did not burst. Other nomads were doing the same and smiling beatifically.
"He's new to it, father. I think you did that on purpose," Seirem accused.
"Let him have another chance."
The chieftain's bushy eyebrows and bent nose made it impossible for him to
look innocent, whether he was or not. He threw more seeds and leaves on the
hot stones; a fresh cloud of fumes rose from them. He waved an invitation to
Viridovix.
This time the Celt breathed more cautiously. He could not help making a wry
face; however inviting the stuff smelled, it tasted like charred weeds. He
coughed again but, gritting his teeth, held most of the smoke down. When he [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]