Free Tanith Lee - Claidi Journals 01 by Law of the Wolf Tower Page B

that his city on the wide river used coins, money.
    The Sheepers hadn’t seemed to want any returns. They just seemed friendly. I hoped that would keep them safe with the bandit band.
    The hills were opening out all around us now and weren’t as ugly as I’d anticipated. Very little grew on them, however—an occasional bush with whitish fluff, a type of short pale grass. In the closer distance, they looked soft, like pillows.
    We pulled up after about an hour, and the sheep chomped the grass. Nemian and the Sheeper shared some beer, but I didn’t fancy it.
    I was looking back down the hills when I heard—we all heard—a beating clocking sound, ringing from the hills’ backs.
    Suddenly, over a slope to the left, precisely where we didn’t expect them, five men appeared, less than a quarter of a mile off.
    I managed an especially unsuitable idiot question.
     
    “What are those !”
    “Horses,” said Nemian. “And the others, on the horses, are the mad knife-men from the town.” I noted no one was trying to start the sheep and chariot. Then I realized we’d never get away, for the bandits had seen us. I saw their white grins flash, as all the buckles and bangles and buttons and knives were doing. They smacked the horses’ sides lightly, and these new beasts came racing at us, like a wind or a fire.
    (I’d never seen a horse before that. In the House the chariots were drawn by—you guessed it—slaves.
    The horses are rather beautiful, aren’t they,? If you know horses. The long heads and the hair flowing back, just as the bandits’ long hair flowed back.)
    In about ten seconds, so it seemed, there they were on the hillside with us, all reds and tans, and metal-and-tooth flash.
    “Couldn’t let you go,” said one, “without saying hi.”
    They laughed. They had an accent—intense, guttural, and somehow extra-threatening.
    Their politeness was unsettling not because it wasn’t real, but because, as Nemian had said, they couldn’t afford politeness.
    Nemian, now, said nothing.
    The Sheeper didn’t seem talkative either.
    The horses were polished as any floor.
    One of the bandits swung off his horse. He walked over on long legs.
    “Not from these parts?”
    Nemian said, “No.”
    “South? Peshamba?”
    Nemian said, “Yes, were heading for Peshamba.”
    The bandit leaned on the side of our chariot, companionable. From inside his shirt, he drew a small glassy thing—some sort of charm.? He gazed down at it in silence, as if all alone. How odd. Another bandit, still mounted, craned over as if to see. This other one gave a sudden whoop (which made me jump). He drew out his (ghastly) knife and flipped it in the air, catching it gently in his teeth .
    The bandit leaning on the chariot took no notice. He closed the charm in his fist and put it away. Then he looked straight into my eyes.
    His were dark, like his long hair, which hung to his waist. He was the color of strong tea with a dash of milk. A color that matched the horse he’d ridden. I’d thought he would be older. I never saw anyone so—I don’t know what to say— terrible .
    I shrank.
    To my surprise, he at once looked away and right at Nemian
     
    “Any money on you?”
    “Money,” said Nemian.
    “They use it in Peshamba, or whatever big place you’re headed for,” helpfully explained the bandit.
    “You want some money,” guessed Nemian. From one of his host of pockets he took a flat leather case and offered it to the bandit.
    The bandit accepted it, opened it.
    The bandit and I both stared with curiosity at the weird turquoise-green leaves of paper that were revealed.
    Then the dark eyes glanced at me sidelong. I felt sick and sidled back.
    “Right,” said the bandit. “Well, I can’t use this.” (He sounded as if he was saying it wasn’t good enough!)
    “Any coins?”
    “Sorry,” said Nemian. He didn’t seem worried. Just well-mannered and willing to talk, as though the mad bandit killers were perfectly normal people met