pants?"
Bernard's face flushed scarlet. "Uh. No."
Doroga saw the Count's embarrassment and burst out into grunting, guffawing laughter. "You Alerans. Everything mates," Doroga said. "Everything likes to. But only your people try to pretend they do neither."
Amara enjoyed Bernard's blush, though the pain Doroga's words had elicited prevented her from blushing herself. Bernard would probably think she was just too worldly to be so easily embarrassed. "Doroga," she said, to rescue him from the subject, "how did you get that wound? What happened to your people?"
The Marat headman's smile faded, and he looked back out at the plains, his countenance grim. "I got it being foolish," he said. "The rest should first be for your ears only. We should go inside."
Bernard frowned and nodded at Doroga, then beckoned him. They I walked together into Garrison and back to Bernard's office.
"Would you like some food?" Bernard asked.
"After my people have eaten," Doroga said. "Their chala too. Their beasts."
"I understand. Sit, if you like."
Doroga shook his head and paced quietly around the office, opening the armoire, peering at the bricks of the fireplace, and picking up several books off the modest-sized shelf to peer at their pages.
"Your people," he said. "So different than ours."
"In some ways," Bernard agreed. "Similar in many others."
"Yes." Doroga flipped through the pages of The Chronicles of Gains, i pausing to examine a woodcut illustration on one of them. "My people do not know much of what yours know, Bernard. We do not have these… what is the word?"
"Books."
"Books," Doroga said. "Or the drawing-speech your people use in them. ' But we are an old people, and not without our own knowledge." He gestured at his wound. "The ground powder of shadowwort and sandgrass took the pain, clotted the blood, and closed this wound. You would have needed stitches or your sorcery." : "I do not question your people's experience or knowledge, Doroga."
Bernard said. "You are different. That does not make you less."
Doroga smiled. "Not all Alerans think as you."
"True."
"We have our wisdom," he said. "Passed on from one to another since the first dawn. We sing to our children, and they to theirs, and so we remember what has been." He went to the fireplace and stirred the embers with a poker. Orange light played lurid shadows over the shape of his muscles and made his expression feral. "I have been a great fool. Our wisdom warned me, but I was too foolish to see the danger for what it was."
"What do you mean?" asked Amara.
He drew a deep breath. "The Wax Forest. You have heard of it, Bernard?"
"Yes," he said. "I went there a time or two. Never down into it."
"Wise," Doroga said. "It was a deadly place."
"Was?"
The Marat nodded. "No longer. The creatures who lived there have departed it."
Bernard blinked. "Departed. To where?"
Doroga shook his head. "I am not certain. Yet. But our wisdom tells us of them, and warns of what they will do."
"You mean your people have seen such things before?"
Doroga nodded. "Far in the past, our people did not live where we live today. We came here from another place."
"Across the sea?" Amara asked.
Doroga shrugged. "Across the sea. Across the sky. We were elsewhere, then we were here. Our people have lived in many lands. We go to a new place. We bond with what lives there. We learn. We grow. We sing the songs of wisdom to our children."
Amara frowned. "You mean… is that why there are different tribes among your people?"
He blinked at her as her Academy teachers might have done at slow-witted students, and nodded. "By chala . By totem. Our wisdom tells us that long ago, in another place, we met a creature. That this creature stole the hearts and minds of our people. That it and its brood grew from dozens to millions. It overwhelmed us. Destroyed our lands and homes. It stole our children, and our females gave birth to its spawn."
Bernard sat down in a
Bernard's face flushed scarlet. "Uh. No."
Doroga saw the Count's embarrassment and burst out into grunting, guffawing laughter. "You Alerans. Everything mates," Doroga said. "Everything likes to. But only your people try to pretend they do neither."
Amara enjoyed Bernard's blush, though the pain Doroga's words had elicited prevented her from blushing herself. Bernard would probably think she was just too worldly to be so easily embarrassed. "Doroga," she said, to rescue him from the subject, "how did you get that wound? What happened to your people?"
The Marat headman's smile faded, and he looked back out at the plains, his countenance grim. "I got it being foolish," he said. "The rest should first be for your ears only. We should go inside."
Bernard frowned and nodded at Doroga, then beckoned him. They I walked together into Garrison and back to Bernard's office.
"Would you like some food?" Bernard asked.
"After my people have eaten," Doroga said. "Their chala too. Their beasts."
"I understand. Sit, if you like."
Doroga shook his head and paced quietly around the office, opening the armoire, peering at the bricks of the fireplace, and picking up several books off the modest-sized shelf to peer at their pages.
"Your people," he said. "So different than ours."
"In some ways," Bernard agreed. "Similar in many others."
"Yes." Doroga flipped through the pages of The Chronicles of Gains, i pausing to examine a woodcut illustration on one of them. "My people do not know much of what yours know, Bernard. We do not have these… what is the word?"
"Books."
"Books," Doroga said. "Or the drawing-speech your people use in them. ' But we are an old people, and not without our own knowledge." He gestured at his wound. "The ground powder of shadowwort and sandgrass took the pain, clotted the blood, and closed this wound. You would have needed stitches or your sorcery." : "I do not question your people's experience or knowledge, Doroga."
Bernard said. "You are different. That does not make you less."
Doroga smiled. "Not all Alerans think as you."
"True."
"We have our wisdom," he said. "Passed on from one to another since the first dawn. We sing to our children, and they to theirs, and so we remember what has been." He went to the fireplace and stirred the embers with a poker. Orange light played lurid shadows over the shape of his muscles and made his expression feral. "I have been a great fool. Our wisdom warned me, but I was too foolish to see the danger for what it was."
"What do you mean?" asked Amara.
He drew a deep breath. "The Wax Forest. You have heard of it, Bernard?"
"Yes," he said. "I went there a time or two. Never down into it."
"Wise," Doroga said. "It was a deadly place."
"Was?"
The Marat nodded. "No longer. The creatures who lived there have departed it."
Bernard blinked. "Departed. To where?"
Doroga shook his head. "I am not certain. Yet. But our wisdom tells us of them, and warns of what they will do."
"You mean your people have seen such things before?"
Doroga nodded. "Far in the past, our people did not live where we live today. We came here from another place."
"Across the sea?" Amara asked.
Doroga shrugged. "Across the sea. Across the sky. We were elsewhere, then we were here. Our people have lived in many lands. We go to a new place. We bond with what lives there. We learn. We grow. We sing the songs of wisdom to our children."
Amara frowned. "You mean… is that why there are different tribes among your people?"
He blinked at her as her Academy teachers might have done at slow-witted students, and nodded. "By chala . By totem. Our wisdom tells us that long ago, in another place, we met a creature. That this creature stole the hearts and minds of our people. That it and its brood grew from dozens to millions. It overwhelmed us. Destroyed our lands and homes. It stole our children, and our females gave birth to its spawn."
Bernard sat down in a
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