What’s the matter with Tommo? says Emmi.
He’s dropped into a crouch on the trail. Laid his hands flat on the ground. He looks up. Wheels, he says. From the north. A wagon, headed this way. An a horse or maybe—
I grab his arm. How many horses, Tommo? How many?
One, he says. I think one. An a wagon.
Is it the Tonton? says Emmi.
They don’t usually travel alone, says Maev.
The north road bends outta sight through the red tree forest. That’s the way they’re gonna come from. We look around fer cover. The two sourfruit trees. Scattered boulders. A light tower. There’s one big slab of rock that stands between the crossroads an the bend in the north road. Whoever’s comin, they’re gonna hafta pass right by it.
I’m lookin at Maev. She’s lookin at me.
Let’s do it, she says.
Do what? says Lugh.
I’m game, I says to Maev.
Game fer what? says Lugh. What’re you talkin about?
We need transport, says Maev, we’re gonna git us some transport. On my signal, Saba an Lugh grab the horse. Tommo an Emmi cover the rear. I’ll take care of the driver. If I don’t like the look of it, we don’t go. Okay, everybody outta sight. Weapons ready. Move on my word.
While she’s bin talkin, she’s swung herself onto Hermes an yanked her sheema down to her eyes. Now she pulls her kercheef up to cover her mouth an nose.
Hang on, says Lugh. There could be one horse, there could be ten.
Not ten, says Tommo.
Five then! We got no idea how many. We dunno who it is. You cain’t jest go rushin at things without thinkin it through. We need to talk about this! He grabs Hermes’ bridle.
Maev yanks down her kercheef. No, you need to listen, she says. This ain’t Silverlake, an you ain’t the daddy. Out here in the real world, the person who knows what they’re doin is the daddy an right now, that’s me. So. Do like daddy says an shift that tasty butt of yers. Unless, of course, you want it shot off.
She heels Hermes an they gallop into position behind the rock slab. I yank Lugh behind a boulder. He’s red-faced. Tight lipped. His eyes spit blue fire.
Who does she think she is? he says. Hell, I don’t even know what she’s talkin about – I ain’t the daddy. I tell you, I am sick to death of bossy women an that includes you.
You ever hijacked before? I says. Stole a horse?
You know I never! But that ain’t the point, the—
The point is to git to the Lost Cause by the full moon, I says. The point is that Maev knows what she’s doin. Highway robbery, hijackin an horse stealin, that’s her business.
An my business is keepin us alive, he says. You an me an Emmi. Th’other two can go hang fer all I care. I don’t believe you, Saba. We was on our way to a good life. We had it in our sights. Now look at us.
C’mon, I says, you gotta admit this is excitin.
Not in my book, it ain’t, he says.
Not like takin chaal, huh? I says. Not like what you got up to with that Meg?
I win with that shot. He looks away. Busies hisself coverin his face with his sheema an kercheef.
I do the same. We wait. Whoever it is, they ain’t travellin fast.
But the slow rumble of wheels gits louder. Louder still. I keep watch from behind our boulder. My belly’s tight with anticipation. A yellow cart lumbers into view. It’s bein pulled by—
It’s a gawdamn camel! hisses Lugh.
A fleabit wreck of a camel, shamblin along in front of the rickety cart.
The driver’s singin. As he gits closer, we can hear the words.
She was queen of my heart all that summer
But when green leafs was turnin to gold
She slipped from my arms as a new day dawned
An left my heart broken an cold.
They’re nearly on us.
Heeya! yells Maev. She heels Hermes. They dash onto the trail, in front of the cart. Hermes rears, squealin. Maev grips with her knees, a bolt shooter in each hand.
The driver hauls mightily on the reins. Whoa! he yells. Whoa there, Moses!
The camel bellows. He tramples an shies as he tries to avoid Hermes. Me an Lugh grab at his reins. Dust flies everywhere. The cart rocks, tips, then starts to settle. The driver reaches towards his feet.
Hands up or I’ll shoot! shouts Maev.
He freezes. He sits up slowly, raisin his hands over his head.
Meantime, me an Lugh’s bin draggin on the camel’s bridle with all our weight. He resists, hollerin an spittin an rollin his eyes. Suddenly, without warnin, he sits down. We go flyin. But we’re right back up, on our feet, grabbin our bows. We aim at the driver.
The cart’s a high-sided wooden box, painted bright yellow, with suns an moons an stars all over. It’s a ramshackle effort, lashed up with ropes an chains. It leans to one side. Two lanterns hang at the front. There’s a little door at the back.
Tommo throws it open an checks inside. All clear, he calls to Maev.
She smiles at the driver. Stand an deliver, she says.
The driver stares at us. We stare at him.
He’s a one-eyed, big-bellied, bald-headed old coot. With a filthy eyepatch, bushy sidewhiskers an a neck like a bullfrog. He’s wearin a pink lady dress.
This is a hijack, sir, says Maev. We’ll be takin yer cart an yer camel.
An if I say no? His voice creaks, like a rusted hinge.
Then I kill you, she says. We still take yer cart an yer camel but you won’t be wavin us off. Climb on down. My associate here’ll be happy to help you. We got you covered, so don’t try nuthin.
She motions with her shooter to Lugh. He blasts her with a tight-lipped glare. But he shoulders his bow an gives his hand to the driver.
The old fella’s bulky. He wheezes an grimaces as he squeezes hisself out from the driver’s bench. As he climbs down, he leans on Lugh so heavy that they nearly collapse in a heap. I find the driver’s firestick an toss it to Tommo.
Maev’s jumped offa Hermes. Search him, she tells Lugh.
Do it yerself, he says.
The driver grins. Mutiny in the ranks, eh?
Shut up, I says. I pat him down. He’s clean, I says.
You ever handled a camel before? he says.
His name’s Moses, right? says Maev. We’ll take good care of him, sir, don’t worry.
Oh, I ain’t worried, he says.
See what he’s got in the rig, she tells me.
Beggin yer pardon, sister, he says, but the Cosmic Compendalorium ain’t no ordinary rig. If you’ll allow me—?
Make it snappy, she says.
The cart opens on both sides. He unties the right-side rope. Scuttles back as it swings down with a crash. It’s a big cupboard, with shelves an drawers, crammed full of bottles an tins an jars of all descriptions an sizes.
A quack van, I says.
The driver counts off his stock briskly. Curatives, restoratives, prevellatives an laxatives, he says. Embarkations, emolluments an emetics. Oils an ointments, teas an tonics, powders an potions an pills. He takes a deep breath an goes on. I’ll leech you, purge you, shave yer corns, test yer stools an worm yer guts. I cut hair, set bones, pull teeth an lance boils. I provide a complete eyecare service with a wide selection of spectaculars, an marriage guidance on a confidentiality basis. Doctor Salmo Slim, TPS. That’s Travellatin Physician an Surgeon.
Like I said, a quack. I lift the side an tie it back into place.
Excuse me! He draws hisself up. You imprune my honour, sister. I come from a long line of medical perfessionals, startin with the legendary Sasaparilla Slim, way back in Babalingian times.