Destiny's Road

Damon said, "We want you cooking for us tonight, Tim. That means you join us now. You'll be with ibn-Rushd wagon, my family's wagon. Don't take too much with you, no more than you can carry. Don't take speckles. We've got plenty. And Tim-" He smiled. "The more we discuss it, the farther we'll have to chase the wagons."

It was happening faster than he could think, and he was still playing catch-up. "Loria, let's talk," he said, and pulled her into the bedroom.

Dawn light blazed through the window. It was easier to read her face in here. "What's going on?"

"Can't you tell?"

"Oh, a little. They'd have had me cheap if I'd gone with them last night. Now they've got to pay off the whole town, but Loria, do they think I'm for sale? I have a house and a wife."

And a secret that any of three hundred people might speak.

"The old people, they've already taken the knives," Loria said bleakly. She swept the blanket off their bed, flung it high and let it settle on the floor. "We have to pack. I knew they'd have you. You can do things nobody else can. Tim, didn't I try to keep you in the house?" He saw she was crying. "At least I gave you a great send-off. Didn't I?"

"I didn't know I was going."

"T-"

"Great send-off, damn right. Can you come with me?" Her head snapped up, amazed.

"You'd...

"What?"

"Want me?"

"Yes!"

"No. No, I can't. Yutzes are always men."

"What do you want, Loria?"

"I want you to come back. But if you're coming back like Haron Welsh, then don't."

She'd stacked his possessions on the blanket. Coat and shirts. No hat; Twerdahls never wore hats. The skillet from Bloocher Farm had become Twerdahl Town property, and retrieving it would be a mistake. She took his pouch of speckles. "If a yutz carries speckles, they think it's caravan property," she said.

She considered, then added one of the few things she'd brought from the Bednacourt House. It was an old wooden toy model of Cavorite, vague in detail, worn by handling in places.

"That's yours," he said.

She said, "You'd have something like this, if you really grew up here. Take it."

"Loria, what happened to Haron Welsh?"

"The way he sees us ... changed. He's Uncle Haron, but we don't call him that anymore. He thinks he's too good to talk to us. Don't come back that way. Tim, what's your name?"

"Jemmy Bloocher."

"All right." Loria rolled the blanket and tied it into a compact bundle. "Go on."

He could have smoothed it over, made his peace with Loria. He knew it then and he believed it later. But the caravan was already moving, and Twerdahi Town wanted knives, and Otterfolk remembered enough of Cavorite to draw pictures.

8

On the Road

You don't stop your wagon to do business, not unless it's a favored mark or a decent offer. Stopping makes you look eager. Keep talking and let the chugs move on until the mark takes your offer.

-Shireen ibn-Rushd

The wagons were rolling steadily away from Twerdahi Town when three merchants and Tim Bednacourt walked into a haze of fine dust.

The morning wore on. Swamp trailed off into grass-covered hills. They crossed a wide and sluggish stream on stepping-stones too conveniently placed to be natural. Halida named it Whelan's Crossing.

The wagons didn't seem to he getting closer.

The merchants weren't hurrying. They ambled along, chatting among themselves. With his burden of possessions Tim was still hard put to keep up. Now they were asking questions about life in Twerdahl Town.

Tim tried to distract them with questions of his own. "I've never watched merchants cooking. What do you use?"

'You will see. I am Damon ibn-Rushd. Ibn-Rushd is eight from the lead, six from the tail. We and Lyons family carry the cookware."

"Do you cook with the same kind of thing you sell to Twerdahl?"

'Yes.'

'Good. Is there always firewood?"

"Always, except at the Tail."

A stone bridge arched over deep water. Tim asked, "Did you build all of these bridges?"

Laughter. "Who else?"

Gradually they drew alongside the last wagon. Now they were passing a line of chugs. Each chug spared Tim one long dismissive glance. They stood almost hip high. Those shells looked heavy. They'd weigh about half as much as Tim. The top of the beak was an extension of the skullcap shell, with a lower jaw to meet it. That beak would deliver a hell of a bite.

Tim suddenly realized that he was seeing the same odd blemish on each chug. They were marked with an E inside a D, carved into the shell on the right side.

"Dole," Halida said. "Dole Enterprises."

Nineteen chugs pulled Dole wagon.

Twenty pulled the next. They were marked with a bird of Earth, an owl.

Eighteen pulled the next, marked with an ellipse and a dot in the center. "Wu family had bad luck this trip," Damon said softly as he smiled and waved at two men in the driver's alcove.

"The wagons," Tim said, "they're all alike."

Damon nodded; Halida smiled.

Spiral children noticed early. Eggs were alike, seeds were alike, babies were alike, but crafted things were not. Things that were all alike were ancient machines from the time of Landing, "settler magic" like computers and microwave ovens; or they were the wood-and-iron wagons of a caravan.

Wagons were painted in flamboyant fashion, a match for merchants' clothing. When the side opened to form a counter and sunscreen, each wagon became a shop different from every other shop. But the counters were up, the wagons were closed, and this was Tim Bednacourt's first good look at wagons. They were identical down to the last centimeter, as if made all at the same time, from identical components, by identical workmen.

The drivers' alcoves denied their similarities. They were painted too, and furnished with pillows and little shelves and niches that held mugs or pieces of carved wood. From arcs of driver's benches that would be roomy for four, merchants watched Tim pass. They didn't speak, but they smiled.

"They smile for you," Halida said. "We might have had to eat our own cooking."

The chugs weren't paying much notice to passersby, or the Road, or anything but their own steady motion.

Fourth wagon from the end: the chugs were marked with two vertical bars on an S. Halida climbed four shallow steps to the driver's bench. The drivers shifted to give her room. She looked down at Tim and said, "Milasevik. We carry tents and bedding."

They walked on.

Ibn-Rushd was sixth from the end, out of thirteen wagons. A summer caravan would have been fifteen to twenty. Senka smiled at Tim from the driver's bench; Rian merely watched. The last chug was marked with a crescent and six-pointed star.

Damon ignored the steps. He was into the driver's alcove in a smooth pull-and-jump maneuver. A gesture invited Tim to do the same.

Tim dropped his pack into the alcove, then scrambled over the side. practice, he promised himself.

Milo called up to him. "Milo Spadoni. Second in line. We carry ammunition, we and Tucker." He walked on.

The driver's bench would hold four, and it was full. Senka, Rian, an elderly lady Tim didn't know, and man's brother. Tim said, "Hello, Joker."

"Tim," Joker said.

Damon said, "Tim Bednacourt, this is Shireen ibn-Rushd. You obey her in all things. Mother, Tim is a wonderful cook."

"Very pleased," Tim said. The old lady smiled.

Tethers from each of the chugs were tied to knobs on a half-circle of rail, but the women weren't bothering with them. The chugs seemed to know what they were doing.

Damon ibn-Rushd said, "You're a yutz now, but not a labor yutz. Your rank is 'chef.' There are three other chefs and me and Marilyn Lyons. Lyons wagon carries the rest of the cookery. You take orders from me or Marilyn, but if any other merchant tells you to lift or carry something, you don't have to. You can draft a loose labor yutz if he'll put up with it, but any merchant might give him another job.