Destiny's Road

Fourteen ibn-Rushd chugs were pulling ahead of the rest.

Joker crossed to Tim. "We've got some time," he said. "The bandits cut our harness. They only need to do that to one wagon. The caravan can't wait for just us. They'll wait for the rest to pull ahead, then jump us. Then we'll have a fight."

They got us. They got ibn-Rushd wagon. Tim asked, "Have you got ten meters of rope?"

"For what?"

"Tie those loose chugs up again. I wouldn't need so much if they weren't still pulling ahead."

"There's a pretty good chance you'll be shot," Joker shouted, but he was already digging into the hatch. He came out with a coil of rope. "Double it up."

Tim took it. It was heavy; it was thick. Would a double strand of it hold the weight of ibn-Rushd wagon? Could he carry it that far? He'd need both hands. No gun.

"Hold up," Tim said. His mind seemed to be racing. The bandits had come from the inland side. But that was then and this was now, and the caravan was moving into a new position. Four bandits to cut the rope, at least one more to lay down covering fire; three now dead. A second group of bandits must be waiting ahead, to take advantage if the first group actually stopped a wagon.

"Just tell me how many bandits there are, Joker. Your best guess."

"Anywhere between, ah, six and fifteen."

"There have to be two groups."

"Right."

"I hope you'll shoot anything that tries to shoot me," Tim said.

"Yes. Don't lose your hat!"

Tim rolled over the left, seaward side. That second group could be anywhere between one and ten, and it could cover either side of the Road. Tim kept his eyes to the left as he dropped to a squatting position and duckwalked. The chugs would shield him from the inland side if he could stay low.

Six chugs were trying to do the work of twenty, and making slow progress of it. Dodgson wagon had come up from behind, and its chugs were moving alongside ibn-Rushd wagon on the seaward side. That would shield him too.

Tim glanced around ibn-Rushd's lead chug, saw no threat, and ran.

Fourteen loose chugs were following Armstrong wagon, moving no faster than they had pulling a wagon's weight.

He heard a whine, left and behind, and cut left before his mind caught

up. Left and behind, a bullet grazed the Road and spun away. If that was aimed at Tim, the gunman must be right and ahead, and now Tim had the last pair of freed chugs between that gun and himself. He held for a moment, then shifted: now he was between that pair, and the one on the right was protecting him with its shell. That one grunted and looked at him.

Harness still linked the fourteen. Tying his rope to the harness was hard, clumsy work, until he realized that he could drop the coil of rope. Then it was easy, except that his squatting position was killing his knees. And now he must nerve himself to run back across that wet black empty space. Slip on that slick surface and he'd be meat for the taking!

But his hands were free now. He drew his gun, peered around the last chug, and fired three quick shots at his first glimpse of motion. And ran.

The coil of rope now trailed as far as the six chugs still pulling ibn-Rushd wagon. Tim scooped it up and tied it and pulled the knot taut, rolled under the harness and out between two chugs.

Past the caravan's tail, men in featherless hats were stripping Randall's corpse. One stood up with a gibbering yell and held aloft Lyons wagon's big glare-red can of speckles.

Damn! Why had Randall been carrying that? To protect it?

Tim moved back toward the wagon in an agonizing duckwalk he was coming to hate.

The bandits wouldn't let it go at that, would they? One lonely rope was holding ibn-Rushd wagon from disaster. Cut that and- He'd reached the wagon, seaward side. Joker was looking over at him. Tim rolled underneath, between the wheels, and looked out from a prone position.

Here came the bandit, and he too was in a squatting run. He had a knife. No hat. Tim shot him and he rolled over, then backed away on hands and knees through the rain, leaving a knife as long as his arm. He collapsed before he'd left the Road.

The rear wheels were getting too close. Tim scrambled ahead of them, hands and knees. The bandit's knife came in range and Tim fished it up.

The rope held until the caravan made camp. Again they released the chugs a wagon at a time, to pull the wagons close.

When the chugs left ibn-Rushd wagon for the shore, one remained behind Tim had never before seen a chug lying down. He went to look.

Its head turned at his touch. Under its cap of shell its eyes were too

far apart to see in one direction; but the cap tilted and one eye studied Tim Bednacourt.

There were eight holes in its shell. It was the chug Tim had been hiding behind. Chug armor hadn't evolved to stop bullets.

Joker, Damon, and Rian set down what they were carrying: equipment to repair the harness. "Tim, you did well," Rian said.

"Thanks. Rian, will it die?"

"Yes. It can't feed itself."

"Shoot it?"

She shook her head, and set to work cutting harness.

Damon said, "There's no quick death for a chug. I saw Daddy try once. The brain, it's more a strand than a bulge, and bullets don't turn off its heart for a damn hour. It saved your life, Tim, and there's no way to pay back."

"But you saved ours," Rian said.

Tim glowed with the compliment. "I should do things about di

On the ninth night Tim Bednacourt stayed up far too late trying to learn the songs the merchants and yutzes sang. Joker was a singer too. Between songs they talked about the fight, and Tim bragged without embarrassment.

He listened when the others spoke. They were talking largely for him, enjoying lecturing the novice.

"This clan, they try to chop the harness on one wagon," Bord'n told him. "Then the rest of the caravan has to go on, but the tail guard stays with them. Maybe we kill some bandits, and maybe we lose a wagon. But this clan's only been here three years."

"So?"

Joker said, "Bandits all start as criminals. They're forced out of wherever they lived. Did something dreadful. People along the Road shy from strangers, so they wind up with each other. If they can steal speckles they can keep going. They don't care who they get it from, caravan, village, each other. Sooner or later they run out. Then they turn stupid. They'll attack anything. Then they die out and a whole new nest of the bastards has to grow up somewhere else. So whatever they have of techniques, it gets forgotten and then invented again, see?"

Tim saw. He'd had time to think. He didn't ask which among them had learned to shoot prone. He'd watch. He didn't ask about cockades, and nobody else even referred to them.

He'd never seen the gaudy sprays before today. When did merchants wear those hats? When bandits were expected, sure, and maybe when

it rained. Spiral Town had never seen cockades, but anyone along the Road would know of them. He'd given himself away again.

He'd been trained, all of the yutzes had been trained to shoot standing up. Rian and Joker shot prone while the yutzes stood to draw fire.

The caravans had been at this a long time.

Lost sleep didn't hamper him the next morning. His body had caught up with the stresses of a caravan chef, and the morning was glorious.