Law of the Wolf Tower: The Claidi Journals Book 1 by Tanith Lee (black authors fiction txt) 📕

dark eyes much darker than night. And not so friendly. (Blurn had told me Argul’s name. I think I already knew, and that he was their leader.)

‘Thanks,’ I said to Argul. But that was mean. I added, ‘I owe you my life.’ Just what I’d thought Nemian ought to say.

But Nemian was over in a wagon, lying down, rather the worse for wear.

Argul nodded coldly.

‘Don’t mention it. We went out of our way. But I’m sure you two can pay us back for our efforts.’

With what? I glared at him. ‘Do you only help people in order to get a reward?’

Some of them laughed. I realized at once, only at my cheek.

Argul glanced round anyway and they stopped.

He looked back at me.

‘No, Miss Nuisance, I don’t. I wouldn’t normally bother.’

I’d been scared of him, but honestly, nearly being thrown to my death had made me a little braver. For the moment.

‘I’m so glad,’ I said sarcastically.

‘See if it lasts,’ said Argul.

He was the Grand Leader of the Mighty Bandits(!) He’d leaned on the Sheeper chariot, and gazed at that glass charm, and mocked us for not being worth robbing. And all the time waiting to see if I was, as the Sheepers must have let slip, the chosen Feather sacrifice. Making sure it was true, following, watching, seeing if he’d really have to bother to rescue me.

I felt angry and silly in that feather-itch dress. I felt alone. But one always is, I suppose.

THE BANDIT CAMP ON THE MOVE

Until morning, we waited in the hills. They’d made a camp there, the five bandits. They’d come on ahead, and all the rest had to catch up.

All night they came riding in, on horses, with wagons, and dogs, these very well trained, alert and glossy and quiet.

In the increasingly enormous camp, there was one big central fire. They sat round it. Unlike the dogs, they made a lot of noise, just as I remembered.

The Featherers had fled. Probably not all of them, judging from the sounds of knives and rifles I’d heard.

Blurn had told me, matter-of-factly, the Sheepers had sold us – me – to the Featherers. I was barter. Worse, the Sheepers had actually been out raiding to catch a girl sacrifice for the Featherers. No wonder they didn’t mind taking Nemian and me to their town. (I recall the welcome, the drums, whistles and poppies.)

I feel awful about this. I’d rather liked the Sheepers. They seemed innocent – and kind.

The bandits of course seemed horrifying, and they were the ones who rescued me.

Obviously they too have a (probably sinister) reason for this. I must be on my guard. I’ve learnt the hard way not to trust anyone out here. One always learns the hard way. Is there any other?

During the night I went to see Nemian. There are bandit women, too, and one had given me bandit girl’s clothes – trousers, tunic, even some bracelets with gold coins hanging from them, and coin earrings! I was touched, but I think all the women look like that here, and it was as automatic on her part to give me ornaments as to provide me with covering.

Nemian was sitting on some rugs in one of the bandit wagons. He didn’t recognize me, just glanced up and said, ‘I’d appreciate some more beer, if you can spare it.’

‘More beer? You’ll burst,’ I said, annoyed.

He flicked me his look then. Smiled.

‘Claidi. I always know it’s you by your gentle manner.’

Someone had apparently kicked him in the ribs though. And there was a purple bruise on his cheek. (Is he accident prone? No that’s unfair. He’d been trying to stop them throwing me off the cliff. He hadn’t been able to, but that wasn’t his fault.)

A girl came in with the beer anyway, without being asked. He was so lovely to her, I was jealous, and left the wagon. (He seemed to have forgotten he’d wanted to question me about not knowing the name of my mother.)

Apparently I’m bad-tempered and jealous. A pretty awful person. I never knew this before. But then, I was never in love before. Am I? In love? I don’t know what I am. Or who.

Argul, the leader, had gone into a tent and was soon joined by his second-in-command, who is Blurn.

I saw the bandit who’d whooped and caught the knife in his teeth. He’s called Mehmed. Every time he sees me, he laughs.

I’m not sure I’m so pleased to be here, really.

Finally I went to the wagon another woman said I could sleep in, and when I woke up, we were travelling. The wagon was still empty apart from me. I’d thought I’d have to share it.

I put my head out, and we were coming down from the hills, into yet another dusty desert. It looked so dreary. I tried to write a bit of this, and gave up because of the bumpy ride.

After that, I admired the paintings on the high leather roof, and thought how Blurn had told me the wagons are old, but in good repair since always cared for. He said each family had one, and passed it on. The horses and dogs are mostly the same, these ones descendants of others from centuries ago. Blurn said, to the bandits, the word Hulta, which is a camp, means also Family. To be part of the bandit camp is to be part of the bandit family. But it’s a family always on the move.

I feel insulted, as if I’ve been made a fool of, but I’m not sure why. I found out, you see, the wagon I’ve been travelling in is Argul’s own.

There were of course chests in it and pieces of wagon furniture, rugs and stools and jars. There were even some books I found – yes, I was nosing about, but not much – I recognized the language in only two of them. I’d also noticed knives and scabbards and shirts and boots and things lying around in corners. This