Markswoman (Asiana #1)(40)
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “A real, live Markswoman. Here in Khur! You’re going to give Ishtul and Ghasil nightmares.”
“I’m not that scary,” said Kyra. She looked down at her crumpled robe and ran a hand over it in a futile attempt to smooth out the creases. “At least, I won’t be after I’ve had a wash and something to eat.”
Shurik bowed with a flourish. “Happy to be of assistance. Let’s go see what food there is. Luthan’s cooking today, so don’t get your hopes up.”
He led her through the camp to a large rectangular tent made, Shurik said, from camel hair. “Cool in the daytime and warm at night,” he explained.
As they approached the tent, fragrant smells of cooking wafted into the air. An elderly Marksman with crinkly eyes in a weather-beaten face sat at the entrance, stirring an enormous vat. She bowed in gratitude when he poured a generous portion in a large clay bowl for her. As they went inside the tent where she could sit down and eat, Shurik told her it was millet porridge with camel’s milk.
Camel’s milk? Kyra inspected the steaming bowl doubtfully. Well, whatever it was, she would have to eat it. She took a tentative spoonful, and another. Why, it wasn’t bad at all. It was actually quite good. It tasted a bit like Tarshana’s wheat porridge, except thicker and chewier. She ate ravenously after that, stopping only to ask for another bowl, much to Shurik’s amusement.
When she had eaten her fill, he took her around the Khur camp. He began with the camel enclosure, a large roped-in area where around two dozen camels sat, chewing the cud and gazing at their visitors with supreme indifference. A couple of young boys were at work in the enclosure, filling the water trough and cutting squares of feed from compressed bales of grass.
Kyra wrinkled her nose as the pungent odor of the camels hit her. Shurik chuckled at her expression. “The smell of Khur,” he said. “You’ll soon get used to it. Hey, Jeev, Darius, come and greet our visitor.”
The two boys scampered up to the fence and bowed low, their dark eyes alight with curiosity. Kyra bowed back, amused and a little uncomfortable. She was clearly a figure of interest here.
“Jeev and Darius are novices who have yet to earn their kataris,” Shurik told her. “Barkav has great hopes of them. Personally, I think they are destined to be camel-boys forever.”
By the tone of his voice and the grins on the boys’ faces, Kyra realized this was an oft-repeated joke, and if she were not around, they would have made a suitable retort. As it was, the novices did not say anything, but stared at her until Shurik shooed them away.
Next, he took her beyond the camp to a grove of tall shrubs. The small patch of greenery looked absurd and out of place in the vast, yellow-brown landscape. “This is where we sometimes meditate,” he said as they walked down a path between thick clusters of stunted trees and dense shrubs. “Or at least, the others meditate and I try my best not to fall asleep.”
Kyra laughed. “But how does anything grow here?”
“Sheer willpower,” said Shurik. “We do have a well, of course. Zibalik, the founder of Khur, would not have chosen this spot without knowing there was water underground. The dune gives some shelter against the wind, and we’ve planted windbreaks everywhere. Do you see those plants on the slopes of the dune?”
They had reached the edge of the grove. Kyra shaded her eyes and looked in the direction he was pointing, at the dune that towered over the camp of Khur. The slopes were crisscrossed with improbable rows of spiky plants and grasses.
“They may not be much to look at,” said Shurik, “but they don’t need irrigation, and they help stabilize the sand. That dune has not moved more than a few centimeters in the last several years. You can see a crust of soil has already formed on the dune’s surface.”
“Fascinating,” said Kyra, and she meant it. This place was desolate, but it had a beauty all its own.
“Must be different from what you’re used to,” said Shurik, a wistful note in his voice.
“Very,” said Kyra, and left it at that. She allowed him to show her the highlights of the rest of the camp, even though she was dying for a drink and a wash: the stone well, the Maji-khan’s tent, and the open, circular space in the middle where Ishtul was leading a combat class.
Marksmen stopped fighting to stare at her, the younger ones gaping quite openly, the others more discreet in their curiosity, until a snapped command from Ishtul brought them back to attention.
Shurik sniggered and steered Kyra away from the class. “They can’t help looking at you,” he said in a loud whisper. “Sorry.”
“I suppose it’s because I came through the Akal-shin door? That elder said it hasn’t been used in centuries,” Kyra mused.
“Er, no,” said Shurik, looking a little abashed. “It’s because you’re a girl. I mean, a Markswoman. Most of us haven’t seen one before.” He stopped walking to gaze at her himself, as if he wanted to memorize every detail of her appearance before she vanished as mysteriously as she had arrived.
But Kyra had had enough of being scrutinized. “I’d like to wash, please,” she said firmly. “Is there a place I can change and rest?”
“Of course, of course, please follow me. We have a tent reserved for special guests.” Shurik led her to a small tent that stood by itself, not far from the Maji-khan’s tent. Kyra untied the flap and peered inside while he went off to fetch water for her from the well. The tent was quite cozy, with brown camel hair rugs patterned with colorful cotton threads covering most of the floor and walls. At the top was a smoke hole for the stove. She had to stoop to enter, and could barely stand upright inside, but it would do her just fine.