for his fix. Come along, darling.” She turned and strode back to the caravan.
Smith stared after her; then his attention was drawn back to the corpse, as Parradan Smith bent and methodically dug his bolts from the wounds.
“Is that an assassins’ tattoo?” he asked.
“How should I know?” said Parradan Smith tonelessly, not looking up.
They scraped out a grave in the dry ground and covered the body with a thin layer of earth and stones. The green wings were laid over all.
Speed once they’d started up again was limited because Keyman Crucible’s arm became swollen and painful. It was well after dark by the time they were able to make camp; by then Smith’s leg was throbbing and fairly swollen too. As the fires were lit, as the tents were being set up, he limped slowly to the hut and waited for Ronrishim Flowering Reed to emerge.
“You’re an herbalist, aren’t you?” he said, when the Yendri came out.
Flowering Reed looked him up and down with distaste.
“Are you going to ask me for healing?” he asked.
“Yes, if you can help me.”
“In the name of the Unsullied Daughter, then,” he said, “I will require clean water. Have your minions fetch it.”
The only person available to be a minion was Burnbright, who obligingly fetched a bucket of water from the pump and stayed to watch as Smith reclined before Flowering Reed’s tent and submitted to having his trouser leg sliced open.
“Aren’t you going to cauterize it with something?” she inquired, wincing as Smith’s wound was probed. Smith grunted and turned his face away.
“Do you use a sword to cut through flowers?” replied the Yendri, extracting the bolt and regarding it critically. “Ah, but I forget; you people do. It may surprise you to learn that the most violent solution to a difficulty is not always the best one.”
“I was just asking, for goodness sake!” said Burnbright, and stormed away.
“Got anything for pain?” Smith asked through clenched teeth. Flowering Reed shook his head.
“I do not keep opiates for my personal use,” he said. “I believe it is better to learn to bear with inevitable suffering.”
“I see,” said Smith.
“When you and all your people learn to see, there will be rejoicing and astonishment through the worlds,” said Flowering Reed.
Smith endured in silence as his wound was cleaned, and the Yendri took a pungent-smelling ointment from his pack and anointed the wound. As Smith shifted so the bandage could be wound about his leg, he looked over at Flowering Reed.
“What do you make of the attack today?” he inquired.
Flowering Reed shrugged again. “One of your people’s interminable quarrels. Filth slew filth, and so filth lusted after vengeance.”
Smith decided there was no point attempting to defend the blood feud as part of his cultural heritage. “But who do you think they were after?”
“I have no idea, nor any interest in the matter,” said Flowering Reed. “Though if I cared to speculate on such a thing, I might begin by observing who defended himself most viciously.”
He tied off the bandage, and Smith sat up awkwardly. “Parradan Smith?”
“Perhaps. On the other hand, your people are always ready to unleash violence upon others. He may simply have been the best prepared.”
“Nice to get an unbiased opinion,” said Smith, getting to his feet.
“Leave me now. I must pray and cleanse myself.”
“Go ahead.” Smith limped away, and Burnbright came running to lend her shoulder for support.
“Isn’t he awful?” she hissed. “Now he’ll put his nose in the air and meditate on how much better he is than anybody else.”
“At least he was willing to fix my leg,” Smith said.
“Only because you asked him. They have to if they’re asked; it’s part of their religion or something. Don’t think for a minute he’d have offered on his own.”
“You don’t like the Yendri very much, do you?”
“They’re always raping runners,” Burnbright informed him. “Not so much caravan runners like me, but the solos, the long-distance messengers, all the time.”
“That’s what I’d always heard, but I thought it was just stories,” said Smith. “Since they’re supposed to be so nonviolent.”
Burnbright shook her head grimly.
“They say it’s an act of love, not violence, and their girls take it as a compliment, so why shouldn’t we? Self-righteous bastards. We learned all sorts of defenses against them at the mother house.”
“Nice to know,” said Smith. “How’s Crucible’s arm?”
“It’s huge, and it’s turning all sorts of colors,” she said. “I don’t think he’ll be able to crank tomorrow. That means you’ll have to take his place on the key. That’s