examination. Vang Drosset’s purse held only twenty ozols, which Glinnes appropriated. He pulled off Vang Drosset’s boots and sliced open the soles. He found nothing and thres the boots away.
Van Drosset carried no large sum of money on his person. Glinnes gave him a kick in the ribs for disappointment. He looked across the common to observer Tingo Drosset on her way to the outhouse. Glinnes hoisted the cavout to this shoulder, concealing his face, and marched across the commons. He reached the maroon tent just as Tingo Drosset had completed her errand. He looked into the maroon tent. Empty. He walked to the orange tent. Empty. He stepped inside. Tingo Drosset spoke to his back: “Looks to be a good beast. But don’t take it inside! What’s the matter with you? Slaughter it down by the water.”
Glinnes put down the animal and waited. Tingo Drosset, expostulating over the strange behavior of her husband, entered the tent. Glinnes threw his turban over her head and bore her to the ground. Tingo Drosset squawked and cursed at this unexpected act of her husband. “Another sound from you,” growled Glinnes, “I’ll slit your throat ear to ear! Lie quiet if you know what’s good for you!” Vang! Vang! screeched Tingo Drosset. Glinnes thrust the tail of the turban into her mouth.
Tingo was squat and sturdy and caused Glinnes considerable exertion before she lay helplessly tied, blindfolded and gagged. Glinnes hand smarted from a bite. Tingo Drosset’s head ached from the retaliatory blow. Not likely that Tingo Drosset would carry the family money, but stranger things had happened. Glinnes gingerly examined her garments while she groaned and grunted, thrashed and jerked in horrified outrage, expecting the worst.
He searched the black tent, then the orange tent, in a corner of which Duissane had ranged a few trinkets and keepsakes, and last the maroon tent. He found no money, nor had he expected to; the Trevanyi habit was to bury their valuables. Glinnes seated himself on Vang Drosset’s bench. Where would he bury money, were he Vang Drosset? The location must be convenient to hand and unmistakably identified by some sort of indicator: a post, a rock, a bush, a tree. The spot would be somewhere within the immediate field of vision; Vang Drosset would like to keep the hiding place under his benign surveillance. Glinnes looked here and there. Directly in front of him the caldron hung over the fire, with a rude table and a pair of benches to the side. Only a few feet away the ground had been seared by the heat of another fire. The old fire-site seemed a few steps more convenient than the spot where the caldron now hung. No explanation for the peculiar habits of the Trevanyi, thought Glinnes. At the camp on Rabendary … The thought trailed off as Glinnes recalled the camp on Rabendary Island, with the ground freshly dug on the site of the campfire.
Glinnes nodded sagely. Just so. He rose to his feet and walked to the fire. He moved the tripod and caldron, and using an old broken-hafted spade, thrust the fire aside. The baked soil below yielded easily. Six inches below the surface the spade scraped on a black iron plate. Glinnes tipped up the iron to reveal a cake of dry clay, which he also removed. The cavity below held a pottery jar. Glinnes drew forth the jar. It contained a bundle of red and black hundred-ozol notes. Glinnes nodded complacently and tucked it all in his pocket.
The cavout, now grazing, had defecated. Glinnes scraped the droppings into the pottery jar, replaced it in the cavity, and arranged all as before, with the fire burning under the caldron. To casual inspection, nothing had been disturbed. Shouldering the cavout, Glinnes strode back across the common to where he had left his boat. Vang Drosset had been struggling to free himself, to no avail, and had only rolled himself down the slope into the mud at the water’s edge. Glinnes smiled with indulgent amusement, and with all Vang Drosset’s
Van Drosset carried no large sum of money on his person. Glinnes gave him a kick in the ribs for disappointment. He looked across the common to observer Tingo Drosset on her way to the outhouse. Glinnes hoisted the cavout to this shoulder, concealing his face, and marched across the commons. He reached the maroon tent just as Tingo Drosset had completed her errand. He looked into the maroon tent. Empty. He walked to the orange tent. Empty. He stepped inside. Tingo Drosset spoke to his back: “Looks to be a good beast. But don’t take it inside! What’s the matter with you? Slaughter it down by the water.”
Glinnes put down the animal and waited. Tingo Drosset, expostulating over the strange behavior of her husband, entered the tent. Glinnes threw his turban over her head and bore her to the ground. Tingo Drosset squawked and cursed at this unexpected act of her husband. “Another sound from you,” growled Glinnes, “I’ll slit your throat ear to ear! Lie quiet if you know what’s good for you!” Vang! Vang! screeched Tingo Drosset. Glinnes thrust the tail of the turban into her mouth.
Tingo was squat and sturdy and caused Glinnes considerable exertion before she lay helplessly tied, blindfolded and gagged. Glinnes hand smarted from a bite. Tingo Drosset’s head ached from the retaliatory blow. Not likely that Tingo Drosset would carry the family money, but stranger things had happened. Glinnes gingerly examined her garments while she groaned and grunted, thrashed and jerked in horrified outrage, expecting the worst.
He searched the black tent, then the orange tent, in a corner of which Duissane had ranged a few trinkets and keepsakes, and last the maroon tent. He found no money, nor had he expected to; the Trevanyi habit was to bury their valuables. Glinnes seated himself on Vang Drosset’s bench. Where would he bury money, were he Vang Drosset? The location must be convenient to hand and unmistakably identified by some sort of indicator: a post, a rock, a bush, a tree. The spot would be somewhere within the immediate field of vision; Vang Drosset would like to keep the hiding place under his benign surveillance. Glinnes looked here and there. Directly in front of him the caldron hung over the fire, with a rude table and a pair of benches to the side. Only a few feet away the ground had been seared by the heat of another fire. The old fire-site seemed a few steps more convenient than the spot where the caldron now hung. No explanation for the peculiar habits of the Trevanyi, thought Glinnes. At the camp on Rabendary … The thought trailed off as Glinnes recalled the camp on Rabendary Island, with the ground freshly dug on the site of the campfire.
Glinnes nodded sagely. Just so. He rose to his feet and walked to the fire. He moved the tripod and caldron, and using an old broken-hafted spade, thrust the fire aside. The baked soil below yielded easily. Six inches below the surface the spade scraped on a black iron plate. Glinnes tipped up the iron to reveal a cake of dry clay, which he also removed. The cavity below held a pottery jar. Glinnes drew forth the jar. It contained a bundle of red and black hundred-ozol notes. Glinnes nodded complacently and tucked it all in his pocket.
The cavout, now grazing, had defecated. Glinnes scraped the droppings into the pottery jar, replaced it in the cavity, and arranged all as before, with the fire burning under the caldron. To casual inspection, nothing had been disturbed. Shouldering the cavout, Glinnes strode back across the common to where he had left his boat. Vang Drosset had been struggling to free himself, to no avail, and had only rolled himself down the slope into the mud at the water’s edge. Glinnes smiled with indulgent amusement, and with all Vang Drosset’s
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