Using the hair and a seeing spell cast on the top of the water in a horse trough, Ezratah located Yani easily. He was well within range, but it was still amazing just how far the Tari had managed to travel. He was quite a physical specimen.
The Tari warrior had left the main road and seemed to be taking a series of country tracks that led slightly more directly to Olbia - a good way to avoid pursuit. The countryside became hilly and trees often shaded the road. Walking as hard as he could and flying at sensible intervals Ezratah managed to catch up with him by midday. Again he did not join the Tari immediately but followed a short distance behind him, dropping back whenever the curve in the track or a hill brought him actually into view. He was half afraid of Yani, and yet at the same time it could be dangerous for him as a Mirayan to camp alone in this poorly settled area. He was still pondering this when he rounded a corner just in time to see Yani draw his sword as four armed men rushed him.
Ezratah dashed forward to help. The Tari had already thrown back two of his assailants with a single mighty sweep of his sword. He ducked a blow from the third and parried the fourth. The first two men had fallen backward and lay still. That must have been some blow, Ezratah thought as he stopped to watch Yani fight. With a few neat, quick strokes of his sword, Yani badly wounded the third attacker in his sword arm. The last dropped his sword and ran for it only to trip and fall on his face. When Ezratah reached him he was unconscious.
The attackers were Mirayan. They were probably escaped serfs, for they looked too wild to be any lord's henchmen. Who else would be attacking people this far away from the main road?
He turned back to Yani who was tying the wounded man's hands behind his back. Yani acknowledged Ezratah with a nod of his head and handed him a piece of cloth.
'Here. You want to heal this man's wound? I don't want him bleeding to death before some kind of authority finds him.'
'You really laid them waste!' Ezratah said admiringly.
Yani shrugged. 'They weren't very good. Used to preying on farmers, I guess. I haven't made another mistake, have I? This is not some kind of official thing? I mean they are all Mirayans.'
'No, no! I'd say they were outlaws.' He knelt down and looked at the man's wound. He was an ill-favoured fellow with native-style beard and hair, and an old scar down his face that had ruined his left eye.
'Then I guess I'll leave them tied up and report them at the next settlement. Can't leave them here attacking people like this.' Yani stood up. 'You know, I've been in your part of Seagan two days now and I've been in two fights. Is this what your people call law and order?'
'Are you blaming us for banditry?' Ezratah cried. 'Everyone has bandits.'
Yani shrugged and tied up the other three men.
With ill grace, Ezratah wasted good magic staunching the fellow's wound. The bandits would probably be hanged for their crimes.
His temper wasn't improved by the man saying to him with a serf's dialect, 'Here mate, you ain't gonna let some native do this to us, ar' yer?'
'Do you think I'm going to bother myself helping bandits and escaped serfs?' Ezratah said roundly, although it hurt his pride to see his countrymen in the wrong. 'Just be grateful you're getting healed, worthless one.'
The sense of humiliation lasted until the next village. The bandits had been troubling the area for some time and the Seagani villagers made much of both Ezratah and Yani. Yani did not enlighten them as to how small Ezratah's part in the business had been, which made Ezratah feel patronised but at the same time glad that he had at least saved Mirayan prestige with the local Seagani. It was scandalous that these fellows had been operating for so long, but the village was a small, dilapidated place without much Mirayan authority.
The Seagani offered them hospitality for the night, but Yani wanted to press on. Ezratah decided to go with him and was determined not to give Yani a chance to disappear. He was going to stick to the fellow like a burr to sheepskin and win some honour from the grateful duke. But was Ezratah wise to be travelling with Yani?
They walked on for a couple of hours until dark, and then stopped near an empty shepherd's lean-to. It was a lonely place, but somehow Ezratah trusted the Tari not to harm him. He placed wards around his blankets and lay down to sleep quite easily.
Later that night he woke suddenly and heard Yani talking. At first he kept quiet, sleepily thinking the fellow was saying one of his prayers. Then with a sudden, horrible tingling down the back of his spine, he realised that he was hearing not one voice but two. Both voices were speaking softly, but the timbre of the second was definitely different.
Horrible thoughts of being attacked filled him and the blood in his veins felt as if it was ice. After a moment of panic he got a grip on himself and brought his defensive spells to mind. When he felt better he was pleased that he had not given himself away by moving. If they thought he was still asleep, it would give him the advantage. So he lay there listening for any movement in his direction and straining to hear the chilling conversation behind him. Try as he might, he could not make out what was being said and he dared not use magic for fear of giving himself away. With his back to the speakers he saw nothing.
Finally the voices stopped. He tensed again, ready to fight, but nothing happened. Was it his imagination or did he hear footsteps crunching away on the dry summer grass? After a few moments he sat up and looked around. Of course there was nothing to see. Yani appeared to be sleeping peacefully and all around the moon shone coldly silver over the grass and dark shapes of distant trees. Inwardly he cursed himself as a coward. He should have turned around the minute he had heard them.
Now he no longer felt sure that he had even heard the voices. He could not remember hearing Yani settle down in his bedroll. Had it all been a dream? Yet some of the chill he had felt when he heard the voices still clung to his bones. After sitting for some time looking around, he lay back down. Though he thought he would not sleep again that night, morning came with surprising speed. With it came even more serious doubts over whether or not he actually had woken in the night.
Perhaps he should have contented himself with trailing the fellow. Aside from the midnight conversation there was also an easy assumption of equality from Yani that annoyed him. Most of his regimental colleagues would have already given the Tari a short, brutal lesson in respect, but Ezratah was confident in the superiority of Mirayan civilisation and had always figured that impertinent natives were simply ignorant and would quickly learn to be more respectful once they knew better.
So he did his best to school Yani, telling him all about Miraya and how they did things there. Somehow this led Ezratah on to the topic of the Mirayan civil war. Since Zarmartan the Second had died without viable heirs twenty-seven years before, the country had been divided into several smaller territories under a number of competing warlords who supported, sometimes inconsistently, one of three different factions. Since Yani seemed quite clever for a native, Ezratah did him the honour to treat him to the intelligent version of events - the causes and effects, not just the tales of mighty battles and ugly betrayals that were usually enough for primitive ears.
And yet at the end, all the Tari could say was, 'So that is why you have come here in such numbers. I've often wondered. But why do the Mirayans seek to bring peace and order to the Archipelago when it is so lacking in their own land?'
The remark left Ezratah speechless. He was completely, embarrassingly at a loss. Why had the fellow asked the question when the answer was so obvious? The Mirayans were bringing a great civilisation - their vastly superior magecraft, science, religion - to these backward little Archipelagan states. Yani was obviously not as smart as Ezratah had given him credit for.
The following day was much the same. They had returned to the main paved road to Olbia - Mirayan-built, as he took good care to point out. The Seagani still farmed the hills in their inefficient way, using only the most rudimentary cultivation techniques and moving their villages every few years instead of taking proper care of the buildings. The road itself was lined with Mirayan farms. They were clearly recognisable with their beautiful, neat fields of golden wheat or white sheep, their whitewashed buildings and their tidy orchards.