Destiny's Road

33 The Spring Caravan

There was no winter in Destiny's year. Removing winter allowed the other seasons to be almost the right length for the Earthtime clocks.

In order for the spring caravan to reach Destiny Town in spring, it must reach the Neck in autumn. Wave Rider hosted the spring caravan in early autumn, and the previous summer caravan carrying goods acquired along the Crab, three weeks later.

It was autumn now: the nights were cooling. Dionne, party of eight filed out onto the pier to watch the sunset.

Old Wayne Dionne traded in Terminus, selling carved and painted shells and similar goods collected along the Road by his family in Dionne wagon. Jeremy had known them for years. When they filed back toward the fire pit, Wayne called, 'Jeremy, meet Hester. She's old enough for the wagons now.”

'Hello. Hester.” Wayne's granddaughter had grown tall, and kept the quiet smile. “Will any of you be staying, then?”

'No, the tent's enough for us. Just meals tonight and tomorrow. We wouldn'tmiss your cooking.”

“I have something for you.” Jeremy showed Wayne what he'd found on the beach west of here: a flattish shell nearly a meter long. Rainbows played along its inner face where Jeremy had polished it.

Wayne looked dubious.

Jeremy persisted. “It doesn't look like a back shell, does it? More like a skullcap? This at the end would be where the beak extension broke off.”

“The beast would be huge.”

Jeremy set it aside.

Wayne said, “No, sell it to me. Somebody might be interested, back in Destiny Town. Forty?”

Money changed hands.

Jeremy asked, “Wayne, what would you think of my joining a caravan?”

And he watched Wayne's slow grin. “Unlikely. Why would you want to at your age?”

“I never saw a caravan pit barbecue. Everything I know is secondhand.”

“You do fine.”

“Would I do better if I'd been up and down the Road?”

“Maybe.”

“Would you want me in the cooking crew if you had to eat the result?”

“Maybe. Hester, what do you think?”

The girl smiled. Jeremy grinned back. Hester hadn't tasted his cooking or the Road's. Wayne wasn't taking him seriously.

Wayne wasn't a merchant.

Chloe and Harlow came out with the large salad bowl. Harlow stopped for a lingering kiss before going back in.

More merchants were gathering around the fire pit, or watching the sunset fade and the Otterfolk play. Merchants and suppliers did business here. Not many would bother to talk to the chef. Jeremy wore his pit chef's persona like a vividly painted mask, and of course the light hid him too.

Jeremy had persuaded Harold Winslow that he could run a pit barbecue. So Harold had run a strip of lighting along the deck's edge, above where Jeremy dug the pit. “My guests eat late,” he'd said. In that electric blaze Jeremy hadn't been able to tell whether food was raw or cooked.

In two weeks it had become much easier than trying to judge by sunset-light. And in this blue-tinged light no merchant from Tim Bednacourt's past had ever recognized him.

“This is one thing you almost never get on the Road,” an older man said, not to Jeremy. “Lettuce.” He looked around for inn personnel. “You grow this yourself?”

“Half our back garden is planted in lettuce,” Jeremy said, and kept the neutral grin as he recognized Joker ibn-Rushd, aged and weathered and gone a bit soft. He babbled On: “After all, it'd be wilted mush before it got here from the Terminus farms.”

Joker was frowning in the harsh, blue-tinged light. Better not give him time to think about where he'd seen this barbecue chef. “I'm Jeremy Winslow, part owner. You're new here?”

“Not quite new. I'm Dzhokhar Schilling. My wife Greta, my daughter Shireen.”

Jeremy clasped his hand and said, “Dzhokhar Schilling,” careful of his pronunciation, because Jeremy Winslow had never called this man 'Joker.” “Hello, Greta. Hi, Shireen,” more handclasps for the young woman and the ten-year-Old girl.

Joker was saying, “We're ibn-Rushd. You buy our cookware. I've spent time at Wave Rider, but usually I eat in the restaurant. I see enough of pit barbecues!”

“But it's a new thing to me,” Greta laughed. “For twelve years we've worked Dzhokhar's shop in Destiny Town.”

Joker had married a woman fifteen years his junior. She was small, pale of skin and hair, a bit plain, too easy to overlook. Jeremy asked her, “You've never been on the Road?”

“No. Dzhokhar has been trying to prepare me.”

Jeremy, trying to picture that, said, “We hear interesting rumors,” suspecting he already knew more than he was supposed to, and less. Had Joker explained- Joker grinned at them both. “Things not to be told.” The tuna must be cooked through by now. Jeremy drafted Lloyd, and together they turned it onto a platter and carved. The Schillings watched. Other merchants gathered to watch the show and to serve themselves.

Jeremy asked Joker, “How was that?”

Joker ate a mouthful. “Skillful.”

“I have to ask. Everything I know about pit cooking, I learn by asking. I've sometimes thought of joining a caravan.”

“Yes, I see.” Joker was amused. “Try grilling your fish when something has delayed the wagons. Cook and carve by dying sunset light, and Quicksilver already gone. You'll know then what a caravan chef's first law is. 'Get more lights!' Stick with the lights, Jeremy.”

Turnover was high in the caravans, but there were still familiar faces. Put Jeremy Winslow under blue light, dress him in white, age him, scar him: no merchant would know him from the past. But, even dressed in a merchant's flamboyant garb, Tim Bednacourt still might be remembered in daylight.

Of course he'd be crazy to go now. It was the wrong caravan!

After the spring caravan moved on... Harlow had fallen in love with Wave Rider, not Harold Winslow, maybe not Jeremy either. If Jeremy married her, she'd have his fifth of the inn after he was gone.

Come spring, speckles would be sprouting around the lettuce patch. He'd imposed that time limit on himself. Wave Rider was too public: a speckles crop couldn't be ignored for long. In early summer would come the outbound autumn caravan, and he must go.

But go how?

Hadn't he had this conversation once, long ago, with murderers trying to hijack a wagon? Nobody could cross the Neck alive, nobody could travel the Road, except with a caravan. Even a lone captured wagon would be attacked.

Tim Bednacourt had run the length of the Crab by keeping to the peaks no man had climbed. Now he was nearing fifty and he limped. Now he'd have a secure speckles supply; but could he still climb? Climb along the frost line, dip down for food and water, up and over to circle around any bandits. He'd even considered traveling up the narrow side of the Crab, but on the maps that looked lethal.

He'd need a way to cross the Neck. A boat, a surfboard: the currents ran the right way. He'd 'want a cockade, too. He hadn't found them growing anywhere.

What he was looking for was the least crazy way back.

And that was to talk himself aboard a caravan, if it was even possible. His family was serving dinner in the restaurant, out of earshot. He could sound out a few peripheral people, now.

The slow-cooking part of dinner was taking care of itself. Guests milled and sampled. Waver Rider's people milled and cooked. Jeremy joined a dozen guests out on the pier.

He knelt at the edge of the pier, water lapping just below his knees, and reached out with a slice of sweet potato. To the ten-year-old girl he said, “Shireen, go like this.”

Three flattish heads popped up.

“Winston,” he said, and one of the Otterfolk came forward to take the sweet potato. Short arms, wide hands with four thick, short fingers.

Jeremy handed sweet potato slices to Shireen. Shireen began distributing them to the other Otterfolk. Winston was still watching Jeremy.

Jeremy curled and uncurled just his fingers, no thumbs. Eight, sixteen, twenty-fourfish. Prawns, a double handful. One surf clam. Fingers wiggled: Don't bust your chops, we'll take what you can get.

Winston disappeared. Tomorrow he would be back with what he could collect, and would tell Jeremy what he wanted; but that was easier by daylight and while they were both in the water.

The little girl asked, “Jeremy, can I go in with them?”

“Depends. What are you wearing?”

“No!” cried Greta Schilling, unseen in shadow until now. “Tomorrow morning, yes, dear?”

“Yes, Mommy.”

Greta turned to Jeremy. “We wear our good clothes for your first night's banquet, you know.” Reproving.

“Mrs. Schilling, you flatter us.”

“Please, I am Greta. Jeremy, is it safe for a child to swim with Otterfolk?”

“Absolutely. We depend on it. If we don't entertain them, they don't fish for us. Greta, I know that name. Shireen?”

“Her great-grandmother Shireen died twelve years ago. Dzhokhar and I, we both loved her. So I married Dzhokhar Livnah and gave her name to our first daughter.”

It took Jeremy a moment to untangle that in his mind, but the implications-“So Dzhokhar settled with you? In Destiny Town.”

“Yes, for twelve years.”

And took Greta's surname, of course.

“His wife was with Armstrong wagon, you see, but she retired. Many merchants travel the Road for a time and then retire to a family shop. Dzhokhar could have married another merchant, but we knew each other-”

“Dzhokhar Livnah?”

“Yes. Why?”

“No, nothing.” But he'd always assumed that everyone on ibn-Rushd wagon was named ibn-Rushd! Assumed that Joker was single, too. “I only wondered how a man named Livnah joined ibn-Rushd wagon.”

She shook her head. “There are things I'm not supposed to tell.” If he forced too many merchants to say that too often, it would be noticed. But a caravan trainee was exactly who he wanted to question! He compromised. “Is there anything Ican tell you?”

She laughed.

“No, really. I've been listening to fire-pit talk for twenty-seven years. They speak a secret language, but I've picked up a little. Ibn-Rushd cooks, and that is my language.”

Shireen tugged at her mother's arm. “The fence,” she said.

“Yes. Jeremy, we walked down the beach this afternoon, as far as a razormesh fence. The beach beyond, it looked nice. Private. There were shells. Can you get us past that fence?”

“As I understand it,” Jeremy said, “if I could get you past that fence, you wouldn't see a restaurant here next year. That's the local birthground for the Otterfolk, Greta, and the Overview Bureau is very serious about that.”

“Oh.” She thought a moment, then asked, “After you fillet the tuna, where do you take the bones and head?”

“Soup stock. Everything interesting goes into the cauldron. On the caravans... you won't carry that size cauldron.”

“Why do you shudder?”

He shook his head, thinking that a chef could always break off conversation for some convenient urgency- “Is it true that we must get pregnant by men along the Road? And the men make the local women pregnant?”

“That's what they say. They say also that you merchants are almost inhumanly good at doing that with us mortals.”

She dimpled. “I thought Dzhokhar might have been having fun with me. Well, I haven't had the training yet.”

Most of the merchants had gone up the Road and the rest had gone to bed. The Winslow family cleaned up after them to some extent, then quit. Jeremy went up to bed. He could climb a flight of stairs, now, but not run up it.

He began stripping down, found he had some help. Harlow breathed in his ear. “So you want to join a caravan?”

She must have felt him lose his balance and wince as pain crunched in his healing knee. He said, “I've been thinking about it. Who told you?”

“Yvonne Dionne told me my husband was talking about hitting the Road. Yvonne and Wayne, the only thing between their shop and mine is a sandwich shop. Jeremy, were you serious? Is this a sudden thing?”

Still thinking as fast as ever in his life, Jeremy said, 'Not sudden, but I never could have talked Karen into doing it, and just to get away from here-“

“But with that limp-“

“Oh, I can wait for the autumn caravan. I'll be healed by then.” They were seated on the futon by now, and he took her face in his hands. “Will you marry me after the spring caravan leaves?”

“Well, I'd have to, wouldn't I?”

“What? Why?”

She laughed. “The caravans only take couples!”

“What?”

“You didn't know?” Still laughing. “But you asked me to marry you first. Good!”

He'd been thinking that she could vote his one-fifth share of Wave Rider. This blindsided him. “Everyone on a caravan is married?” What about Rian? and old Shireen? and Joker? Wait, Joker was married- “Well, no, not everyone. A woman in her teens or twenties, or a veteran who wants to die on the Road, but only if they're a caravan family, Jeremy. Anyone else, it's couples. Otherwise there would be too many men, I guess. Local help is supposed to be all men.”

He was still stunned. “Harlow, why didn't I think of coming to you before?”

“You may be an instinctive liar, Jeremy.”

She was the answer all along, and he'd been dodging and weaving- “No, wait, I'm a Spiral. You're a girl. We almost don't talk to each other in Spiral Town. I thought I'd got that... crap out of my head.”

“Hmmm.”

“Can we get on a caravan? Will you come with me?”

She hesitated. “You know there are certain rules.”

“I double-damned don't seem to know what they are!”

“We'd both be rubbing up against locals, mostly younger locals who can make babies. We'll be trained for that at the camp. I don't really know more than that, but I hear jokes.”

“Sounds like fun?” He put a question in that, and she grinned. “We can still rub up against each other. I remember the ibn-Rushds did.”

She said, “You know how to cook, but they'll train you to sit behind a counter and sell cookware and speckles.”

“I've watched. Only watched.”

“The third rule is very important. Keep the caravan secrets. Never tell.”

“My darling, you seem to have learned a lot of what they never tell.”

“I listened to merchants at Wave Rider for years before you came. I've spent more years talking to shopkeepers. A lot of them retired from the wagons, you know. Even so, I don't know anything deep. We'll have to persuade a wagonmaster that we can be trusted.”

He thought. Smiled. “I could persuade someone that I have kept a secret. I could ask, 'What would happen if Spadoni wagon fell into the hands of, bandits?' Better to trust me than someone who hasn't been tested.”

“What does it mean?”

Doubtfully, “Should I tell you?”

'Jeremy!”

“Spadoni is where they keep the real guns. Tucker has the shark guns and ammo, the stuff the yutzes use. The yutzes don't see what's in Spa- doni, and locals shouldn't have it, let alone bandits. If bandits stopped Spadoni, the whole caravan would have to deal with it.”

“Any idea what those weapons are like?”

“Some-”

“Don't tell me. Don't tell anyone.”

“Can we get in?”

“I don't know. Best if there's an opening on one of the wagons. Sometimes they're shorthanded. We can ask Walther Simonsen at Romanoff's. He knows you're the real thing. The spring caravan won't be back in time to do us any good, so there's no point in you talking to them. Talk to the suppliers.”

“Yes. Harlow, thank you.”

“Can Wave Rider do without us both?”

“We'll hire someone. I'd better tell someone where the extra speckles are. Brenda.”

She was searching for something in his eyes. “I don't see why it's so important to you. Oh, damn, of course I do. I forget who you are. You want to go home.”

That was true, and he nodded.

“Jeremy, promise me you won't do anything stupid.”

“Like what?”

“Don't run away home when you get to Spiral Town. Disappearing from a caravan rouses all kinds of excitement. They wouldn't leave until they found you or your corpse. They could cut off the speckles to Spiral Town! Promise?”

“Harlow, I promise.”

“Then I'll get us on a caravan.”

From autumn to summer was a happy time. Jeremy Winslow paid attention. Look again, it might he gone.

No way could he board a caravan without a background check. He'd made a whimsical choice twenty-seven years ago, and flOW the computer had him as Jeremy Winslow born Hearst. What might Willow and Randall Hearst have to say to that?

He went hack to Medical to get his knee looked at, and wangled two hours in the library.

Willow Hearst was dead: killed by overweight.

Randall Hearst had become an alcoholic. His periodic treatments were a matter of record.

Risk it.

Jeremy Hearst, born on the Road, was not a terribly happy child in

Destiny Town. He dropped out of Wide Wade's in adolescence, got into cooking anyway.

He took long walks along the beach with anyone who would come. He swam. He didn't risk the board. Caravan merchants need their legs! Harlow said that the bus stopped at Baikunur Beach, where the shuttles were loaded; prospective caravaners walked twenty klicks further to where they'd be trained, and they dared not arrive limping.

There was a thing Harlow couldn't help him with. How could he get fertile speckles across the Neck?

Get them into a caravan: a chef must carry speckles. But nothing of Destiny Town technology crossed to the Crab. No caravan, no wagon, no man or woman crossed the Neck without a skin search, Harlow said.

Was that true?

He couldn't quite ask, but-“Harlow, they take speckles pouches. And the guns in Spadoni wagon aren't low-tech.”

She shrugged.

At a guess: the rest of a caravan might be destroyed, but the prole guns in the #2 wagon must not fall into bandit hands. So phones or superskin or anything of settler magic would be kept in the #2 wagon too. And if a man couldn't get a pouch of speckles in there, he sure couldn't get one back out.

Jeremy considered a hidden pouch in a backpack.

He considered a trip to the Neck by surfboard: hide a pouch of speckles, pick it up after the search and during the leavetaking banquet.

He began playing in Wave Rider's kitchen.

In early spring Jeremy was able to say to Harlow, “Close your eyes. Try this.” It was a sweet fruit jell cut to the size of a thumb and rolled in seeds.

“Delicious,” Harlow said. She considered. “Sesame? Sesame and speckles.” She laughed at his chagrin. “Nobody else would have guessed, Jeremy! I'm the only one who knows you get your speckles free.”

'It's the sesame and honey that costs.”

She looked at what she'd bitten in half. Pale brown sesame seeds, bright yellow speckles. “You should dye them.”

Jeremy used a dark blue food dye, dilute. The tiny yellow seeds came out green as Earthlife grass. He could put green dye in the jell, or make a rainbow of colors. He dyed the sesame seeds red. He called it festivity candy, and then just festivity.

His only question now was whether dyed speckles seeds would sprout.

In spring, in the lettuce patch, they did.

And the autumn caravan departed at the height of summer.