Page 88 of Swordheart
Brindle was silent for so long that she started to fear that asking about names was a terrible faux pas in gnole circles and he was now trying to decide whether to forgive her ignorance or declare a blood feud against her family unto the seventh generation.Oh dear. That would be just my luck, wouldn’t it? I embark down this road to get dowries for my nieces and I end up with a gnole family pledged to slay them all, except I don’t think gnolesdothat, do they?
“Yes,” said Brindle, giving her an appraising look. “An ox has a name.”
“Ah.”
The moment stretched out even longer. Halla wondered if she was allowed to ask what the ox’s name was.
Then: “An ox is named in a gnole’s language.” Brindle said… something. Halla wasn’t sure if she was even hearing it all. His ears were up and his whiskers forward, and she knew gnole language involved a great deal of whiskers, so probably that was part of it, too.
“Oh dear,” said Halla. “I don’t think I can say that, can I?”
“No,” said Brindle. “Humans don’t have all the parts to talk right.” He patted her arm, much the same way that he patted the ox, and it occurred to Halla that the gnole thought humans werelaboring under terrible handicaps and were presumably bravely making the best of it.
Well, he may be right. The gods know I can’t seem to tell Sarkis what I want to tell him. About kissing, for example.
Brindle pointed to the ox. “An ox has very good hooves. See?”
Halla dutifully looked at the ox’s feet. She had never kept oxen on the farm, only an elderly donkey, so she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be looking for, but the ox did indeed seem to have clean, solid hooves, without cracks or irregularities.
“In a gnole’s language, that’s an ox’s name.”
“Good Hooves?”
Brindle pulled down one corner of his lip in a frown. “No,good” He arched his whiskers as he said it. “Mmm. Beautiful, maybe?”
Halla stared at the hooves in question, which were brown and muddy.Beautifulseemed excessive, but what did she know?
“Prettyfoot?” she said.
Brindle broke into a smile, canines gleaming. “Yes. Close enough. Good name for an ox.”
Halla agreed, and made a mental note to never, ever tell Sarkis.
They saw the Motherhood riders again the next day, although the men did not speak to them at any length. They merely rode past, giving Zale a hostile look, and kept riding.
“Crying won’t keep them away forever,” said Halla.
“I wish I knew why they were so obsessed with us…” muttered Zale. “Or perhaps this is simply how they treat all religious travelers.”
“Some men do not like defiance,” rumbled Sarkis. “It eats at them like poison.”
“I didn’t defy themthatmuch,” said Zale.
“Has your god?”
The priest opened their mouth, then closed it again, their dark eyes thoughtful. After a moment: “We have. Whenever they overstep themselves, the other temples stand against them… and I will be honest, it is usually the Rat who supplies the law clerks. I had not thought of our Temple as the face of defiance, I confess, for it is the Forge God who opens their coffers, and the Dreaming God and the Saint of Steel whose paladins often stand guard. I had viewed our position as one of practicality, not of great courage. But it is often the Rat’s lawyers that theysee.”
Sarkis nodded. “The spokesman for the enemy becomes the focus of hate. I would guess they harry you for that reason as much as any other.”
“Ugh.” Zale scowled. “I feel like I should offer you a discount for having to put up with this.”
“You could take a nineteen percent commission instead of twenty?” said Halla hopefully.
“Consider it done. And now let us talk of happier things.”
“Does this end with me pissing in a jar again?”
“I believe we have reached the limit of what we can learn from you and the jars.”
