Page 9 of Something Human

“No, I mean—what do you do with the honey?”

“You just smear it on, I think, and then put the dressing on over top.”

“All right. We can do that.” He went over to the shelf where he had replaced the jar of honey, and rummaged about for an empty vessel. He found a small pot and poured some of the honey out into it. “From now on,” he said, putting the jar back on the shelf, “this is the food honey, and this,” holding up the little pot, “is the medicinal honey.”

“Is that important?”

“Yes, it is. It’s important to me.”

Rus gave him a look that suggested this made about as much sense to him as temples and fish sauce, but he said nothing.

“It’s lucky it was such a tidy wound,” Adares remarked, sitting down on the bed again with the medicinal honey. He dipped two fingers into the pot. “Won’t disrupt the symmetry of your tattoos.” The blue lines were continuous from flank to thigh, interrupted only by the band of linen holding up Rus’s loincloth. The holes made by the crossbow bolt missed the main part of the design. Adares dabbed the honey gently around the wound. He wiped his fingers and began wrapping the fresh bandage.

Rus swallowed. “Sometimes the warriors of the Luth have new tattoos made around their scars—to show off all the wounds that they have survived.” He winced slightly as Adares tightened the bandage.

“All done.” Adares took away the basin of water and the dirty bandages, and he set the pot of medicinal honey at the opposite end of the shelf from the food honey. He returned to sit on the edge of the bed, tossing the cover casually back over Rus. “Are you not a ‘warrior of the Luth’ yourself?”

“No, of course … ” Rus looked puzzled for a moment, then he laughed. “Of course, you cannot tell. No, I am not a warrior … ”

Adares raised an eyebrow. “What are you, then? You have a lot of tattoos. Don’t Luth men accumulate tattoos over the years, as they accomplish things?” He knew nothing about it, but this seemed logical. It was how it worked in some of the other tribes, anyway.

“Usually.”

“But you can’t be much more than twenty.”

“To be truthful, a little bit less. I am kahar—the Kosoth word is … I don’t know. What it is, is a servant of the gods. We get the tattoos all at once, when we have our initiation.”

“A servant of the gods,” Adares repeated. “A priest?”

“That is the word.”

“What were you doing on the battlefield?” But even as he said it, he guessed.

“Bringing the wrath of Genhath to fall on our enemies.” He didn’t sound happy about it. “I did not think, until you told me about your dream, that you did not know it to look at me. Among my people, it is obvious.”

“You’re one of the ones who rides the bulls.”

Rus nodded. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t be!” It came out rather forcefully. “No. You served your people very well. And it must take some skill. It looks difficult.”

“We train for a long time.” He hesitated, and Adares thought he was trying to decide whether to apologize again or to change the subject, wondering which one Adares wanted. Finally he said, “Staying on the back of a bull for the length of a charge is … it’s very difficult. And then to defend yourself from the enemy at the same time? Nearly impossible. A lot of us are killed. A lot of us have been killed in this campaign. I don’t know, when I go back, how many of us there will still be.”

“I remember seeing one of the bulls without a rider. I suppose … ”

“We usually try to get off. Your best bet is to get off as soon as you can take down one of the enemy and get onto his horse.”

“From the bull’s back?”

“It can be done. It is not as difficult as it sounds.”

“I’m not sure difficult is even the word I was going to use. That sounds like one of those things out of an epic with talking horses and chariots that fly.”

Rus frowned. “Phemian horses don’t talk?”

“Well, you know. Only under special circumstances.”

“Ah. And you don’t have the same kind of wild cattle in your homeland either, do you?”