You tell a wizard your troubles and ask him what to do, and he tells you; and he sells everything you tell him to the next customer—probably your rival."
"Don't you believe in anything?"
"I believe in myself. Tell me this. If those wizards are so powerful, why aren't they richer than they are?"
That stopped the boy for a moment. He gathered up another bunch of straw. "There's wizards," he said. "There's real ones."
"Because you know there are."
"I know there are."
"And the cat gets the saucers. I believe in the cat, boy."
"Don't talk like that." The boy made a sign, a fist and thumb. "The Field-thing left us grain, we shouldn't talk like that."
"Field-thing," Pyetr said.
"There
is
. We should leave him something. We should be polite. We have enough troubles."
"Because the straw-man will get us." A man could begin to worry, listening to this sort of thing, in the dark, in the chill of the rising wind. "Hah."
"Don't."
"Maybe you're just afraid, boy."
Sasha's jaw set. He tied off his knot, while the thunder muttered threats.
"It's only reasonable," Pyetr said. "That's a big cloud. We're not so big. I don't think you raised it. I don't think you can send it back.—That's the really terrible thought, isn't it? That that cloud doesn't care we're already cold and we haven't had a proper meal since yesterday and you really wish it would miss us. Go on and try."
"Don't joke! It has lightning!"
A man could believe in anything with the thunder rolling. A second shiver went down Pyetr's neck.
Which often made him a fool, especially when there was someone watching him.
"So maybe we should wish the lightning away. Petition old Father Sky."
"Don't talk that way."
"Well, hey, old graybeard," Pyetr called out to the sky in general, squinting in the icy wind and the blowing bits of grass. "Hear that? Do your worst! Strike me dead! You might have better luck than old Yurishev! But do spare the boy! He's very polite!"
"Pyetr—shut up!"
It was thin amusement, anyway. His side hurt too much, the wind had turned to ice, and his hands were shaking. But he said, "I'll wager you breakfast lightning won't strike us."
Thunder cracked, right overhead. Sasha jumped.
So did he.
And when the rain was coming down and the thunder was racketing and cracking over them, the both of them tucked into a shelter rapidly leaking despite their efforts, Pyetr Kochevikov began to think that he might indeed die before morning, by slow freezing; and after an hour or so under a shared coat, thoroughly soaked from the dripping water, he began to wish that he could speed the matter, because he was so cold and because the shivering hurt his side, and he could not sleep, he could not straighten his legs or move his arms in the little shelter.
Sasha slept, at least, a still warm lump against his body—and a barrier which kept him from shifting his knees that small amount he was sure would relieve the pain in his side. He tried two and three times to wake the boy—and gave up, finally, figuring that there was no place for the boy to move in the shelter, and that there was a chance of the cold finally making the wound numb if he could just think about that hard enough and long enough.
It was very, very long before the sun came back.
"Wake up," he said, shoving the boy hard. "Wake up, dammit."
And when he finally had signs of consciousness from the boy: "You see. We're alive. The old man missed us."
"Stop that!" Sasha said.
"Move," he said, his eyes watering with the pain and the immediate prospect of relieving it. "Move. You owe me breakfast."
Sasha got up and lifted their soggy roof off with a thump of small rocks and a cascade of water droplets. But Pyetr lay there trying to make his legs work again, and it was several painful tries before he could figure out a way to get up, using his sword, and the rock at his
"Don't you believe in anything?"
"I believe in myself. Tell me this. If those wizards are so powerful, why aren't they richer than they are?"
That stopped the boy for a moment. He gathered up another bunch of straw. "There's wizards," he said. "There's real ones."
"Because you know there are."
"I know there are."
"And the cat gets the saucers. I believe in the cat, boy."
"Don't talk like that." The boy made a sign, a fist and thumb. "The Field-thing left us grain, we shouldn't talk like that."
"Field-thing," Pyetr said.
"There
is
. We should leave him something. We should be polite. We have enough troubles."
"Because the straw-man will get us." A man could begin to worry, listening to this sort of thing, in the dark, in the chill of the rising wind. "Hah."
"Don't."
"Maybe you're just afraid, boy."
Sasha's jaw set. He tied off his knot, while the thunder muttered threats.
"It's only reasonable," Pyetr said. "That's a big cloud. We're not so big. I don't think you raised it. I don't think you can send it back.—That's the really terrible thought, isn't it? That that cloud doesn't care we're already cold and we haven't had a proper meal since yesterday and you really wish it would miss us. Go on and try."
"Don't joke! It has lightning!"
A man could believe in anything with the thunder rolling. A second shiver went down Pyetr's neck.
Which often made him a fool, especially when there was someone watching him.
"So maybe we should wish the lightning away. Petition old Father Sky."
"Don't talk that way."
"Well, hey, old graybeard," Pyetr called out to the sky in general, squinting in the icy wind and the blowing bits of grass. "Hear that? Do your worst! Strike me dead! You might have better luck than old Yurishev! But do spare the boy! He's very polite!"
"Pyetr—shut up!"
It was thin amusement, anyway. His side hurt too much, the wind had turned to ice, and his hands were shaking. But he said, "I'll wager you breakfast lightning won't strike us."
Thunder cracked, right overhead. Sasha jumped.
So did he.
And when the rain was coming down and the thunder was racketing and cracking over them, the both of them tucked into a shelter rapidly leaking despite their efforts, Pyetr Kochevikov began to think that he might indeed die before morning, by slow freezing; and after an hour or so under a shared coat, thoroughly soaked from the dripping water, he began to wish that he could speed the matter, because he was so cold and because the shivering hurt his side, and he could not sleep, he could not straighten his legs or move his arms in the little shelter.
Sasha slept, at least, a still warm lump against his body—and a barrier which kept him from shifting his knees that small amount he was sure would relieve the pain in his side. He tried two and three times to wake the boy—and gave up, finally, figuring that there was no place for the boy to move in the shelter, and that there was a chance of the cold finally making the wound numb if he could just think about that hard enough and long enough.
It was very, very long before the sun came back.
"Wake up," he said, shoving the boy hard. "Wake up, dammit."
And when he finally had signs of consciousness from the boy: "You see. We're alive. The old man missed us."
"Stop that!" Sasha said.
"Move," he said, his eyes watering with the pain and the immediate prospect of relieving it. "Move. You owe me breakfast."
Sasha got up and lifted their soggy roof off with a thump of small rocks and a cascade of water droplets. But Pyetr lay there trying to make his legs work again, and it was several painful tries before he could figure out a way to get up, using his sword, and the rock at his
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