Teri McLaren
"Look, my friend, here's the situation. Rotapan has the ajada. I need those stones back, or you won't get to where you want to go either, plain as you please, and don't even think about turning back, because in case you don't remember, someone is hunting your head, too. Be calm. Save your energy. Tying us up is just routine for Yob. Impresses the big boys and gives him a chance to think, though that could take all day. Anyway, I'm terribly sorry, you know. About deceiving you, that is." Og ended, exhausted from his tirade. It was more than Claria could bear.
"Oh, once again, a man apologizes and he thinks everything is all right," she fumed. "'I'm so sorry, Claria, for getting you into this mess.' 'I'm so sorry, Claria, for not watching better, and for demanding we take the most dangerous trail possible.' 'I'm so sorry, Claria, but it could never be. We are too far apart in all the important ways.' Hey. That's my hand you've got now."
"Sorry-er, sorry," Cheyne muttered.
Then he sat up straighter, took a deep breath, and caught hold of the stubborn knot. "That's the last time I apologize for apologizing. Claria, I'm just trying to get us free. The inconvenience of having to touch me or having me touch you is temporary, I assure you. Now if you will just hold that end-good. Thank you." Cheyne unraveled the nest of knots with a quick jerk. "Now sit still."
"We can get loose and you want us to sit here anyway?" she grated.
"Please. No disrespect to your considerable fighting talents, but think about this: they are twelve and we are three, one lame. They have their spears and our daggers now, too. Let Og talk to them. Just cooperate for now. Besides, any one of them is twice as big as you are, Claria. Perhaps you didn't see the heads hanging from the biggest one's belt? Here they come. Og, you know them, you do the talking. And keep us alive, do you hear?"
SONG OF TIME i 3 7
"Of course," said Og, practicing his best diplomatic tone. "Take your cue when I give it; do something showy, if you can."
The ore Cheyne had guessed to be the leader sauntered over and towered over them, sniffing the air. "Og. You have been gone so long. My daughter cries every night for you. You are the only thing she does not forget. You did not say good-bye, even. You are missing her, too, perhaps? This is why you have come back to my desert?"
The ore's heavy teeth clacked together when he spoke, and two or three flies wafted in and out of his mouth, seeming very much at home there. Cheyne could not tell if he was smiling or not. Claria, the tension too much for her, broke into nervous giggles at the mention of a lovestruck daughter, shifting her head to squelch them and avoid tbe ore's odor, unmistakably the same as the slaughterhouse on a busy day in the Barca.
"Womba is well, I presume." Og smiled engagingly. "I have thought of her often. To tell the truth, Yob, we are just passing through, and we will pay you due honor by letting you escort us to the Borderlands."
Cheyne had to admit there was a certain power in the little man's voice; the ore did not squeeze their heads from their bodies instantly, as might have been expected in the face of such a demand. All the same, he was wondering if letting Og speak had been such a good idea.
Yob scratched his head, trying to figure out the convolutions of Og's reply, what benefit it held for him, and just who was in charge here. "You always make my head hurt, Og. I had forgotten this thing. Now you must sing for us."
The others in the group raised their spears and shouted a deafening cheer.
"Looks like they like that idea, Og," Claria teased.
"They like any idea. That's why Yob is the leader. He has ideas," said Og miserably.