Harry Turtledove - Down in The Bottomlands (and Other Places)

A little later, the tour guide pointed to a small, nondescript plant with thin, greenish-brown leaves. “Anyone tell me what that is?”

He asked that question whenever he took a group along the trail, and had only got a right answer once, just after a rain. But now Benter vez Maprab said confidently: “It’s a Bottomlands orchid, freeman vez Krobir, and a common type at that. If you’d shown us a red-veined one, that would have been worth fussing over.”

“You’re right, freeman, it is an orchid. It doesn’t look much like the ones you see in more hospitable climates, though, does it?” Radnal said, smiling at the elderly Strongbrow — if he was an orchid fancier, that probably explained why he’d come to Trench Park.

Benter only grunted and scowled in reply — evidently he’d had his heart set on seeing a rare red — veined orchid his first day at the park. Radnal resolved to search his bags at the end of the tour: carrying specimens out of the park was against the law.

A jerboa hopped up, started nibbling on an orchid leaf. Quick as a flash, something darted out from behind the plant, seized the rodent, and ran away. The tourists bombarded Radnal with questions: “Did you see that?” “What was it?” “Where’d it go?”

“That was a koprit bird,” he answered. “Fast, wasn’t it? It’s of the butcherbird family, but mostly adapted to life on the ground. It can fly, but it usually runs. Because birds excrete urea in more or less solid form, not in urine like mammals, they’ve done well in the Bottomlands.” He pointed to the lodge, which was only a few hundred cubits ahead now. “See? There’s another koprit bird on the roof, looking around to see what it can catch.”

A couple of park attendants came out of the lodge. They waved to Radnal, sized up the tourists, then helped them stable their donkeys. “Take only what you’ll need tonight into the lodge,” said one, Fer vez Canthal. “Leave the rest in your saddlebags for the trip out tomorrow. The less packing and unpacking, the better.”

Some tourists, veteran travelers, nodded at the good advice. Evillia and Lofosa exclaimed as if they’d never heard it before. Frowning at their naivetй, Radnal wanted to look away from them, but they were too pretty.

Moblay Sopsirk’s son thought so, too. As the group started from the stable to the lodge, he came up behind Evillia and slipped an arm around her waist. At the same moment, he must have tripped, for his startled cry made Radnal whirl toward them.

Moblay sprawled on the dirt floor of the stable. Evillia staggered, flailed her arms wildly, and fell down on top of him, hard. He shouted again, a shout which lost all its breath as she somehow hit him in the pit of the stomach with an elbow while getting back to her feet.

She looked down at him, the picture of concern. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “You startled me.”

Moblay needed a while before he could sit, let alone stand. At last, he wheezed, “See if I ever touch you again,” in a tone that implied it would be her loss.

She stuck her nose in the air. Radnal said, “We should remember we come from different countries and have different customs. Being slow and careful will keep us from embarrassing one another.”

“Why, freeman, were you embarrassed last night?” Lofosa asked. Instead of answering, Radnal started to cough. Lofosa and Evillia laughed. Despite what Fer vez Canthal had said, both of them were just toting their saddlebags into the lodge. Maybe they hadn’t a lot of brains. But their bodies, those smooth, oh so naked bodies, were something else again.

The lodge was not luxurious, but boasted mesh screens to keep out the Bottomlands bugs, electric lights, and fans which stirred the desert air even if they did not cool it. It also had a refrigerator. “No ration packs tonight,” Radnal said. The tourists cheered.

The cooking pit was outdoors: the lodge was warm enough without a fire inside. Fer vez Canthal and the other attendant, Zosel vez Glesir, filled it with chunks of charcoal, splashed light oil over them, and fired them. Then they put a disjointed lamb carcass on a grill and hung it over the pit. Every so often, one of them basted it with a sauce full of pepper and garlic. The sauce and melting fat dripped onto the coals. They sputtered and hissed and sent up little clouds of fragrant smoke. Spit streamed in Radnal’s mouth.

The refrigerator also held mead, date wine, grape wine, and ale. Some of the tourists drank boisterously. Dokhnor of Kellef surprised Radnal by taking only chilled water. “I am sworn to the Goddess,” he explained.

“Not my affair,” Radnal answered, but his sleeping suspicions woke. The Goddess was the deity the Morgaffo military aristocracy most commonly followed. Maybe a traveling artist was among her worshipers, but Radnal did not find it likely.

He did not get much time to dwell on the problem Dokhnor presented. Zosel vez Glesir called him over to do the honors on the lamb. He used a big pair of eating sticks to pick up each piece of meat and transfer it to a paper plate.

The Martoisi ate like starving cave cats. Radnal felt guilty; maybe ordinary rations weren’t enough for them. Then he looked at how abundant flesh stretched the fabric of their robes. Guilt evaporated. They weren’t wasting away.

Evillia and Lofosa had poured down several mugs of date wine. That soon caused them difficulties. Krepalgans usually ate with knife and skewer; they had trouble manipulating their disposable pairs of wooden eating sticks. After cutting her meat into bite-sized chunks, Lofosa chased them around her plate but couldn’t pick them up. Evillia managed that, but dropped them on the way to her mouth.

They both seemed cheerful drunks, and laughed at their mishaps. Even stiff-necked Dokhnor unbent far enough to try to show them how to use sticks. His lesson did not do much good, though both Highhead girls moved close enough to him to make Radnal jealous. Evillia said, “You’re so deft. Morgaffos must use them every day.”

Dokhnor tossed his head in his people’s negative. “Our usual tool has prongs, bowl, and a sharp edge, all in one. The Tarteshans say we are a quiet folk because we risk cutting our tongues whenever we open our mouths. But I have traveled in Tartesh, and learned what to do with sticks.”

“Let me try again,” Evillia said. This time, she dropped the piece of lamb on Dokhnor’s thigh. She picked it up with her fingers. After her hand lingered on the Morgaffo’s leg long enough to give Radnal another pang, she popped the gobbet into her mouth.

Moblay Sopsirk’s son began singing in his own language. Radnal did not understand most of the words, but the tune was wild and free and easy to follow. Soon the whole tour group was clapping time. More songs followed. Fer vez Canthal had a ringing baritone. Everyone in the group spoke Tarteshan, but not everyone knew Tartesh’s songs well enough to join in. As they had for Moblay, those who could not sing clapped.

When darkness fell, gnats emerged in stinging clouds. Radnal and the group retreated to the lodge, whose screens held the biters away. “Now I know why you wear so many clothes,” Moblay said. “They’re armor against insects.” The dark brown Highhead looked as if he didn’t know where to scratch first.

“Of course,” Radnal said, surprised Moblay had taken so long to see the obvious. “If you’ll hold still for a couple of heartbeats, we have a spray to take away the itch.”

Moblay sighed as Radnal sprayed painkiller onto him. “Anyone want another song?” he called.

This time, he got little response. Being under a roof inhibited some people. It reminded others of their long day; Toglo zev Pamdal was not the only tourist to wander off to a sleeping cubicle. Dokhnor of Kellef and old Benter vez Maprab had discovered a war board and were deep in a game. Moblay went over to watch. So did Radnal, who fancied himself a war player.