chase. Damned velipads. Ought to roast the lot of them and be done with the stupid business."
Rawal shifted in the saddle, easing obviously stiff muscles. Then, grinning: "Thought you'd have gone straight north. That woman of yours, again. Talked you into returning her to her western homeland, didn't she? Ha! You should beat her more often."
Adrian returned the grin, willingly enough. He'd hoped they might make this mistake.
"Please, Rawal! You insult me. We want lands of our own—without having to quarrel over it—and the best pickings will be on the coast." He dismissed the rest with a shrug. "The woman knows the area well. She is my hunting bitch, no more."
Helga emerged from their quarters just in time to hear the last remark. Fortunately—Adrian blessed every god and goddess there was, in every pantheon he knew—she did not understand the language of the Reedbottoms very well.
Rawal glanced at her, back at Adrian, back at her, back at Adrian. Between the grin and the facial scars, Adrian thought his face might actually explode.
"No doubt. But that is not why Prelotta sent me. He asked me to deliver to you a message." Rawal's voice assumed the slight singsong of one man quoting another verbatim:
" 'Do not forget, Adrian Gellert, my lust for the matrons.' " He sat back in the saddle. "That's it. Don't ask me what it means. I have no idea. The Great Chief Prelotta is sometimes a bit odd."
And with not another word, he reined his velipad around and trotted off.
"What was that all about?" asked Helga.
Adrian translated, leaving out certain unnecessary passages involving female animals and hunting.
" 'Lust
Rawal shifted in the saddle, easing obviously stiff muscles. Then, grinning: "Thought you'd have gone straight north. That woman of yours, again. Talked you into returning her to her western homeland, didn't she? Ha! You should beat her more often."
Adrian returned the grin, willingly enough. He'd hoped they might make this mistake.
"Please, Rawal! You insult me. We want lands of our own—without having to quarrel over it—and the best pickings will be on the coast." He dismissed the rest with a shrug. "The woman knows the area well. She is my hunting bitch, no more."
Helga emerged from their quarters just in time to hear the last remark. Fortunately—Adrian blessed every god and goddess there was, in every pantheon he knew—she did not understand the language of the Reedbottoms very well.
Rawal glanced at her, back at Adrian, back at her, back at Adrian. Between the grin and the facial scars, Adrian thought his face might actually explode.
"No doubt. But that is not why Prelotta sent me. He asked me to deliver to you a message." Rawal's voice assumed the slight singsong of one man quoting another verbatim:
" 'Do not forget, Adrian Gellert, my lust for the matrons.' " He sat back in the saddle. "That's it. Don't ask me what it means. I have no idea. The Great Chief Prelotta is sometimes a bit odd."
And with not another word, he reined his velipad around and trotted off.
"What was that all about?" asked Helga.
Adrian translated, leaving out certain unnecessary passages involving female animals and hunting.
" 'Lust