Worlds That Weren't

by Walter Jon Williams

  “Yes, I am—by my pa ’n’ ma, ’n’ my sisters, your blood you weren’t man enough to get revenge for,” Sonjuh said coldly. “I call their spirits down on you, Aydwah sunna Chorge, to haunt you sleeping ’n’ waking, by bed ’n’ field ’n’ hearth, you ’n’ all yours.”

  Aydwah raised his bow, a six-foot length of yellow-orange boisdawk wood.

  Sonjuh ignored the creak of the shaft being drawn and cast a jeering call over her shoulder: “Go ahead, Aydwah Kin-Killer—shoot your brother’s girlchild in the back ’fore witnesses, ’n’ put your head up on a pole!”

  With that, she squeezed her mount with her thighs and left at a canter. The flat unmusical smack of the bowstring sounded behind her, but the shaft flashed off to one side to bury itself amid the stooked corn and pumpkins and cowpea vines; her uncle hadn’t quite dared.

  I wonder if this is how father felt, when he pushed a quarrel, she thought briefly; it was an intoxication, a release of frustration like a dam breaking. Bet the hangover’s worse than whiskey, though.

  IV: A GATHERING OF EAGLES

  “Sah!”

  The corporal in charge of the squad he’d borrowed from Galveston’s garrison commander gave a crackling stamp-and-salute; Eric King returned the gesture. The noncom and his squad were natives, too, stalwart muscular men, dark brown of skin, with kinky hair and broad features. They’d been recruited from the farming and fishing tribes who were spread thinly over the central Texas coast, it being policy to raise local levies where possible, since they were always cheaper and often hardier than imported regulars.

  But Imperial discipline puts down deep roots, King thought, as the man wheeled off to supervise his squad; they struck the tents and folded them for pack-saddle carriage with practiced efficiency.

  An ox wagon had brought the gear this far from the steamboat; two tents, a large and a small—military issue—and a fair pile of boxed weapons, ammunition, equipment, and supplies—the latter including brandy from France-outre-mer, distilled in the hills near Algiers, and whiskey from New Zealand. Robre Hunter had raised his brows and smacked his lips over a small sample of each, and King made a mental note to advise Banerjii to keep some in stock. Being teetotal as well as a vegetarian, it probably hadn’t occurred to the Bengali that booze came in different qualities and prices.

  The native guide looked at the pile of equipment. “Lord o’ Sky!” he said. “If you Empire men take this much on a hunting trip, what do you drag along on a war-party?”

  “Considerably less,” King said dryly, remembering fireless bivouacs in the Border hills, rolled in his cloak against blowing snow and gnawing a piece of stale chapatti while everyone listened for Pathan raiders creeping up on their bellies under cover of the storm.

  “I’m hunting for pleasure and I’m not in a hurry. Why not be comfortable as possible? When we of the Angrezi Raj fight, all we care about is winning.”

  Robre nodded slowly. “Makes sense,” he said. “Let’s get on about it, then.”

  The Imperials had camped in the pasture of an outlying farm owned by the Jefe of the Alligators, a few acres of tall grass drying toward autumn surrounded by oak and hickory and magnolias and trees he couldn’t identify. It had a deep stillness, broken by the whicker of horses and the trilling of unfamiliar birds, and the smells were of sere grass and wet leaves and dew on dust. King smiled in sheer pleasure as he stood with hands on hips looking about him; an owl flew past him, out late or early, with a cry like who-cooks-for-you.

  “What’s that called?” he asked Robre.

  The native guide blinked at him in astonishment. “You don’t have ’em? That’s a barred owl—come out in daylight more ’n most of their kind.”

  “That’s the point of traveling,” he said. “To see things you haven’t got at home. Now, to business.”

  He sat in a folding canvas chair, Ranjit Singh on one side and Robre on the other. A table before him bore a register book, pen, ink bottle, and a pile of little leather bags cinched tight with thongs around their store of Imperial silver rupees. The natives here, he’d noticed, were fascinated and impressed by writing; very conveniently, they were also quite familiar with the concept of coined money as a store of value. Stamped silver came up in trade from the city-states farther south, although the Seven Tribes minted none themselves. He’d been in places where everything was pure barter, and the simplest transaction took forever.

  “Step up,” he said, in the local tongue, then sighed as they crowded around, yelling; the concept of standing quietly in line was not part of the local worldview.

  About two dozen men had applied for the eight wrangler-muleteer-guard-roustabout positions; Robre knew some of them personally, and most by reputation. In fact, two slunk off immediately when they saw his face. Most were young, given leave by their fathers in this slack part of the farming year and eager for the rare chance to earn hard money.

  Robre put them through their paces, checking their mules’ and horses’ backs for sores and their tack for cracked leather, watching them pack and unpack a load, follow a track, shoot at a mark, run and jump and wrestle.

  King had Ranjit Singh handle the hand-to-hand testing. It was a good way to teach these wild natives a little respect, and none of them lasted more than a minute before finding themselves immobilized and slammed to the ground. The local style was catch-as-catch-can, the men strong and quick and active, quite oblivious of pain, but utterly unsophisticated. He wasn’t surprised; it was often that way, with warrior groups like this. They put so much into their weapons that they neglected unarmed combat, and the style the Imperial military used drew on ancient Asian traditions.

  The Sikh rose grinning from the wheezing, groaning body of the last, dusted his hands, beat dirt and bits of grass and weed off his trousers; sweat glistened on his thick hairy torso, where iron muscle rippled in bands and curves.

  “Not bad,” he said jovially. “For a man who knows nothing.”

  The Sikh said it in Hindi, which took the sting out, although the object of it could probably guess the meaning of the words as he sat up and rotated a wrenched shoulder; the other candidates laughed at his discomfort. He was older than most of them—in his thirties, a tall rawboned swarthy man.

  “All right,” the local said to the Sikh as he rose and rubbed his bruises. “You got some fancy wrasslin’ there—’n’ you’re strong as a bear with a toothache ’n’ twice as mean. Now, Jefe,” he went on to King, “who’s going to be your trail-boss on this trip?”

  “I’m in command,” King said. “After me, my man Ranjit Singh here; after him, Robre sunna Jowan. Any problems with that—” He glanced down at the register. “—Haahld sunna Jubal?”

  “You bet there is, by God. Robre is a good man of his hands ’n’ a fine hunter, no dispute. But it’s not fitting he should be trail-boss over older men, him so young ’n’ not having wife nor child nor land of his own and all.”

  The rest stood silent; one or two seemed to agree. Robre flushed, but King put out a hand to restrain him. “In that case, you’re free to go,” he said cheerfully.

  The face of the native standing before him turned darker. “That’s a mighty high-top way to speak, stranger, considering you’re far from home ’n’ alone here. Who’d you think you are?”

  King rose, still smiling slightly, but the other man took a step back. “I know I’m an officer of the Empire,” he said calmly. “Which means that I’m an automatic majority wherever I go.” He gestured to the moneybags. “If you take my silver, you take my orders. If you won’t, get out.”

  His body stayed loose, but his hands were tinglingly aware of the position of saber and pistol and knife. He’d met men like these before, from peoples whose ways demanded that a man be prickly and quick to take offense and forever ready to fight. You had to begin as you meant to go on, and be ready to back it up, like the head wolf in a pack. The air crackled between them, and the native’s eyes shifted slightly.

  Just then the drumming sound o
f hooves turned heads. A ridden horse, a remount and a mule, all sweating a bit. And the rider…

  Well, well, it’s the little redhead, King thought. He’d gotten most of her story out of Robre, and felt a certain sympathy—it was a hard world, and harder still for an orphan. Well, well, not so little, either.

  In sunlight and flushed with exertion she looked even better than the other night’s tantalizing glimpse. She kicked a leg over the pommel of her saddle and slid to the ground, bosom heaving interestingly under the coarse cotton shift as she came toward him with her dog panting at her heel.

  “Heya, Empire-Jefe King,” she said bluntly.

  “Hello, miss,” he answered, amused. I am an Imperial chieftain, I suppose.

  “Hear you’re hiring,” she said. “I want work.” At a snicker from the crowd of clansmen, she turned around and glared. “And not as no bedwarmer, either!” Turning back to King, “I can carry my load, ’n’ I know the eastern woods. Hunted east of the Three Forks since I was a girl, ’n’ with my pa east of the Black River twice.”

  Beside King, Robre stirred, surprise on his face. Evidently that’s some claim; but she’s not lying, I’d think. Intriguing!

  Haahld sunna Jubal snorted. “You got to be a fightin’ man for this trip, missie, able to carry a man’s load. Want me to test your wrasslin’?” The clansman roared with laughter.

  Sonjuh’s face flushed red, and her foot moved in a blur while Haahld sunna Jubal was still holding his sides and hooting. There was a meaty thump as the toe of the girl’s boot slammed into the native’s groin.

  King’s lips quirked upward; he thought he’d have been better prepared than the luckless Haahld, but then he’d stopped thinking of women as necessarily helpless when he was an ensign leading a patrol to break up a brawl in a military brothel in Peshawar Town. An Afghan tart crouching under a table had nearly cut his hamstrings with a straight-razor, and he’d never forgotten the raw terror of the moment.

  The haw-hawing laughter turned into a strangled shriek of pain as the man doubled over and fell to the ground, clutching himself and turning brick red. Ouch. That hard a kick in the testicles was no joke—something might have been ruptured; the girl’s long legs were slender, but muscled like a temple acrobat’s from running and riding and tree-climbing. Now, there’s native talent, he thought, grinning and wincing slightly.

  She stood back in the sudden silence, then seemed to lose a little of her bristling aura as most of the company guffawed and slapped their thighs; even Robre, who seemed like a sobersided young man, grinned openly.

  Haahld was puking helplessly now, and moaning. Someone threw a bucket of water over him, which seemed to give him a little strength, and he crawled away to haul himself upright along a tree trunk, still nursing his crotch with one hand. He got a good deal of witty medical advice about poultices from the crowd, although a few of the older and more respectable looked shocked and disapproving.

  “Well, miss, generally if I want to kick a man in the groin, I handle it myself rather than hiring it done,” King said, smiling. “Although I concede that was good work of its kind. What else can you do?”

  “Ride. Rope. Run like a deer. Handle a pack mule. Track meat-game or big cat—or a man—through brush country; we lived aside in deep woods. I’m a pretty good shot, too.”

  She turned, unslung the crossbow from her saddle and fired it at the target eighty yards away. The snap of the string and the thunk of the bolt striking the magnolia came almost instantly, and the octagonal steel head sank deep into the midriff of the human figure chalked out on the bark. King raised a brow, impressed despite himself, and at the speed with which she reloaded. Then she slid the tomahawk from where it rested across the small of her back and threw; that went home in the center of the X they’d carved in a dead pine twenty paces away. Haahld winced away—he’d used that trunk to regain his feet—and fell again.

  “Your man Robre there can look at my beasts,” she said. “Sound backs ’n’ feet, ’n’ kept proper.”

  “Well and good,” King said calmly, as Robre did just that, picking up hooves to check their shoeing and seeing that no bare gall-marks or sores hid beneath the tack.

  King continued: “But why do you want to go on a dangerous expedition?”

  “You’re going into the east woods,” she said. “Mebbe as far as the Black River, naw? I can’t go that far by my own self; too dangerous.”

  King frowned; he’d heard of her obsession. “I’m not taking a…what’s your term? War party? I’m going to hunt, not fight.”

  For the first time Sonjuh smiled, although it wasn’t a particularly pleasant expression: “Mebbe not, but that won’t be much of a never mind to the swamp-devils. If your trail-boss there—” She used her chin to indicate Robre. “—has told you it’s unlikely, he’s a mite too cheerful about the prospect, to my way of thinking.”

  “Well then, miss: can you cook?”

  She flushed again, and opened her mouth, then closed it. When she spoke, it was with tight calm. “I’m not looking to hire on as kitchen help, Empire-Jefe.”

  “When I’m in the field, usually my man Ranjit does for both of us,” King said. “But I need him for other work now. You can carry our provisions on your mule and do our cooking and Robre’s; same daily rate for your work and your animals as the rest. Take it or leave it.”

  Their eyes locked, and after a long moment she nodded. And you can control your temper somewhat, my red-haired forest nymph, he thought, inclining his head slightly. He wasn’t going to take a complete berserker along, no matter how attractive and exotic. Stalking the wild Sonjuh will add a little spice to our expedition, eh, what?

  One of the pieces of advice his father had given him when he got his commission was that excitable women were wearing, but often worth the trouble.

  A shout brought their heads around. Haahld had recovered enough to pull Sonjuh’s tomahawk out of the dead pine. He’d also recovered enough to start shrieking again, a torrent of curses and threats. His first throw was erratic but vigorous; not only Sonjuh but also half a dozen others went flat as it pinwheeled by. The handle struck a mule on the rump, and the beast flung both heels back and plunged across the meadow braying indignantly, knocking Robre down and nearly stepping on him. Haahld wrenched at another throwing-ax stuck in the tree, froth in his beard; several men shouted, and Sonjuh did a rapid leopard-crawl toward her crossbow.

  King wasted no time. His Khyber knife was slung at the back of his belt with its hilt to the right. He drew it, and threw with a hard whipping overarm motion; like many who’d served on the North West Frontier, he’d spent some time learning how to handle the versatile Pathan weapon.

  His had a hilt fringed with tiny silver bells, but the business part was eighteen inches of pure murder, a thick-backed single-edged blade tapering to a vicious point, like an elongated meat-chopper from the kitchens of Hell. It turned four times, flashing in the bright morning sun, then pinned Haahld’s arm to the stump like a nail, standing quivering with his blood running down the wood. The silver bells chimed….

  Another silence, and Haahld’s eyes turned up in his head; his fall tore the chora-knife out of the wood, and the thump of his body on the ground was clearly audible.

  “Somebody see to him,” King said. “And to that mule.”

  Sonjuh was staring at him, in a way that made him stroke his mustache with the knuckle of his right hand in a quick sleek gesture; Robre was giving him a considering look, evidently reconsidering first impressions. Knife-throwing was more of a circus trick than a real fighting technique, but there were occasions when it was impressive, without a doubt.

  “No trouble with your local laws?” King asked, sotto voce.

  Robre shook his head. “Naw. Haahld fell on his own doings.” A grin. “Couldn’t hardly do anything right, after that she-fiend hoofed him in the jewels. He’d been beat by a woman—’n’ beatin’ her back would just make him look mean as well as weak.”

  “Well, th
eir customs have the charm of the direct and simple,” King muttered to himself, in Hindi.

  Sonjuh had gone to investigate his supplies after she retrieved her tomahawk and beasts, unpacking her mule beside the boxes and sacks. She returned leading her riding horse.

  “Four o’ them rupees,” she said, holding out a hand. “The stuff you need, I can get it in Dannulsford ’n’ be back in about an hour.”

  King blinked in mild surprise; he’d left purchasing trail supplies to Robre, who seemed unlikely to miss anything important. When he said so, Sonjuh snorted.

  “You’ve got enough cornmeal ’n’ taters ’n’ bacon and such,” she said contemptuously. “Plain to see a man laid it in. Men don’t live like people on their ownesome; they live like bears with a cookfire. If I’m going to cook, I’m going to do it right—I have to eat it, too, don’t I?”

  King handed her the money and stood shaking his head bemusedly as she galloped off. Her dog sat near the pile of supplies she’d set him to guard, giving a warning growl if anyone approached them too closely.

  “Hoo,” Robre said, looking south down the pathway that led to the Alligator Jefe’s steading. “Taking Sonjuh Head-on-Fire with us…ought to make the trip right interesting, Jefe King.”

  “My thought exactly,” King said, and laughed.

  “What’s that?” King asked, waving a hand to indicate the loud tock-tock-tock sound that echoed through the open forest of oak and hickory.

  Robre’s brows rose; the Imperial was astonishingly ignorant of common things, for a man who was a better-than-good woodsman and tracker.

  “That’s a peckerwood, Jefe,” he said. “A bird, sort of ’bout the size of a crow, with a red head ’n’ white under the wings. Makes that sound by knocking holes in trees, looking for bugs to eat. The call’s something like—”

  The hard tocsin of the woodpecker’s beak stopped and gave way to a sharp, raucous keek-keek-keek.

  “—like that.”

  The fact that he’d fallen into the habit of calling the Imperial Jefe—technically the word for a clan chief, but often used informally for any important man—rather surprised him. Everyone else in the hunting party did, too, even Sonjuh, whose new gift-name of Head-on-Fire had stuck for good reason.