Deep Water

by Pamela Freeman

  They drank in silence while the horses found rainwater in hollows and lipped at the coarse grass. Ash wondered where the wind wraiths were, what they were doing. But there was nothing he could do about it. He remembered Doronit saying, “Concentrate on things you can do something about.” She had been right. He had to concentrate on getting Flax and himself safely to the Deep. At least this trail should cut their travel time down considerably. Once they were off the plateau, they should be only a couple of days’ ride to Gabriston. And then, the Deep.

  “What made you think of the lie, back there?” he asked, after a long silence.

  “What lie?”

  “You being a rich kid of the new blood.”

  Flax laughed. “It was a good notion, wasn’t it? I can go as one of them, just like my da. Comes in handy, sometimes.”

  Ash could imagine his mother’s reaction to that. She despised Travelers who impersonated Acton’s people. She could always pick them, and Ash had heard her snap her knowledge out of the side of her mouth as they passed someone pretending. She wouldn’t approve of this charade. His mouth firmed. Well, it wasn’t her life at risk, was it? She had given up all right to tell him what to do when she had handed him over to Doronit. Time for him to make his own decisions.

  “I think we should keep up the act,” he said.

  “Sure and certain,” Flax said comfortably. “I might even get you to shine my boots!”

  Ash laughed unwillingly. He had never been closer to liking Flax. “Safeguarders are skilled professionals, I’ll have you know,” he said with mock sternness. “We don’t shine boots.”

  “Shame.” Grinning, Flax settled down with his head on Cam’s saddle. “You can take first watch.”

  Liking him didn’t last long, Ash thought. Spoiled brat. But there was something comforting about Flax’s insouciance, about his resilience after the terrors of the night. Ash loosened his knife, just in case, and watched as the moon set and the dark crowded in.

  In daylight the plateau was still remarkable, windshaped rocks taking on the appearance of hunched figures, of curving waves, of flames reaching to the sky. There was rainwater in rock hollows to drink, but nothing to eat, and Ash’s stomach growled constantly once the sun was high.

  Then they reached the edge of the bluff, and could see Far North Domain spread out below them. Wheat fields shining golden in the sun. As they took their first steps off the plateau, Ash felt sharp relief flood him. They were out of the wilderness now, and safe from the wraiths. Flax grinned at him, mirroring his relief.

  The way down was treacherous, the ground covered with scree that shifted under their feet and the horses’ hooves. They slithered down as much as walked, leading Cam and Mud, who picked their way delicately, lifting their hooves high and looking hard done by.

  Reaching the valley floor was almost an anticlimax. They found a small waterfall trickling over the rocks and flung themselves down to rest while the horses drank. Ash’s legs were so rubbery, he almost looked forward to getting back on Mud.

  They had descended into a wide valley, with the first shoots showing in the ploughed fields. This was grain country, the Far North Domain; not an area Ash had been in much, but he knew it well enough to know that the valley held the Snake River — called so because of its curving, curling path that snaked around the flat valley bottom so much that there were places where it almost met itself. Villages were found in the center of the curves, protected on three sides by water, but vulnerable to flooding, so their houses were built high on stone pilings, with chicken roosts and rabbit hutches underneath, and stone-built silos were connected with the houses by causeways an arm’s length off the ground.

  As Ash and Flax rode along the rutted track that passed for the main road, they passed farm after farm where wild-eyed cats spat at them from barn doorways, and terriers yapped at their heels, while freckle-faced children peered at them from around corners.

  “They’re not called cats and dogs around here,” Ash said to Flax as Cam kicked out at a snapping brindled mutt. “They’re called mousers and ratters. Their job is to keep the pests from the grain.”

  “Do I look like a rat?” Flax demanded. Then he laughed. “Don’t answer that!”

  The farmers and their wives were out in the fields planting the second spring sowing, hoeing vegetable rows, tending the few new calves and lambs. There was not much pasture, here, where most land was given over to wheat and oats and maize.

  The black stone altars were few and far between, but they found one in a grove of trees in a river bend and each sacrificed a lock of hair for their salvation on the plateau. Ash prayed for Sully, the man he had killed, who would have quickened yesterday. He hoped that Sully’s ghost would find rest even though his killer had not offered reparation.

  Sully’s quickening set him wondering, as he had often wondered, about the dark after death, and the gate to rebirth. His father had told him that those who earned it were reborn. Rebirth was bought with courage and compassion and perseverance, tolerance and joy and generosity. There was a song… Ash stopped himself thinking about the song because any thought of his father teaching him — and not teaching him — made his gut clench. Rebirth — think about rebirth. The gods said it was true, but they refused to tell how, or when, any person would be reborn, or anything about someone’s last life. Live the body in the body, Elva had told him they said, one morning when they’d been washing dishes together in the kitchen in Hidden Valley. No one knew for sure if the rebirths were endless, or if somehow, sometime, you stopped. Some people said that if you were good enough, wise enough, kind enough, you eventually became a local god. Elva had asked about that, she had said, and the gods just laughed, which could have meant anything.

  They stopped in a village to buy supplies, and Ash stood scowling while Flax bargained amiably with the market stall owner. No doubt, he got a better price than Ash would have, and the man threw in a joke for good measure, about staying clear of the black dog, the spirit that led you astray.

  Flax laughed and lifted a hand in farewell. Ash realized that the resentment he felt was not just because fairer-haired people were treated so differently. He also resented Flax’s ease with people, his self-assurance, his conviction that everyone would like him, because everyone always had.

  He pushed the emotion down. Why should he envy Flax? After all, from what he could gather, Flax’s parents had sent him out on the Road when he was only twelve. At least his parents had waited until he was old enough to look after himself. Of course, Flax had Zel… Yes, he thought, he was definitely better off than Flax, and smiled to himself. Poor Zel, worrying about her little chick, gone off exploring the world.

  The people of Far North had mined their fields for stones and built their houses, their silos, and weirs across their slow-flowing rivers to make races for the water mills which ground their grain. There was no need for ferries, or bridges, or fords. The horses crossed with no more than wet ankles, and Ash and Flax didn’t have to pay tolls.

  “I like this country!” Flax said, popping a strawberry into his mouth. The horses liked it too, and cantered happily on the grass by the side of the track, so that they made good time.

  Ash’s purse was empty.

  They had to get some silver. Copper even, would do. “Guess it’s up to me, then,” Flax said cheerfully.

  “I thought Zel told you to stay out of taverns?” Ash said. He raised his eyebrows to imply that Flax couldn’t do anything that Zel forbade.

  Flax made a face back at him, looking very young. “I don’t have to go to a tavern to make silver,” he said.

  They had a choice of ways not long after. Either would lead them eventually to Gabriston, although the road that went by Cold Hill, the next town, was longer. At the crossroads, Ash knew they ought to take the shorter way, but the other road called to him strongly, with something like Sight but not exactly the same. The sensation worried him, but in the end he decided on the longer way, reasoning that they were being led
by the gods, and shouldn’t ignore Sight or anything like it if they hoped to get through the journey unscathed.

  In Cold Hill, which was barely larger than a village, they tied their horses next to a horse trough on the green, unsaddled them and gave them nosebags. Flax made his way to the side of the green closest to the inn. They had ridden all day, and it was evening, the night approaching in the slow, incremental way it did in the north, the sky lavender and lilac, the evening air scented with a stand of lilies growing in the inn’s front garden. There were tables set out there, and most of the inn’s patrons had chosen to bring their tankards out to sit in the mild air.

  Flax stopped opposite the inn, put down a large square of umber cloth, and began to sing. He just stood there, unself-conscious, relaxed, and let the warm notes rise gently over the drinkers’ heads.

  He sang a popular, sentimental song, to get their attention. Ash had seen it done often enough. Get them listening, without realizing it, and then bring out some louder or more startling song. He sighed. I should do my bit, he thought. There was a bench not far away, set no doubt for the use of older people when the green was busy as a market square. He knelt down beside it and began a gentle drumming on it with the flat of his hands, underscoring the rhythm of the song. Flax cast him a startled glance and then grinned.

  In the cool wilds of twilight, my lover comes to me,

  Gold in the sunset, her hair like summer corn

  Deep in the Forest, snug beneath a tree

  My love and I lie warm until the morn . . .

  They were listening. How could they not? Ash thought. He had half-wished that Flax would be bad, would have no strength to his voice to buttress the sweetness Ash had already heard while they were riding. But no, his voice rose strong and clear and wholly beautiful, and he sang without strain, without effort, letting the notes go fully, opening himself to the song so that it was like the song sang him instead of the other way around. He had been well taught, somewhere, somehow. Ash felt the labor with which he was drumming and flushed. It was a simple rhythm and in his head it was clear and easy, but once he tried to reproduce it his hands faltered.

  He concentrated. He could do this; he had done it, night after night, well enough so that the drinkers never noticed that he wasn’t a real musician. But what did they know? If he made a mistake, Flax would certainly notice, and he couldn’t stand that.

  He made it to the end of the song without an error and relaxed a little, rubbing his reddening hands and wishing he had a drum. A few of the drinkers nodded to him and kept drinking, without so much as looking like throwing a coin. Ash didn’t worry. This was the way it worked.

  Flax looked at him and mouthed: “Death Pass?” Ash nodded. The ballad about Acton was a well-known and much-loved one and it had a strong beat. You couldn’t do it without a drummer; there were sections where only the rhythm moved forward. He flexed his fingers and used his full palm to make the starting drumbeats as loud as he could. The drinkers stopped and looked, and Flax launched into the chorus straightaway. A good decision. They grinned and listened, and a couple, who’d clearly had the most to drink, even sang along.

  Bright flowed the blood of the dark-haired foe

  Red flowed the swords of the conquering ones

  Mighty the battles, mighty the deeds

  Of Acton’s companions, the valiant men.

  Ash wondered about Bramble. He kept his mind on the drumming, but the lower level of thought had to be busy with something, and he didn’t want to think about Flax, about how perfectly he sang, about how he was exactly the son Ash’s parents had hoped for. So he thought about Bramble instead, and wondered what was happening to her. They came to the first section where he had to drum alone and he cast everything out of his thoughts except the rhythm, determined not to disgrace himself in front of Flax. Flax came back in exactly on the beat, as precise as Swallow, and Ash increased the pace, as he was supposed to. It felt as bad as drumming for his parents. Worse, because he had been in constant practice then. He hadn’t played this song for more than three years. But the music was clear in his head. If nothing else, he knew the songs. Except the ones his father hadn’t taught him.

  That thought made his hands falter, although he corrected himself immediately. Flax didn’t appear to notice, but Ash was sure he would have. His face burned red. But the drinkers hadn’t noticed. They were banging their tankards in time with his drumming, so that he could ease off a little to protect his hands. When Flax sang the first words of the chorus again, the drinkers joined in enthusiastically. They sang the last chorus three times and this time, when the song ended, coins came flying through the air to them.

  Then the innkeeper came out with a small beer each and invited them to move to the inn garden.

  “I guess that’s not exactly in a tavern, is it?” Flax said, grinning.

  Ash moved to a table, which was better for his back and gave more resonance, but still hurt his hands. Flax stood beside him, and they performed another half-dozen songs; war songs and love songs and, at the end, when the innkeeper nodded to them to finish up, a cradle song that everyone present had always known.

  Close your eyes, close your eyes,

  My own little sweetheart

  You are tired, little boy

  So sleep now, my joy . . .

  Grown men wept the easy tears of the drunk as they remembered dead mothers, and young women grew sentimental, thinking of the children they would have someday. The soft notes rose clear and gentle into the dark sky, floating away to join the stars. This song needed no drumming. Flax sang alone, using the high part of his register so that it might well have been a woman singing. Ash felt almost as if he could hear an accompaniment, some impossible instrument which could play high and low at the same time, resonating behind and before each note. He wasn’t sure if the music was in his own mind or some quality of echo from the inn walls. While it was beautiful, the last, soft song hardly ever produced coins. Still, it sometimes produced other things, like a girl to spend the night with or a place in the inn stable.

  As he finished, Flax remained standing there, waiting. Ash realized, with a flash of humor, that he was waiting for Zel to come over and organize him. Instead, it was the innkeeper, bringing them ale.

  “Bring your animals round to the stable,” she said, kindly enough, as she handed the mugs to Ash. “But no light in there.”

  “Thank you, keeper,” Ash said. He resisted the temptation to tell Flax what to do. He wasn’t Flax’s big brother, and the boy was old enough to work out for himself what should be done next.

  But with the singing finished, Flax seemed a little dazed, so in the end Ash chivvied him over to the horses and got them, their gear and Flax around to the stable and settled in. They sat with their backs to the stable wall and slowly drank their ale. There was enough light coming from the inn’s windows for them to see each other and the horses. Cam and Mud shifted from hoof to hoof and whoofed their breath out a couple of times, half-talking to each other and half-reassuring themselves that this strange stable was their stable, at least for tonight.

  It had to be said, although he’d rather have cut out his tongue. “You sing well.”

  “Thanks,” Flax said.

  Ash wanted to hit him. It was all so easy for him. He just stood there and sang, and everyone around him managed life so that he could. “Who taught you?”

  “Mam, to start with, while I were a youngling. Then Zel organized it. Anytime we met up with other singers on the Road, she’d bargain for me to have some lessons. Mostly people was free with their time. Travelers, that is. We never asked blondies.”

  “Have you ever Traveled with anyone else?”

  Flax laughed shortly. “Not Zel. Keeps herself to herself. I don’t mind. We do all right.”

  Ash imagined Zel and his mother coming up against each other, and shivered. There’d either be coldness like the chill of hell, or they’d take one look at each other, recognize a like spirit, and be unbreakabl
e allies. Either way, the men in their families would fall in with their wishes, as they always had. Except, of course, for the matter of the Deep. Swallow had never quite approved. She didn’t like having to stay alone with the wives of the other musicians, camping out or taking over a cottage for the days the men were away. Ash never asked what went on during those days, and she had not volunteered the information, but he had gathered from some of the other women that a lot of praying went on, and a lot of partying, and his mother was not fond of either. But she always met them with a heavy purse, because the parties included dice, and she had Death’s own luck with the bones.

  Ash thought of Swallow’s face: thin, intense, beautiful. Bramble was beautiful, too, but although her coloring was Traveler, her bone structure and build were more like Acton’s people. Her face was broader across the high cheekbones and her chin was less pointed. She looked more robust. His mother looked like a wind would blow her away, which was so misleading as to be funny. No one was tougher or healthier. He had inherited that from her, at least. He was never sick. The longer he sat in the dark, the harder it was to keep his thoughts from the sharp realization that he would have to take Flax to meet Swallow, afterward. That he would have to hand him over to her and watch her listen to him sing. The meeting with his father would be bad enough. With Swallow, who lived singing so much that the rest of the world was a shadow to her, it would be a knife in his guts.

  Well, he had learned about knives, and how to avoid them, and how to take them if he had to, for the benefit of others. That was what a safeguarder did.

  Obscurely comforted by the thought, he got up to lay out his blankets, but was interrupted by a sound from outside. He drew his knife and put his back to the door, motioning to Flax to stay back. Flax just stared, his eyes wide.

  The door creaked open slowly. Ash tensed, ready for anything. There was a noise outside that he had never heard before. Like someone — a whole group of people — humming. Singing. Very high, very deep, some sweet and some harsh. Not quite on the same note. The noise set his teeth on edge and yet he wanted to hear more of it. Was this how the people of Cold Hill came to kill Travelers? Singing?