by Larry Niven
“Aye, My Lord.”
Chalker’s throw was good but not perfect. The bird took the spear full in the chest, staggered, then charged toward the wagon train, ignoring Sandry and his chariot and horses. The others followed.
“Never saw them do that before,” Chalker shouted. “But if they’re ignoring you, maybe we can come up behind them.” He hefted a stabbing spear.
“Right. Let’s do it.” Sandry wheeled the chariot and charged. This time Chalker’s thrust was perfect, just where the neck joined the body. The chariot wheeled.
“They’re turning toward us!” Chalker shouted. “They’re chasing us.”
“Right. Let’s lead them to Fullerman.” And that’s the way it should be, he thought.
As he led the birds toward the waiting spearmen, he heard Mouse Warrior’s triumphant shouts from the wagontop. “Hey, Harpy!”
The marines cheered. They had killed two of the birds, with one marine clawed badly.
Sandry examined the wounded marine. “I think you’d better go home,” he said. “Maydreo, take him back to the gates and leave him with his comrades. With three in the chariot, walk the horses most of the way there. Trot back.”
“I don’t want to go back,” the marine protested. “I’ll lose my pay.”
“Squirrel?” Sandry said.
She shook her head. “I can keep him alive, but it will take time and magic, and we don’t have either to spare. He’ll be a lot better off back in Condigeo.”
“Right. Maydreo, you and Whane help this trooper home. Sorry, lad, but not much we could do.” He waited for a nod from Gundrin, then waved Maydreo on his way. Sandry waited until the chariot was well away and turned to the others.
“Now. How did he get clawed?”
“Broke ranks to finish a wounded bird,” one of the marines said.
Sandry nodded. “Lesson learned?”
“Sir. Yes, sir!”
“Good. Carry on.” Sandry touched the reins. They rode back to the front of the wagon train. “We can move out now,” he said. “Maydreo shouldn’t have any problem following the trail.”
Green Stone nodded. “You win again,” he said.
“Easy enough fight,” Chalker observed.
Sandry nodded. “Two groups of six are a lot easier to fight than one big group. I wonder why they tried it that way.”
“The god is experimenting,” Clever Squirrel said. “Learning. But we’re learning too! He can only control a few at a time, maybe only one. I don’t know how fast he can shift attention from one bird to another. May depend on how far away he is.”
“Hmmm,” Sandry said. “Maybe that’s it, then. That first column, we charged, and Chalker put a spear in the bird’s chest, but they kept on going toward the wagons. Fullerman was scrambling to get in front of them before they could get at the bison.”
“Bison!” Green Stone said. “If they start attacking bison instead of following the horses, we have problems, I think.”
“Yes. And I think that’s where these were headed,” Sandry said. “But since they were ignoring us, I could come up behind them. Chalker got the last one in line, and the lead one he’d put a spear into stumbled, and then they all charged after me the way they’re supposed to.”
Squirrel looked thoughtful, then nodded.
“What makes you think the god’s not right here?” Burning Tower asked.
“I watched the fight,” Squirrel said. “If you watch close, it’s pretty easy to see what’s happening. If I could have watched from the wagontop and given orders to each bird, I could have won that battle no matter how good Sandry’s men were. At least I think I could. But it didn’t work that way. I think the god can only see through one bird’s eyes at a time. He can jump from one bird to another, but he’s not overhead looking down on the battle, so he’s not close. I think he’s a long way off.”
“Long way?” Sandry asked.
She nodded. “I don’t feel any presence of a god here at all. Not a trace.”
“Well, that’s good,” Sandry said. “I’d hate to fight them if they were all getting orders from someone watching what happens. But Squirrel, usually they chase horses when we get close, even if that’s not smart.”
She nodded again. “That’s their nature. If the god could stop them, he would. He cobbled things here. He could control that one group, but while you were playing with them, Bentino was leading the other group by the nose. So then the god left your group to try to guide the other one, but they were already chasing horses in a circle. That’s why I think he’s far away.”
“So when we get closer, the birds will act smarter?”
Squirrel nodded.
“That’s scary. Anything we can do?”
“A god is making war on us. I’m as scared as you can imagine,” Squirrel said.
Maydreo caught up with them in the evening. “They wanted to send a replacement, but I’d have had to wait for them to find him, and I didn’t really fancy trying to catch up with three in a chariot anyway,” he said.
“Good decision,” Sandry said. “We have enough troops. And now we have some extra rations.”
In the afternoon, they came to the Great Fork. The north branch was the Hemp Road to Firewoods and farther. The other fork went east: the Golden Road that led to the Inland Sea and beyond. Rumor said it went on from there, south and deep into Jaguar territory. No one of Feathersnake or the Bison Tribe had ever taken the Golden Road east even as far as the Inland Sea, and their only guide was the boy, Spotted Lizard.
The road was easy to follow. It had once been well traveled, with wide ruts in the low areas, rocky ledges carved in the hillsides when the road climbed to cross over hills between the valleys. Streams ran through the valleys, and there were farms everywhere, but few farmhouses. The villages were all walled, not the hastily made walls of Condigeo but older walls, stone and earth as well as timber, with suspicious guards staring out at them as they passed. Men and women worked in the fields, with more armed men standing watch nearby. It was not a peaceful land.
They camped that night in an open field, not cultivated despite a small stream. The sky was clear overhead. The River blazed across the night sky. About midnight someone shouted: a dozen falling stars, one after another, all coming directly at them before they vanished.
It all looked vaguely magical, but Clever Squirrel said nothing.
Chapter Two
Aboard
the Angie Queen
DAY 1
A wind was rising. Above the oar pit, Regapisk could glimpse sailors moving at a run. Sails rattled as they rose. The Oarmaster signaled: Stop oars. Regapisk settled his oar across his lap. To the man across, he asked conversationally, “How long d’you think this’ll last?”
The man’s mad eyes rested on Regapisk, promising murder; then drifted away. He never said anything to anyone.
The man behind Regapisk murmured, “If you don’t stop poking the Ghost, Lord Reg, it isn’t me he’ll remember the day he gets loose.”
Regapisk was tired of hearing Fethiwong abuse the title he’d lost. How would Sandry put an end to that? “One day, Fethiwong,” Regapisk murmured, “the Oarmaster will hear you call me Lord.”
“Naw, he won’t. What was your turf?”
It dawned on Regapisk that Fethiwong thought he was a Lordkin tribal leader.
That was funny. Should he claim Serpent’s Walk? His firefighters had come from there; he’d learned a little, but Fethiwong might know enough to catch him out. Regapisk hadn’t yet placed Fethiwong’s accent.
He waved it away. “That’s all in the past.”
Waves played with the ship. Oarsmen murmured. Above, sailors shouted. When they stopped, Regapisk could make out softer voices. Passengers. You rarely saw passengers; they never looked down into the pit after the first day.
Regapisk liked the quiet, but he didn’t need the rest. The Angie Queen had been in Condigeo for at least eight days. Oarsmen ate well when a ship was in port. They carried c
argo under careful supervision—hard work, but a change from rowing.
Eight days? Ten? Regapisk wasn’t sure. He’d started a count on the day he woke, battered and confused, head ringing, to find himself chained to an oar bench. He tried to keep track of the days: a training period, layovers, trips to Avalon and Houseman’s Beach. He’d heard about San-barb Island, had always wanted to see it—still did. Seeing a mushroom shape, then bluffs and a beach through an oarlock didn’t count. He’d seen a lot more of Avalon. They actually went ashore and slept on real mats in Avalon. Across to Tep’s Town harbor again, where Sandry had abandoned him despite his promise. Why had he done that?
Afraid of the congregation. Sandry wasn’t afraid of much, you had to give him that, but he was afraid of the council and congregation, as if they’d do anything to Sandry. Sandry’s aunt Shanda was the First Lady of Lordshills! She was only cousin twice removed to Regapisk. That’s why she didn’t help! Sure. But Sandry? He had money; he could have bought him loose. They were right there in the Tep’s Town harbor. But nothing happened. Cargo was put on board, and they were off again.
Then three days to Condigeo, sailing with the wind most of the way. A long layover, and rumors. A barracks to sleep in, plenty to eat, not all that unpleasant at night. Daytimes, they scraped the sides of the ship or of the docks, or swept streets. The Angie Queen’s captain never missed a chance to make a few coppers renting out his crew. Eight days? Ten? That’s where he had almost lost track of the time.
Rumors said that Feathersnake wagons and a Tep’s Town Lordsmen army had beaten the birds and gotten through. Their next move would be to open the wagon trade again. What birds? Fethiwong told him an implausible tale of horse-sized shrieking demons with daggers in their wings….
But if Tep’s Town had sent Lords here, then Sandry would be with them, and Sandry would use the chance to free him. Regapisk stopped making marks alongside his bench.
Ten days waiting. They’d left Condigeo this morning. Regapisk resumed his count, a mark on the wood next to his head, made with a jagged fingernail. Day One: depart Condigeo.
DAY 2: SOUTHBOUND
In thirty days or so at sea and in harbor, Regapisk had learned an oarsman’s pace and was earning the strength.
In his youth he had admired the muscles on Lordsmen. He’d hoped to grow up that way. He was getting his wish. His arms and shoulders had never looked this good.
It was all thanks to Lord Sandry.
Regapisk’s mind darted about his skull like a rat in a cage, seeking any escape from what he most wanted to avoid knowing. Sandry’s testimony had put him here. Sandry had promised to buy him free…but the Angie Queen had left Condigeo, hugging the coast, keeping the dawn on the left. Down along the Forefinger, Regapisk thought; but he knew little of that land. In Avalon they’d been housed ashore, and in Condigeo too, but at sea they slept in their chains. There was no chance of escape.
It wasn’t that he liked Sandry. They’d played together, and fought sometimes, and broken rules and been caught sometimes…but they were nearly cousins. You didn’t sell a cousin into slavery; you defended him.
But Sandry wasn’t going to buy him loose.
Two passengers were staring down into the oar pit, talking, laughing.
Lookers, Regapisk thought. Two old men, one still brawny, one lean and stooped, maybe not so old. Hard to tell. They were both twisted by old injuries. Fighters, Regapisk would have guessed, but what was their interest in the oar pit?
When foreigners came to Tep’s Town for entertainment, Tep’s Town called them lookers. They used to come to watch the Burning. Tellers were lookers who told tales for a living. Sometimes they traveled great distances. When the Burning didn’t happen on time, lookers were only disappointed, but tellers could end up sleeping on the beach.
There hadn’t been a Burning—a wholesale riot through Tep’s Town, wine aflow, theft and rapine, buildings alight—since the fire god went myth. Tellers had become rare.
Entertainment was in short supply for Angie Queen’s oarsmen. The men about Regapisk had become proficient at guessing about passengers. Of course they had no way to test their guesswork. On the day trip to Avalon, there had been a few Lords, a few kinless, twice that many lookers, and a dozen tellers lured by the Folded Hands gathering. The Angie Queen was more crowded on this trip south; she rode low and sluggish, heavy with cargo and passengers and barrels of fresh water. Regapisk hadn’t seen any Lords, and the only kinless seemed to be lookers’ servants. Several families with children had boarded at Condigeo.
Lookers and kinless looked once into the oar pit, mesmerized, maybe horrified. Thereafter their eyes slid over or past the chained men at their oars. Lookers and kinless didn’t like slavery. Lords and soldiers observed the oar pit as if they bought and sold oarsmen. Oarsmen hated Lords. Children and tellers looked down in frank curiosity….
“Tellers,” Regapisk said.
“Bet. Next bread,” Fethiwong said. “Soldiers.”
“That one’s a teller. That one’s his bodyguard, with scars and no shirt. Next bread?”
“Hah! You knew their faces, you son of a thousand rats!”
Regapisk laughed, because Fethiwong was right. He called, “Tras Preetror!” and braced for the whip.
The Oarmaster had already given up trying to tell Regapisk whatever it was he had done wrong. He just laid on the lash and let it go at that. It was how he had taught Regapisk to row. Regapisk took the line of fire across his back, wriggled a bit, and then grinned up at Tras Preetror and Arshur the northman.
They grinned back, both of them, and walked away.
“They’ll want to talk to me,” Regapisk said. “Next bread, Fethiwong.”
“Hah. When?”
“While we’re still southbound.” He was guessing that the Angie Queen would go south as far as the tip of the Forefinger, and maybe a lot farther. Weeks, maybe moons.
“Done. Next bread.”
Next bread was all you ever had to bet with. You couldn’t bet your cloak, after all. Who needed two cloaks or could keep track of them? And how would you sleep without one? But anyone could eat a little more bread or survive a hungry morning.
Chapter Three
Aboard
the Angie Queen
DAY 6: SUMMONED
Rumor said that there was no fresh water along the barren shore of the Forefinger, and no wind. You rowed all the way. Gods help the oarsmen if a greedy captain stowed extra cargo instead of extra drinking water.
The sails stayed rigged and ready, just in case. Today there had been a long afternoon breeze. Oarsmen could doze. When daylight went and the breezes died, sails came down and oarsmen slept. Regapisk had never slept better before boarding the Angie Queen.
But he woke, on his sixth night since Condigeo, when a lash fell across his shoulders. Not a whipstroke, he realized after that first spasm and gasp, but just the lash sliding along skin.
Still dark. It felt as if he’d just fallen asleep.
“You’re wanted,” the Oarmaster said. “Make one wrong move, and we’ll be one oar short.”
Naw, Regapisk thought as he watched the Oarmaster open his chains. You’d row in my place if you lost me this way. What kind of bribe did they offer? Uncharacteristically, he didn’t say any of that. Up close, dark against starlight, the Oarmaster was scary. His shoulders and arms were huge and ridged with scars. He must have been an oarsman himself.
Regapisk stood, his legs badly cramped, and moved as he was directed.
Up a ladder to the Oarmaster’s perch. Up another ladder to the deck, then into one of the better rooms. The Oarmaster left him there, but Arshur the northman loomed.
The huge old man said nothing. Despite a twisted body and lavish scars, dark mottled scalp, and sparse white hair, the barbarian was still a tower of muscle, an accident waiting to happen. Very clearly he was Tras Preetror’s bodyguard, if Regapisk proved untrustworthy.
Tras Preetror remained seated. “Next bread you’re
a Lord,” he said.
“I want half your bet,” Regapisk said. “Have you worked the oars, or do you just listen good?”
“Both,” the teller said. “I have to listen or the tales don’t come to me. Tell me a story. I saw you talking to the oar behind you, and he’s Lordkin.”
“That’s Fethiwong of Dirty Birds. He robbed a clothing shop and had some wonderful luck. He got most of the gowns for Lady Tzarbon’s wedding. Worth a fortune, they were, and he gave a few away to friendly women. All he had to do was not tell stories in dockside. She’s married a captain from Condigeo, you know?”
Tras Preetror chuckled. He patted air: “Sit. Tell me stories.”
Regapisk sat. He nibbled pastry filled with meat paste, as if he weren’t prepared to devour it in a mouthful. Manners. “I know some of your story,” he said. “Where you were when the Toronexti were burned out at the Deerpiss Meadow. How Whandall Feathersnake put you both in a tree so you’d live through it. You must have missed some of the battle, but I’ve heard the rest.”
“What I didn’t see, I got from witnesses.” Tras Preetror dismissed the matter, a tale told too often. “The little girl, Burning Tower, who burned the manuscript of the laws? I saw her in Condigeo.”
“She was on this ship twenty days ago, with my cousin, Lord Sandry.”
“Curse, I’m sorry I missed her! But what I want to know about is the birds. Have they got as far as the Burning City?”
Birds?
A little desperately, Regapisk said, “Big killer birds? I only heard about the birds in Condigeo port. I do know tales a teller wouldn’t hear unless he talks to Lords’ children. And you can tell me about birds. It’s your turn.” Tellers traded tales; everyone knew that.