Gehan’s sister, Ika, was in there with a girl and a youth. The youth, Gehan’s food-taster, had recently been a nightly visitor to the chamber. He was tall and languid, with red hair and pale skin and green eyes. The cast of his features was beginning to betray the decadence of his life in Gehan’s retinue. It was a life devoted to luxury, pleasure, sensation, with women or with men, Gehan’s guests, and sometimes with Gehan himself. Altheme was well aware of her husband’s tastes: the changing favour with which he viewed his other women, and the way he regarded his wife. The knowledge disgusted her. And it disgusted her to listen to Ika with the food-taster and the girl. The girl was innocent, a child barely eleven years old. She had been summoned from the slaves’ quarters during the night. Altheme had heard her frightened pleadings silenced; and now, at dawn, the noises were beginning again: the creaking bed-frame, growing moans, stifled cries of pain.
Altheme turned from the window. By the doorway she paused to take a robe from her clothes-rack. The first to hand was pale brown, embroidered with flowers and ferns of yellow, pink, lavender and green. It flowed behind her as she left the chamber and crossed the gallery, from which a twisting flight of stairs led to ground level and the Flint Lord’s day-rooms.
Gehan was there, in the main chamber. The ceiling of this room was low, scarcely above head height. Polished oak boards, gleaming in the lamplight, covered the floor. The walls were decorated with panels of painting, some of extreme age, others quite recent: scenes of symbolism and history, depicting demons, flames, men in battle, winged creatures spewing swarms of insects. Three wide windows overlooked the inner enclosure. Each was provided with a heavy shutter closing from within, for defence, and the door, which was made of thick elm, swung on oiled oak hinges and was fitted with four stout locking-bars. A yew-wood cradle held heated rocks, renewed every hour by slaves. There was little furniture in the room: a few small chests, a kind of low bench on which stood burning oil-lamps, and some leather cushions scattered on the floor. On one of these Gehan was seated, cross-legged, studying a sheet of reed-paper marked with daubs of ink. The daubs represented hands. A hand was five: five men, a team. Five teams made a unit. Other marks separated the daubs or joined them together. A square represented the Trundle; triangles the secondary forts; a wavering line the Brennis coast.
In normal times he maintained a force of nineteen units. Seven were under the command of the General of the Coast, one unit being deployed in each of the secondary forts. Six remained permanently at Valdoe – one to guard the mines, two to guard the other works outside the Trundle, two on duty inside the fort, the sixth kept in reserve. The remaining units made up deficiencies in the secondary forts, helped with road and bridge building and repair, escorted trading teams when needed, and composed the slaving parties which made regular crossings to the mainland.
“We must draw twelve teams from the secondary forts,” Gehan said.
There were two men with him, also seated on cushions. One was fat and soft, dressed in dark grey and fox fur, with pink eyes, white hair, lashes, and wispy beard: an albino named Bohod Zein, agent for the forces in the homelands. Through this man, Gehan had paid in flints and goods for ships and reinforcements.
The other was the General of Valdoe, a former commander from the homelands called Larr. Like Bohod Zein, he was dressed in the dark grey of the Gehans; over his garments he wore a military tunic of plain hide. A white scar marked his forehead, an old axe wound. His eyes were black and penetrating, his face fleshless and hard.
In the army of the Gehans the ranks were few: soldier, team-master, unit leader, commander, general, lord. Larr had begun as a soldier at the age of ten. In twelve years’ slaving he had advanced to team-master, unit leader, and commander. Under Gehan’s father he had been brought to Brennis and then, at the age of thirty, had been made general, one of two in the island country.
“My lord,” said Bohod Zein, “if you take so many from the General of the Coast, will your forts there not be weakened? I can arrange for three more units to be sent, trained men, all experienced, at a price little greater than that negotiated before.”
Gehan considered. At this moment over three hundred men were waiting on the other side of the channel, consuming food and supplies. Two hundred more had already landed and were overcrowding the barracks. The expense of the campaign so far was giving worry. The output of the mines for the next three years had been mortgaged. If the weather worsened and the crossings were impeded, the expense would become ruinous. But he knew that the agent was right. To leave the secondary forts under strength would be dangerous.
“Arrange it.”
“As to price, my lord —”
Gehan arose as Altheme entered the room. Larr stood too, lithe and controlled. Bohod Zein struggled to his feet.
“My lady,” Larr said.
Bohod Zein eagerly stepped forward and took Altheme’s hand. “My lady.”
His familiarity far exceeded the bounds of etiquette. Gehan observed Altheme’s uncertain glance, noted the lingering clasp of Bohod Zein’s fingers. With a courteous smile she drew her hand away.
“I am sorry, my lord,” Altheme told Gehan. “I did not mean to disturb you here. But have you seen outside?”
Already there were white ridges on the roughness of the inner palisade. Gehan strode to the nearest window and looked out and up.
The air was filled with tumbling feathers and stars, multitudes and multitudes coming from a darkening sky.
The snows had started.
7
Klay heard the camp coming awake. From his perch in the boughs of an old beech, he looked across the river towards the compound and tried to see movement, but too many winter branches were in the way.
He took off one mitten and held up a licked finger. East, the wind was coming from the east, and when he studied the sky he saw that it was sliding majestically, a dense, almost featureless mass of cloud tinged with yellow that meant snow for certain.
He replaced his mitten and started down the tree. In snow they would be able to find Tagart very quickly; and then, when the first of Shode’s murderers had been dealt with, he and Bubeck would go after Edrin.
Edrin would already be in hiding, somewhere safe, somewhere impossible to find, for Edrin was the finest tracker and his woodcraft was too good for any of them, even for Klay himself. To search for him would be wasted effort. Better to let hunger bring him out. Meanwhile, they would find Tagart.
Klay wondered what he was planning, and how far he had managed to think things through. He was stupid: he might not have guessed that Edrin was in hiding. But then … was that really what Edrin was doing? Was it safe to presume anything? Suppose Edrin weren’t in hiding at all. Suppose he intended to find Bubeck or Klay and keep his distance. Suppose he saw what they did to Tagart and went back to the camp to tell Phale. Or suppose he joined forces with Tagart. Suppose …
The confusion in Klay’s mind multiplied. He did his best to sweep it away. One thing, at least, could be depended on.
In the lottery for direction, Klay had drawn West. He had left the camp under the eyes of the elders and disappeared into the darkness. Two hundred yards from the edge of the compound he halted and climbed into the beech tree. There was no sense in going any farther. In the morning he knew he would be meeting Bubeck. He knew Bubeck would be nearby, because this was what they had arranged in whispers. Together they would circle the camp and find Tagart’s trail, leading in one of the two directions that they themselves had not drawn. There would be little doubt about whose trail it was: Tagart was taller and heavier than Edrin, and, unless Edrin went to immense and improbable pains, that could not be disguised.
Klay reached the ground and looked about him. Bubeck had instructed him to walk sunwise, following its circle. Bubeck would walk the other way, and thus they would quickly meet: so close to the camp it would be unsafe to linger. The solstice feast had been cancelled, and for the duration of the contest there would be no hunting excursions. E
ven so, now in the gloom of first dawn, there was a risk of being seen by someone in the camp.
Klay set off. The ground was hard underfoot. When he came to the gurgle of the river he waited near the bank, reluctant to go in. The water would be very cold, and he would have to cross with bare skin, for contestants were allowed no spare clothes. The river flowed south-eastwards.
Like it nor not, either he or Bubeck would have to cross.
Suddenly there was movement on the far bank, among the elder and dogwood that grew right to the water’s edge, the branches in the twilight overhanging the swift current. Klay drew back.
“It’s me!” Bubeck broke the branches aside. He was clad in a bearskin stormcoat, shaggy and dark, tied with a horn-buckled belt, and his leggings, also of bearskin, were tucked into high leather boots. On his head was peaked fur cap with flaring flaps, and his hands were protected by fur mittens. He brought them together with muffled claps, then swung his arms in the cold. “Come out of there, Klay!”
Klay appeared, glad to be alone no longer. Bubeck hissed the good news across the intervening yards. “Tagart drew East. He’s left a trail like an aurochs’.”
“You’ve already found it?”
“Yes. Come on. Get across the river and we can start.”
Klay hesitated. The water here was deep as well as cold.
“What did you draw?” Bubeck said.
“West.”
“That means Edrin drew North. I drew South.”
“You’ve already crossed once?”
“On the stepping stones at the waterfall.” Bubeck gestured impatiently. “It’s not that cold. Get your boots off.”
“It looks difficult here. I want to try further up. At the swamp.”
“Don’t worry,” Bubeck said. “It’s shallower than it looks. You can cross all right.”
“I’m not sure about it, Bubeck.”
“I’ve done it myself here. Come on. You’re wasting time. If we’re not quick we’ll lose him.”
Reluctantly, Klay undressed. The air was bitingly cold. The water would be worse. However, he would soon be across and back in his dry clothes. Beginning to shiver uncontrollably, he squatted naked, bundling his stormcoat and wrapping it round the pouch and the rest of his things.
“Heave them over,” Bubeck told him, and Klay did so.
Klay neared the water’s edge.
“What are you waiting for?”
When Klay’s foot touched the water he gasped. Water of such coldness was not possible. With his right hand he was gripping a branch. He let it go and put his other foot forward, probing for the river bed.
It was not there. The current was strong and had cut deep. The water seized Klay’s foot and pulled at it like a playful animal. It was scalding his calf, his knee. How much colder would it be on his thighs, his genitals? Too late, much too late, he realized he wanted to change his mind and he scrabbled for the safety of the branch, but he was losing his balance, his left foot slithering. He knew his equilibrium had gone and he was falling. He shrieked and hit the water with a clumsy splash. At once the grabbing, caustic pain clawed at his skin: in an instant all sensation had been destroyed. He was nerveless, dead with grinding cold. He thrashed his arms, but could not stop his head from going under and the river was dragging him with it.
Numb feet found the bottom and he managed to stand up, against the flow.
He had been carried some yards downstream. He gaped for air. His thorax seemed to have collapsed.
Something hit the water in front of him: a bundle of clothing and a pouch. The pouch had been plundered. The fragment of Mace was missing. And when he looked towards the bank, so was Bubeck.
* * *
Tagart frowned. Someone had been in the river here. He plucked a blade of meadow-grass from the tangle of vegetation on the north bank where the man had pulled himself out. The blade was bruised but hardly discoloured. Allowing for the cold, it had been crushed no more than an hour ago.
Tagart stood up, with a practised eye examining the ground, the disarray of twigs and leaf-litter, the clues which seemed to lead towards the camp. He turned his eyes to the far bank, trying to see where the man had entered the water. There. Upstream.
He worked his way along the water’s edge. Opposite the spot he found new damage to the elder branches. From the number and thickness of split fibres which had so far resumed their shape, he deduced that everything here must have happened at about the same time. The man in the water and the man on the north bank had been here together. Tagart pictured the scene, a faint and grim smile on his face. Bubeck hadn’t been planning to violate the laws of challenge after all.
How did this affect Tagart’s quarry – how did it affect Edrin?
At dawn, Tagart had come down the hill to quarter the eastern side of the camp, searching for a recent trail. Those who had drawn West or South would have started from the other side of the river.
So near the camp there were many confusing signs of coming and going, but all were at least a day old. It had not taken him long to find tracks that were unmistakably recent, and from the stride and weight of the man who had left them, he concluded that the trail was Bubeck’s and that it was Bubeck who had drawn East. That meant Edrin must have drawn West or South and would be on the other side of the river. If Edrin had gone to earth, that would be where the contest would be resolved. Tagart would have to cross. There were not many places to cross safely, and at any one of them an enemy might be waiting.
Tagart, despite his decision to start with Edrin, had to know what Bubeck was doing. He had followed Bubeck’s trail to the river, where he had found what he took to be Klay’s trail, leading out of the water and towards the camp: the trail of a beaten man.
Tagart resumed his pursuit of Bubeck’s trail. It ran generally beside the river, heading upstream. At times it made a detour to favour easier passage, away from the thickest undergrowth. All Tagart’s senses were alive; but the woods seemed empty and reassuring.
The wind was keener. The sky was dark. Soon snowflakes were falling one by one. As they touched the water they vanished and were carried onward.
A mile or so above the camp, the river became a wandering stream in a rushy swamp. The snow was falling more quickly now. Snipe, harsh-voiced, sprang from the frozen rushes as Tagart approached and flew up in towering spirals, calling incessantly.
He found the spot where Bubeck had removed his boots and did the same, placing his bare feet in the marks that Bubeck had left, paddling through the icy black mud and into the stream. The water was painfully cold. There was gravel underfoot and between his toes. Tiny fish, black in the pellucid water, streaked away from his feet. The water came to his knees; he crossed as quickly as he dared, afraid of losing his footing, afraid of an ambush, knowing that he was vulnerable here.
On the other side of the swamp, where the ground began to climb, Tagart pulled on his boots and found Bubeck’s trail again. It led south – to Edrin.
Tagart stopped on the rise above the valley and looked back. Over the landscape and down into the grey, leafless woods, the sky was shedding snow.
The flakes softly found their way through the branches and, no longer melting, began to settle on the forest floor.
* * *
Klay knew what he was doing: if he were caught, both he and his family would be made tribeless, and he would be disembowelled, the manner of execution reserved for the lowest criminals, those who had betrayed the trust of the tribe.
But, however great the dangers, they could not compare to Klay’s rage.
Yulin was still asleep when he climbed down the ladder into his dwelling. He was certain he had not been seen. His pit was near the edge of the camp, and by crawling and rolling he had reached the ladder unobserved.
His immersion in the river had left him weak and chilled, but his resolve had given him new strength. Bubeck, the man he had followed and respected always, was now revealed, laid bare. His treachery was like the eruption of some ob
scene fungus that had finally reached its season and burst. So Klay had retrieved his clothes from the river and put them on. In his wet stormcoat he had made his way to the camp and to his ladder and had climbed down it.
Yulin awoke as he pulled off his coat and threw it into the corner. “Hide this, and the rest of it,” Klay said. Above him in the camp, he could hear someone talking. Soon the first meal would begin.
He gestured at the two small girls curled up together in their bed of furs. “Keep them quiet. I want dry clothes. My second stormcoat. And food. Plenty of it.”
Yulin looked at her daughters in the half-light of the pit. They were wide-eyed with fear. She enjoined them to silence with a finger on her lips, and from the travelling bags unpacked fresh clothing for Klay. She knew better than to speak.
“Get the food, woman! Hurry!”
“I’ll have to go above ground.”
“Then do it!”
She moved towards the ladder, urging herself to betray him, for then he would never be chief and her daughters would never be without ancestors: they would never be expelled and made tribeless.
“Let no one suspect!” he said, seeming to divine her thoughts.
“No one,” she said, and climbed out.
Klay’s eyes seemed to be blazing in their sockets. His fingers were tingling. Impatiently he turned out Yulin’s pouch – he had no other – and started to cram it with weapons and supplies. First, a fire-making kit in a wallet of tallowed skin. A leather purse with a dozen bowstrings. From pegs on the wall he took down his best longbow. This was not a toy for shooting coots, not for hares or squirrels: this was for killing big animals. He unhooked his quiver and loaded it with suitable arrows, each one tipped with flint. Lastly he took down his prized hunting spear.
The weapon was heavy with magic. It had impaled many beasts. Its tang was still stained with dried blood; the shaft was of flawless yew, shaped and tapered to take a perfect trajectory from Klay’s arm. His rage burned more fiercely. The spear had been made for him alone, a coming-of-age gift from Shode. It was the work of a master weaponer, now long dead, a man from the Eagle tribe whose very name meant Spearmaker. The grip was bound with coloured twine, making a herringbone pattern of yellow and brown. This spear was a javelin, designed purely for flight; in its making Spearmaker had breathed his spirit into it, and now it had its own life and its own desires, seeking the heart of its prey. Bubeck’s heart.
The Flint Lord Page 6