by Dave Freer
"I do!" said Keilin, stung. "I've cooked heaps of pigeons and gulls. You pluck them, gut them, and cut them up, and broil them!"
"What's gulls? I've et rock pigeons though," said the old fellow, sitting down, his spear across his knees, "Besides, what was you going to cook it in? And it sounds like turrible way to spoil a good sand grouse. No. You just give it to me, sonny, I'll show you how to do it right. Then when we've had a bit of a feed, you can tell me just what you're doin' with nothin' in the middle o' nowhere. It's sounds like it might be a interestin' tale. It gets a mite lonely out here, and I've a fondness for a good story."
He pointed at the fire. "I've a nice plump goanna roasting under them coals, so I won't have to deprive you, sonny. You look short a good few meals, though heaven knows why. It's seldom I've seen the land lookin' so fat."
Mutely Keilin handed over the bird. The deft old hands began plucking, and within a few minutes it was plucked, drawn, had salt rubbed into its skin, had been split, and was grilling on a blackened, battered grid above the scraped-out coals. Keilin had sat silent while all this happened, and the old man seemed content to have it so.
When the sumptuous-smelling bird was getting its skin finally crisped, the old man pushed aside the coals with a stick and pulled out what looked like a long blackened sausage. Using his knife and the stick he lifted it up onto a flat rock. The grilled fowl was speared on the knifepoint and put next to it.
Using the knife hilt the cook carefully tapped the sausage shape. Pieces cracked off, and were flicked away, revealing steaming white flesh, which the old hands salted carefully. A fibrous root was added to the stone table, skinned and rapidly sliced. "There you go, me boy, as fine a feast as the hills'll provide." The old man sounded faintly nervous. "Goanna baked in clay, a nice plump little grilled sand grouse, and a paro root, not even two year old! What more could a man ask for, eh?"
Keilin's mouth was watering. "It smells very good, sir."
The old fellow expanded like a peony in the sun. Keilin realized he was probably unused to feeding anyone but himself, and had indeed been nervous about the reaction of his surprise guest. "Bless you, son. Don't you be calling old Marou Skyann `sir.' Dig in, lad. It's prime tucker this. No sense in lettin' it get cold." He scuffled among the rocks and produced a leather wineskin. "Ain't eggsactly wine . . . but it's a rare vintage. Near on two weeks old." He cackled at his own joke, and handed Keilin the skin. The brew inside it was sour, and vaguely alcoholic . . . and wet.
With his throat lubricated, a drumstick in one hand, a piece of goanna in the other, grease on his chin, and the fire warmth licking at him, the boy relaxed for the first time in days.
While Keilin ate with hungry greed, he retained enough common sense to be loudly appreciative of the food. The old man drank the praise in like thirsty ground, and was soon telling him the best way to trap goanna, and where to look for sand grouse in the mornings, which banks the sand martens nested in, and how to steal their eggs without being mobbed by the entire nesting colony. Keilin was warm, he had a full belly and he was unused to alcohol, even a mild brew like this. It was hardly surprising that, when Marou finally said, "Now son, time for that story," his answer was a snore.
The old man looked across at him, and sat silent for a while. Finally he spoke quietly, more to himself than the sleeper. "Don't look much like a claim jumper to me. You're lucky, boy. Five year ago I'd'a killed you just in case. In th' morning I'll feed you th' antidote." Burrowing among the rocks he pulled out a mangy old rug of rabbit pelts, and tossed it over the boy. "Sleep easy, son," he said, a wry smile teasing the wrinkles.
It was just before gray dawn when Keilin found himself poked sharply in the ribs. Opening his eyes he saw the old man prodding him with his spear butt. "On your feet, boyo. Cain't sleep all day. Move your tail if you want to eat."
Keilin staggered up, rubbing his wide eyes. "I . . . I'm sorry . . . I must have fallen asleep."
The old man cackled. "If you hadn't been snorin' I'd'a thought you was dead, kid. Sleep like that and you will be. Here . . . drink this." He handed Keilin a small mug full of bitter hot brew. The boy gagged at the first mouthful. He found the spear was against his chest. "Drink it!" The voice was deadly. Keilin swallowed.
The old fellow relaxed. The spear point dropped. "All right, boy. Let's go. We've got to get the traps set before it gets light."
Keilin's jaw dropped. "But . . . why? Why did I have to drink that foul stuff first?"
The old man looked discomforted. "You needed it." He set his mouth in a hard, thin line. "Now come on. Let's move. We want to get the traps set."
They were simple drop traps: a wire cage with a door which fell shut behind the bird. At the back of each cage was a mirror. Marou carefully scattered a few seeds outside the cage. Inside it, in front of the mirror, he put a generous pile of seed. "Ol' sand grouse, he's a mighty suspeecious feller. Put the biggest trail o' seed into that cage, an' 'e still won't go in. But when 'e sees that other fowl in there a-pecking away at a big pile o' seed while he's getting mighty thin pickin's . . .
"Now, let's get breakfast. There's a good slope that hasn't bin worked for a good while."
Keilin's stomach rumbled in agreement. He was somewhat less keen when he discovered that breakfast was to be caught by turning over stones on the hillside. "If they've got small claws an' fat stings, leave 'em, son," said his mentor, catching a large-clawed two-inch gleaming bronzy carapaced monster with his old deft hands. He plucked the stinger off, and crunched the beast between strong teeth. Keilin turned pale. As a street brat he'd eaten damn near anything he could scavenge. Fried rat was perfectly acceptable . . . in fact, quite tasty, but . . . raw live scorpion! Gingerly he turned over the next rock. It was still cold, and thus the snake that struck at his foot was a fraction too slow. He dropped the rock with a startled yell. His erstwhile instructor dived behind some rocks and disappeared. Keilin simply couldn't find him. After a few moments, the white head peered out from behind a boulder. "What'n hell was that, son? Mohocks?"
"S-s-snake, under that rock . . ." With shaking hand Keilin pointed.
The old chap bobbed up with glee, rubbing his wrinkled belly. "Great! Why'd ya yell! Y'might frighten it!" He rapidly hobbled over to the rock.
"Watch out! It's a bad one!" said Keilin fearfully.
"Ain't no such animal! Snake's good. Skin's useful too. But him'll be good'n mad after you pissing about with him. You jump away sharpish when you pull the rock over, see."
The fat diamond-backed reptile still twitched occasionally as it dangled from the spear. "Nasty poison, these puffies," said Marou conversationally. "Bite you on th' foot an' you'll lose it . . . if you don't lose th' leg . . . if you live. You swell up like a balloon an' then break out in great big sores that rot away. Them's good eating tho'." Later, once the sections of skinned snake were grilled, Keilin was obliged to admit that it was very tasty indeed.
The old man rubbed his greasy hands on his already greasy fringed trousers. "Now boy . . . that story o' yours."
The sun was high by the time Keilin finished. Marou Skyann pursed his lips as he sat silent, digesting the tale. His old eyes stared at the boy, narrowed, focused and concentrated. He seemed to almost be looking through Keilin. Finally he stood up, spat on his palm and stretched out his hand. Keilin looked at him, puzzled.
"Spit on your hand, boy, an' shake. If you want to become my partner that is. Sounds to me like you need a place to hide. And them mountains you're looking for . . . well they ain't what you think they are."
Thus it was that Keilin became an apprentice turquoise fossicker and trainee desert rat. He eventually learned to enjoy raw scorpions for breakfast. It was a period he was later to describe as one of the happiest of his life. He also changed from a city street-child to a lean, hard young man who could survive off country which, to the untrained eye, would not support a pygmy mouse. In Marou he found both a father figure and a peer, things he'd never had or missed. The only thing from h
is old life that still called to him were the books.
* * *
Shael was footsore, hungry and weary. She'd never realized just how much bigger the world got when it was crossed on foot. If it hadn't been for pure untrammelled luck she'd have starved to death, or been forced to go to one of the marauding bands she had seen and run from. Her future then might have been short indeed. On her second day she had found a farmhouse with its newly dead owners sprawled on the grass outside. But the attackers had fled before looting it. She resolutely turned aside from the dead woman and her spitted son to search hastily for food. She'd found their packs readied for flight. The boy's spare boots were an added blessing, although she thought them most unshapely.
She'd reached the western foothills when she encountered one of the toxins her poisons instructress had neglected to mention. Poison ivy wasn't going to kill her, but her eyes were swollen nearly shut, and her delicate fingers were fat clumsy sausages. She was crying and slightly fevered when the bee wife found her. Few refugees had come this far and the weeping weal-faced girl tore up the buried memories of her own dead daughter.
* * *
S'kith 235 was finding life singularly confusing. His basic premises were being overturned. Firstly, the power of this party was not vested in the female. Nor was all the intellect. And the female was not, it seemed, interested in sex, or at least not with him, and not right now.
They'd ridden on for hours, an unfamiliar experience which had increasingly become an agony to the Morkth-man. When they had finally stopped for the night, they had eaten a meal of cold spanish omelette, paper-thin jasper-red slices of ham studded with green peppercorns, and small pearl onions in sherry vinegar. The abrupt taste education had stunned S'kith's overtaxed taste buds. He had been sure that the fire of the things Beywulf termed "peppercorns" was poison. Indeed, he had almost welcomed the surcease this would have been from the experience flood he was struggling to master. The others had eaten the red salty stuff with the fire bits in it with every sign of enjoyment, however. Determinedly S'kith had forced it down. The only positive point seemed to be that at least this time the food was a natural temperature.
Then they'd settled down for sleep. As soon as his secretive nature allowed, S'kith had crept to the woman's bedding-down place. She wasn't there. On his way back to his own newly donated sleeping fur S'kith's keen ears had picked up strange sounds. He'd crept closer. What he saw there made it abundantly plain that he was going to have to adapt to not being the only male with testicles.
The next morning S'kith had to be physically prevented from doing his bioenhancement rituals on being told that he had to get into the saddle again. He was surprised to discover that, except for the places where he was rubbed raw, it wasn't, after the first few minutes, as bad as yesterday. But, in those first few minutes, he did wonder whether he had been rescued, or whether this was just a slower and more painful way of killing him.
Several nights later she had come to his bed. S'kith had then had to come to terms with the fact that he hadn't known much about sex either.
* * *
The house was purring like a contented cat. A shaft of dusty sunlight poured lazily through the high window to splash and puddle on the soft colors of the rag rug on the floor next to her. The bed was soft and full of sleepy warmth. For a while Shael just lay there, fearful that opening her half-lidded eyes might shatter the illusion of comfort and security in which her dream had surrounded her. Tendrils of a scent sweeter than all the rare perfumes of Ta'aa—the smell of frying bacon and mushrooms—called to her stomach. It growled at her; it wasn't worried about shattering illusions.
Tentatively she reached out a hand to feel the eiderdown. The dream had painted it so realistically she could touch its softness. She swung her feet out of bed, and splashed them into the pool of sunshine rippling on the rag rug. The dream really had a pleasant solidity. It had to be a dream. Houses didn't hum.
The dream was becoming more complex. Someone for whom the word "round" was the perfect description huffed gently up the stairs. She was short, rounded and plump, with a round face, apple-red round cheeks and a few spare chins underpinning the round, warm chuckle that issued from a cheery mouth. "You're awake, lassie! To be sure, I thought you'd sleep forever. There's some clothes for you set out on that chair there."
Shael did not reply. You don't have to in dreams. She smiled, and stood up, walking across to the chair, supremely unconcerned by her nakedness. On the chair lay a peasant girl's bright frock, embroidered and lovingly adorned with fine stitchery. She looked at it. The round woman picked it up and held it against her. She raised her arms. The round woman looked at her in surprise, but stepped onto the chair—she was considerably shorter than Shael—and dropped the frock over her head. Stepping down from the chair, she busied herself with buttoning and lacing. Then she stepped back, looking at Shael with an odd expression.
It was strange, thought Shael, as the gentle humming sound caressed her. She'd never dreamed of other people crying before. Yet those were definitely tears on the round cheeks.
"Eh, lassie." The voice cracked slightly. "Except for the eyes, you're the image of my Merthly. You're safe now. That Tyrant bastard'll never find you here. They're all the same, these dukes, princes and kings: just a bunch of bloody murdering swine to us ordinary folk. 'Tis no wonder you've lost your tongue, wi' the horrible things you've probably seen. But no one will come past th' bees." She gestured toward the window. Shael looked out at a leafy glade set about with white-painted beehives. And the air was alive with their humming.
CHAPTER 6
The three marauders had thought that dawn would be a good time for their raid. The spider-web-thin trip lines had tipped the skep over, virtually on top of them. Shael and Mamma Mae were already up, getting the fire ready to melt the beeswax for the candle molds. It was a task they wanted done before the day grew too hot, and made it unpleasant in the kitchen. The sound of screaming came in through the open window. They ran to bolt and latch the doors and windows. Whoever the bees were after might otherwise run for the house, bringing the angry swarm with them. It was nearly an hour later that the bee master came back to the house, carrying the unconscious man. Baer's normally placid face was grim. He sighed as he put the man down on the settle. "One of t'others with him is dead in the pond. Drowned himself trying to keep down. The other one run off wi' half a hive behind him. I don't like th' look of this, lasses. Them were armed for trouble, but they don't have the ragamuffin look o' hill bandits or deserters. Look you. This one's wearin' a fine golden ring." For him, it was a mighty long speech. In the last nine months Shael had seldom heard him use more than three words in his rare sentences.
Shael was already busy loosening the man's collar. She looked at the ring on the hand the bee master was holding up. The fingers were already so swollen that the gold edges cut deep into the white flesh. They were not a working man's hands. Too soft and too white, with the nails clean and exquisitely manicured. It was enough to make her look twice at the ring with its small engraved claw clutching at a tiny solitaire diamond. She felt the blood drain from her face as she stood up, looking carefully at the features obscured by the black sting points and the beginning of swelling.
The cry that was torn from her was not just fear: it was also loaded with misery. "They've found me!" The beekeeper and his wife stared at her in astonishment. It wasn't what she said. It was just that after nearly nine months of silence they no longer expected her to speak.
In the beginning it seemed the easiest way to avoid talking of her origins until she left. After a week Shael had decided that if it meant keeping quiet for the rest of her life she would do it. She had by luck, and poison ivy, stumbled on a nest of security and happiness she never wanted to leave. The beekeeper and his wife were simple folk. People who, a month before, she would have dismissed as nonentities, whose way of life would have bored her to the screaming point in minutes. It had taken dispossession and terror to give her the parents
she'd never had. She felt the tears start behind her eyelids, and instinctively turned to the reaching arms of Mamma Mae.
In the early days Shael had stood rigid, both shocked and aloof, when Mamma Mae hugged her. Why was this little dumpling woman holding and squeezing her? After a while she had become accustomed to it, understanding it to be an overflowing of love from someone who, while she had a million cheery words for everything else, had no words for this.
Shael stepped back and looked at the two of them, her eyes wet. She bit her lip. "I will have to go."
She held up her hands, cutting off their protests. "Mamma Mae, Father Baer, I . . . I'm sorry. I didn't know how to tell you. You see . . . that man is Captain Saril Jaine, once of the Tyn secret police. He is . . . Emperor Deshin's . . . um . . . closest friend. He . . . could only be looking for me."
She bit her lip again. She knew how their daughter had died, how deep Mae's hatred ran for what Shael's father had done. The Tyrant had spotted Merthly in the local marketplace as his troops moved through, and sent his men to fetch her. There'd not been much a mere beekeeper's wife had been able to do to stop them. Merthly'd been his leman for a while. Then . . . she'd gotten pregnant. She'd let her mother know. Shael had seen the letter with its schoolgirl characters.
They had never heard from her again. But they had heard how she'd died. She'd been strangled, on the Tyrant's orders, when he had discovered she was pregnant. He wanted no byblows born to be used against him. As Princess, Shael had known that it had happened, not once, but often. She'd seen the progression of women through her father's rooms. It had never occurred to her that these were real people, leaving grieving families scattered in the wake of her father's appetites. This was why Shael had kept her silence for those months. Now she would have to tell them they'd sheltered the daughter of their greatest enemy.