by Larry Niven
Whandall nodded. "He's not poor. This is all new to me. What happens if they don't want to marry?"
"Come on-they knew there were one-horns in the wagon train!"
"Carver didn't know what that means."
"Starfall did," Kettle Belly said. "You trying to tell me that it's different in the Valley of Smokes?"
Whandall remembered Willow's story of what happened to Dream-Lotus. "No. Not for kinless," he said. Carver must have known what he was getting into. Whandall remembered incidents with Fawn and Rutting Deer, chances he had, things he might have done.
It was different here, because there weren't Lordkin here, and he could never explain that. "No," he repeated.
Kettle Belly squinted up at the rising sun. "Burning daylight," he said. "We have to get moving. Whandall, you'd better explain this to Carver."
"Yes. Does he have any choices?"
"Well, he can take a wagon as dowry, if he wants to learn this life. Being married to Greathand's daughter won't hurt him a bit."
"What if he runs away?"
"He'd better run damn far from the Hemp Road. Forever."
Chapter 45
They made camp in a boulder field. Large rocks helped form a natural rectangular fortress, nothing so refined as the place the Spotted Coyotes had built. Wagons filled in gaps among the big rocks. Whandall watched their placement-all wagons in sight of each other. They'd traveled until near sunset to find such an open place ... an easy trek down the gorge to the river... but wouldn't any bandit know just where wagons would stop? And the boulders and the rising and falling ground around them could hide all of Serpent's Walk and Bull Fizzle together.
But Hickamore drank strong hemp tea and sang, and when he came out of his trance was satisfied. There were bandits near, but they only watched. They had no plan, no purpose, only their envy.
The sun had set, but the west was still red and orange. Whandall sent two of the Miller children to keep watch outside the wagon circle. "Stay very still, and if you hear anything, shout and run under the wagon. But yell first!"
Then he had Willow, Carver, Carter, and Hammer sit down around the fire.
"We need to talk," Whandall said. "Carver, you knew what was expected when you went off with Starfall."
Carver looked very solemn. "Yes. Well, I knew it in my head," he said. "I wasn't thinking much, though."
"Starfall was," Willow said.
"How are you so sure?" Carter demanded.
She shrugged. "Girls always are. In Tep's Town you might get away with being careful, hut it's a big risk. Out here-believe me, Starfall knew what she was doing. So did you, I think."
"It's so-permanent," Carver said. "That's what I'm having trouble with."
Carter nodded in sympathy.
"So what do you want to do?" Whandall insisted. "I think I'm supposed to negotiate for you. Where do you want to live?"
"I can make rope," Carver said. "Well, if Carter will help. Carter, I'll teach you my part if you'll teach me yours."
"Greathand can't afford a ropewalk," Carter said.
They all looked at the wagon. Then they looked at Whandall. No one said anything.
Whandall grinned. "Depends on Willow," he said.
"Me! I don't have anything, except the dress you bought me. I don't have anything at all!"
And she was near tears. Dowries. Was that the problem? "The wagon. The ponies. Willow, they're all yours." He'd been thinking how to say that. He'd waited too long.
"One of the ponies is mine!" Hammer protested.
Whandall shrugged. "Argue that with Willow," he said. "But Kettle Belly says one pony is worth a team of bison, so Willow has a wagon and team."
"And the mare?" Carver demanded.
"I have a claim," Whandall said. "I helped catch her. The hemp and tar too-part of that's mine. I won't claim it, though. Willow can have my share."
"Why?" Willow asked. "It's very nice of you, Whandall, but why?"
"I know why," Carver said. "Don't you?"
She didn't answer, but she had the same vague smile that had appeared when Whandall said she owned the wagon and ponies. She looked quickly at Whandall, then looked away again.
"Don't forget, the wagonmaster gets a tenth," Whandall said. "Now about the gold."
"Morth gave that gold to you," Carter said. And Carver said, firmly, "Yes."
Whandall nodded. "I'll share. I needed you to move it for me. Still do. There's enough for your ropewalk, I think, if you and Carter stay together. I keep half. You, all of you, share the rest any way you decide." Half would still be a lot. "Half after the wagonmaster gets his share."
"Kettle Belly doesn't know about that gold," Carver said. "No way he could know."
"We could hide it," Carter said eagerly.
"No."
"Whandall-"
"No," he repeated. "We tell the wagonmaster."
"Why?" Carter demanded. "He doesn't know-he can't know." Whandall tried, hut words came slowly. "I said. I promised." "A Lordkin's promise," Carter said. "Made to a thief!" "Kettle Belly's not gathering," Whandall said. "He's-he's working with us."
Carter looked to the others. Some understanding flowed among them. Carver said, "All right," and shrugged.
Whandall felt like an outsider. There was a long silence. Finally Whandall got up and left the wagon. No one spoke until he was too far away to make out words, then Carter and Carver began speaking excitedly.
Chapter 46
Come in," Kettle Belly said in invitation. "Have some wine."
"No, thank you," Whandall said. "I have something to show you."
"Yes?"
"Not here. At Willow's wagon."
Kettle Belly frowned at the setting sun. "Time to set the watch," he said. He began pulling on his boots. "Willow's wagon, you said? Not yours?"
"Hers after her father died," Whandall said. "In the Burning."
"Makes sense," Kettle Belly said. "I keep forgetting about the one-horns."
"The ponies are hers too."
"Well, of course." Kettle Belly tied off his bootlaces and held out his hand for Whandall to help him up. They set off at a brisk pace with two of Kettle Belly's nameless sons following. "Good. Let's go. You and Willow getting along all right, then?"
Whandall didn't answer.
"And it is my business," Kettle Belly said. His tone was serious now. "Everything that happens in this wagon train is my business until we get to Paradise Valley."
"Pelzed used to say things like that."
"Who's Pelzed?"
"Someone I used to know. I think we ought to hurry."
Kettle Belly was taking two steps to Whandall's one and didn't have breath for an answer.
"Leave that alone," Willow shouted.
"Why?" Carver demanded.
"Because-"
"Hello, Willow," Kettle Belly said.
Carver turned quickly. He was holding a gold nugget in both hands. It was pulling him to the ground.
"That's what we wanted to show you," Whandall said. "We have gold."
"I see that," Kettle Belly said. "More than that?"
"What's in the wagon?"
The wagon bed was open, and Kettle Belly looked. He said, "That's a lot of gold."
"I know. It's refined gold too."
"Where did you get it?" The shaman's voice. They turned to see Hick-amore come out of the shadows.
"Damn that lurking spell!" Whandall shouted.
Hickamore grinned. "I wondered if you would tell the wagonmaster." He turned to Kettle Belly. "Now, Black Kettle, behold the skill of your shaman and the value of our bargain. Dowries for all your daughters in your share alone!" Hickamore cackled. Suddenly he stiffened. He went past Carver and reached into the false compartment of the wagon, now open.
"Stop that!" Carter shouted.
Hickamore ignored them. His skinny arms lifted, holding two nuggets both as big as his head, as if they floated up under his palms. "Refined, you said. A wizard absorbed its power. Morth
? Is that who you meant? He didn't take it all, boy!" The old man's voice had gained in timbre and volume: it must have been audible throughout the camp. "Here." He handed a nugget to Carter (who dropped it) and one to Hammer (who staggered), took the nugget Carver was holding, and lifted it high. His face twisted in joy. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he stood entranced.
"Now what have you done?" Kettle Belly demanded of Whandall. His two sons stared at the shaman. In the shadows were Bison folk who had followed Hickamore's voice toward possible entertainment.
Carver and Carter had given over shouting at Kettle Belly. They watched the shaman. Willow ignored Hickamore to stare at Whandall, looking at him in a way she never had before, not unfriendly, certainly not angry, but as if she'd never really seen him. Before Whandall could speak to her, Hickamore recovered. He grinned wildly. "More gold calls. It's kin to this," he said.
"We're a long way from the river," Whandall said.
"Yes, yes, it was washed down to the river from above," Hickamore said. "The hills are alive with its music; I feel the power of it calling me. We must find it."
"Now?" Kettle Belly demanded. Hickamore nodded ecstatically.
"Is this wise?" Kettle Belly said. "There are bandits all about us."
"With the power in the gold, I will find and destroy them all!" Years had fallen from Hickamore's face, but they were creeping back again. His voice must have carried for miles; any bandit spy would hear him.
"You made a spell so you wouldn't get old," Whandall guessed.
Hickamore grinned craftily. "I have spoken many spells in my life, Lordkin. Kettle Belly, I must find that gold tonight. It wants me."
"How much gold?"
Hickamore shook his head. "As much as this, perhaps more. You want refined gold. I want-"
"The gold changed Morth," Whandall said slowly. "He became someone else."
"Younger, you told me," Hickamore said.
"Yes, and crazy!"
"I am already crazy," Hickamore said with casual conviction. "Whandall, come. We will search together, and you can tell me more of Morth of Atlantis."
"But-"
"Recall our bargain," Hickamore said. "Black Kettle will count what is here. Come." Before Whandall could protest, the shaman took his hand and pulled him away from the wagon. Behind him Whandall could hear the others shouting as Kettle Belly inspected the false wagon bottom. He tried to go back. He'd left Kettle Belly surrounded by armed adolescents in an argument over wealth!
Missing the point entirely, the shaman said, "Your friends are safe with Black Kettle. He is an honest man. I have said so, and it is true. You!" He turned to one of Kettle Belly's sons. "Number Three. Run quickly to my wagon and tell Twisted Cloud that her father needs her instantly to go with him on a journey. Run!"
"Why Twisted Cloud?" Twisted Cloud was Hickamore's fifteen-year-old daughter, who giggled.
"We seek magic. Rutting Deer has no sense of magic. Her jaw line is clearly mine, else I might be suspicious of my wife," Hickamore said.
Whandall looked sharply at Hickamore, but if the shaman noticed, he didn't react.
A half-moon peeked through scattered streamers of cloud, nearly overhead. The clouds stirred restlessly.
The older man strode on. Before they reached the wagon train, they saw Twisted Cloud running toward them, still fastening her skirt. Her black hair flew in the wind.
"You feel it?" Hickamore demanded.
"Something," she said. She wasn't giggling now. "Father, what is it?"
Hickamore seemed to sniff at the air. "This way, I think-"
"No," Twisted Cloud said. She cocked her head to one side. "More uphill, where the flood ran."
"Ah. Yes. It is very bright."
There was nothing bright ahead of them, but Whandall didn't say so. He'd seen Morth at work.
They were rushing ahead of him, running through poppies and scrub brush and over rocky ground. Whandall had trouble keeping up. A young girl and an old man were leaving Whandall in their dust. Hickamore might be enchanted-was enchanted-but how could Twisted Cloud outrun Whandall?
She saw him stumble-somehow, though she was far ahead-turned back and took his wrist, and ran again, pulling him.
She babbled breathlessly as she ran. "I squinted when I was little. My father made magic to strengthen my sight. It worked, a little. I've never seen so well as tonight! There are spirits about, but nothing dangerous. Follow me!"
"Oh, that's it. You're seeing-in the dark. Did Hickamore make himself-young too?"
A laugh in her voice. "Yes, but when he was younger..." She stopped talking.
The ground wasn't tripping him anymore. They were climbing a steep hill of bare pale rock. Twisted Cloud was steering him aright; but Hickamore was far above them now, outrunning them both. Power in the half-refined gold was taking him back through time; or else he was running over raw gold left by a flood.
Whandall gasped, "He doesn't need me ... as much as he thought!"
Her answer was not to the point. "Rutting Deer is promised, you know."
"Doesn't like me."
"My dowry isn't the equal of hers, but-"
Whandall laughed. "Hickamore wants us together?"
"Just to see each other, it may be. To notice."
A man could be knifed for lusting after a girl this young. Change the subject. "When he was younger. What kind of magic ... does a shaman cast?"
She laughed. "I'll tell you one he told me. Piebald Behemoth was dying. Father was his apprentice. A shaman must not be seen to grow ill and die. Father took the aspect of Piebald Behemoth and became our shaman." Twisted Cloud was pulling him uphill and chattering as if a fifteen-year-old girl had no need to draw breath. She'd never spoken so much in her older sister's presence. "The Bisons wanted to be fooled, you understand. Father let himself get well over the next year. Took a new name. And of course he blesses crops for the villages we pass and makes weather magic that sometimes works. The twisted cloud that was tearing up the camp the clay I was horn. Father dispersed it before it reached our wagon. Mother told me about that."
Their path converged with a small and narrow, swift-running stream. Hick-amore was far ahead. Twisted Cloud raised her voice above the sound of rushing water. "And once he tried to summon Coyote, but the god wouldn't come."
The stream narrowed and was partially dammed, so that it formed a falls as high as a tall man. Twisted Cloud and Whandall reached the stream just as Hickamore was emerging from the pool behind the boulder. He was holding a nugget the size of his fist and grinning like a fool. Lean as a snake he was, and muscled like a Lordkin. Black hair fell to his shoulders. His eyes were ecstatic and mad.
All in a moment his black hair curled; a wave of gold ran through it, and then a wave of dirty white. Then most of the white mane was dripping into the stream, leaving bald and mottled scalp. Hickamore's face contorted. Gaunt and hollow, jaw more square, brows more prominent, it was not his face at all but the face of a dying stranger.
Hickamore fell backward into the water. His twisted features were a grimace of pain and horror. One eye turned milky, the other stared wildly.
"Father!" Twisted Cloud screamed. She held two smaller nuggets. When she ran to her father with them, he writhed in pain. She threw the gold into the water and reached to wrest the larger nugget from Hickamore's fingers. "It's the old spells!" she shouted over her shoulder. "Take the gold!"
Whandall ran to help.
The old man's arms had gone slack, but the gold would not release his fingers. Twisted Cloud touched it and yelped. She pulled her hands loose as if the gold were sticky and lurched back into Whandall, shouting an unfamiliar phrase.
He tried to get around her. Then his mind caught up: she'd shouted, "Don't touch it!"
Hickamore whimpered and spat teeth. The sound in his throat was a death rattle. Then he was still. The current dribbled water into his mouth.
Whandall asked, "Are you all right?" For Twisted Cloud was looking around her like
a blind woman. This wasn't mourning; this was something else.
Her eyes found him and pinned him to reality. "I can see. I think I never saw before. Whandall Feath-"
"Girl, what happened to your father?"
"All the old spells. Did Morth of Atlantis know how to make a failed spell go away?"
"I have no idea."
"Father didn't know. Piebald Behemoth didn't know. Father took the old shaman's aspect on the night Piebald Behemoth died, before I was born. Slay here, Whandall."
The stream was icy on his shins. The shaman's daughter spoke before he started to wade to shore. He stopped, and looked, and saw the merest shadow of what was happening on shore.
Both sides of the stream were thickly overgrown with plants. It hadn't been like this earlier. You could almost see them growing. Whandall hissed between his teeth. He was not a man to take such a thing lightly.
"Father blessed crops," the girl said, "and made rain during drought. That didn't always work either."
Clouds were forming knots in the half moonlight, gearing up for rainstorms decades postponed.
"Should we be in a riverbed when the rains come?"
"No." Twisted Cloud turned and began to wade downstream. "We have a few minutes. It won't be like this farther down."
Whandall had lost all feeling in his feet. The bushes on both shores were closing above them. Behind their backs, the voice of a god laughed.
They whirled around.
The dead shaman was sitting up. His voice was strong, and louder than the falling water. "Cloud, dear, your father is dead. He lived a life very much to his liking, and no more can be done for him. Harpy-Seshmarl-Whandall?"
"Coyote."
"Hickamore once mimicked a shaman freshly dead. His spells have succeeded beyond his maddest dreams. And I am Coyote, yes." The voice of a god. Hickamore had tried to call Coyote. "But do you know who Coyote is?"
"A god among the Bison People. I've heard stories. My people may have known of you, Coyote. The stories make you sound like a clever Lordkin."
Coyote laughed. His throat was drying out in death. Whandall glanced aside: Twisted Cloud was basking in a state of worship. He'd get no help from her. Don't offend a god, he thought, and hoped it could be that simple.