His two companions looked impressed. ‘Why did she not speak of this?’ asked Rolling-Stone.
‘She could not. Hidden behind each side of the open door where we could not see them were two more red-stripes with drawn bows, their arrows pointing straight at her heart.’
The chief clan elder frowned, adding more lines to his deeply wrinkled face. ‘But what has she to fear? Does she not possess the Second Ring of Power? Could she not have willed the arrows to turn aside? If she and Cadillac are prisoners why does she not call upon the earth-forces to free them?’
Mr Snow caressed the golden images on the box. ‘She dare not. Cadillac stays of his own free will. He no longer cares whether Clearwater goes or stays. She remains because she is pledged to do so but she is not free. She is held in the hut of a great warrior chief who desires to make her his body-slave. She does not use her power because Talisman has forbidden it. No Iron Master is to die at the hands of the Plainfolk. This is why the cloud-warrior was sent back to us. It is he who has been chosen by Talisman to bring Cadillac and Clearwater out of the eastern lands. Many dead-faces will die, their great huts and many of their works will be burst asunder but their anger and their desire for revenge will fall not on us but upon the sand-burrowers.’
‘Neat,’ said Mack-Truck. ‘I like it. What now?’
‘We find the cloud-warrior and show him the box. This middle picture on the top shows what looks like a tree but it is much more. The branches and the trunk are rivers. The other lines show the run of hills and valleys as seen from the sky. He understands better than I what these marks mean. Once they are in his mind, they will guide his feet along the right path.’
Mack-Truck accepted this with a nod. ‘Are you going to tell him Clearwater is here – on Yama-Shita’s boat?’
‘No. It will only complicate matters. Let him find that out for himself.’
Nineteen
Steve’s hunch about being able to find a way into the ship via the piston housings proved correct. The forward end of the pistons ran down a sloping slab-sided shaft. There was just enough room between the stationary beam and the planked roof of the shaft to allow someone to crawl through. Like the blades on the huge paddle wheel they drove round, the two long wooden beams were reinforced with metal straps, pins and inserts. As with everything made by the Iron Masters, the level of craft skills employed was very high but the extensive use of wood seemed to indicate they were not yet able to produce heavy forgings. The Federation had gotten around the problem by developing SuperCon, a special formulation of concrete that had all the advantageous properties of steel and could be machined to the same fine tolerances; the big difference was that everything could be cast in cold moulds, without any need for giant furnaces, tempering or drop forging. It also didn’t rust.
Unslinging his quarterstaff, Steve crawled forward in the shadow cast by the beam, wriggled into the housing and slithered down head first. Had someone been waiting at the other end he would have been totally at their mercy but, once again, his luck held. The lower end of the piston was connected to a massive cylinder and a cluster of valves which provided the impetus to drive the paddle wheel. The pipes that carried steam to and from the cylinder ran downwards before turning at right angles to follow the line of the floor below. They were uncomfortably hot but, as his almost naked body was still dripping wet, the short slide was not too painful.
Emerging from the lower end of the shaft, Steve found himself in the darkened engine room of the wheel-boat. It stretched from side to side of the hull and seemed to be about fifty to sixty feet long. In the centre, in a square, vaulted area rising through the deck above were two huge, wood-fired boilers made of black riveted metal plates, linked by an intricate web of copper pipes and brass valves to the cylinder and piston assembly in the shaft above his head, and to its twin on the starboard side of the boat.
The total structure rose some fifteen feet into the air, the upper parts being encased in a framework of ladders and narrow walkways. Split lengths of wood were stacked in neat piles on both sides of the hull and across the entire forward section of the engine room. The boilers were alight but had been damped down for the night. Steam hissed lazily from excess pressure vents. The air was moist and heavy with heat, the aroma of woodsmoke and warm oil. The sole illumination was provided by twelve small lanterns which were moved about as required by the night crew. The burnished metal work gleamed in the yellow glow but, beyond the pools of light, everything lay in deep shadow.
Steve counted six unmasked dead-faces sitting at a table set amidships a few feet from the business end of the boilers. They were eating food from a collection of bowls with the aid of small sticks. Like Mr Snow, Steve was surprised to discover the flat faces and hairless heads of the Iron Masters. Five were stripped to the waist, their smooth, waxy skins glistening with sweat. All had a short length of oil-stained yellow rag tied around their throats. The sixth sported a red sweatband and wore a wide-sleeved jacket. It carried no visible signs of rank but since he was the only one so dressed he was probably the crew-chief.
Crouched behind the vertical cluster of pipes, Steve could not be seen by the crew as long as they remained seated. But he could not rely on them sitting there for ever. He needed a safer place to hide while he worked out his next move. Keeping the pipes between himself and the crew, Steve moved quickly behind the tall stack of logs running along the port side of the engine room then climbed on top of it. The stack rose to within three feet of the beamed ceiling that ran around the central vaulted area, obliging him to lie flat on his stomach. Unless any of the crew mounted the walkways with a lantern and looked in his direction he would be able to crawl right around the engine room without being seen. He considered stashing his weapons behind the stacked wood but the risk of discovery was too great; the stacks were certain to be used during the voyage which would last several days at least, maybe weeks and, even if they weren’t, it might prove difficult to get back into the engine room. He had to find somewhere better.
One of the M’Call loaders had told him that arrangements had been made to accommodate the journey-men on the main through-deck. Steve had a hunch it could be the one immediately above his head, where the out-going cargo had been stacked. Tonight was probably the last night when the guards would either be absent or at a minimum. But how to get up there? The only set of stairs he could see ran from the centre of the engine-room floor, up between the two boilers, to meet a walkway running across the vaulted section. From there, the upward journey was continued via a second flight of stairs placed at either end. From where he lay he could not see the top but, presumably, there had to be a means of access to the deck above. Simple enough, except he could not negotiate the stairs without being seen; the table at which the sweating engineers were feeding their faces lay across the bottom of the stairs and less than six feet from the first step.
Casting his eyes around in search of another exit, Steve saw a shadowy gap in the centre of the forward stack of logs and decided to investigate. He crawled along to the far end of the port stack then angled round over the main store. The wood here was six rows deep. He kept close to the wall where the darkness was almost complete then carefully climbed down into the gap between the front stacks. He had guessed right again. There was a sliding door set into the forward wall of the engine room. He open up a crack to see what was beyond. He could see no lights nor hear any sound of activity.
Looking back towards the crew table, he saw that two of them had begun to play some kind of a game with stones and the others had crowded round to watch. The game seemed to be a source of entertainment, triggering cries of amazement and bursts of laughter from both players and spectators. Steve waited for a particularly noisy outburst then slid the door open and stepped through. When he tried to close the door behind him it jammed half-way. Shit… Fortunately, it was even darker here than in the far recesses of the engine room but if any of the engine room staff got bored with the game and wandered in his direction he wa
s done for.
Steve paused for a moment to tune into his surroundings. He was in a narrow passageway leading under the bow deck. As his eyes adjusted he detected a feeble glimmer of light at the far end and what looked like a ladder. He moved slowly towards it, feeling the walls on both sides to discover if they contained any doors or recesses. His fingers brushed across a series of rectangular panels. Those in the bottom half of the wall had solid inserts; those at the top were pierced screens of latticed wood. Running his toes along the skirting, he located a groove that indicated the presence of a sliding door. A door meant access to a space beyond, a space that could be occupied by a sleeping Iron Master. He put his ears to the screens and listened intently. It was hopeless. Every piece of wood creaked and vibrated in sympathy with the rest of the boat. He tried easing back one of the panels. It slid part-way open with what seemed an alarmingly loud noise. Hardly daring to breathe, he poked his head gingerly inside. Nothing. A black, impenetrable void.
Leaving the door as it was, Steve headed towards the ladder, climbed up and peered over the rim of the hatch. To the right and left, almost within reach, were sacks of grain and what, by their smell, appeared to be rolled buffalo skins. What lay beyond was as much of a mystery as what lay on either side of the passage below.
The light that had cast its feeble glow onto the ladder came through a latticed square in the ceiling above his head. Its source was one of the fore-deck lanterns. The light was eclipsed briefly as the guard he had seen standing near the bows walked overhead. Steve ducked instinctively then, as he raised his eyes level with the through-deck, he saw two bobbing yellow lights moving towards him. As they drew nearer, he saw they were lanterns carried by two patrolling guards. He shrank down on the ladder. Christo… where should he go? The guard’s patrol area might include the engine room and the areas on either side of the passageway. He dare not risk staying where he was. He would have to get back on top of the wood stacks.
With a muttered curse, Steve retreated down the ladder into the dark passageway. Halfway along it he froze in horror. The sliding door at the far end was still only half-closed and now, two of the engine-room staff had begun to shift logs from the corner of the stack just beyond! He looked back at the hatchway and saw it filled with the glow from the approaching lanterns. The guards were now only yards away. Move Brickman! Flattening himself against the port side of the passageway to avoid being silhouetted against the light, Steve found the edge of the cabin door he had attempted to open and squeezed inside. He heard the guard’s footsteps pass almost directly overhead. Crouching down below the level of the pierced screens, he laid the bladed quarterstaff on the floor and eased the sliding door towards him. To his heightened senses, it seemed to make even more noise than when he had opened it.
Drawing back against the wall, Steve came into contact with a corner of the room. He quickly unwrapped the strip of cloth that concealed the knife strapped to his left fore-arm. The guards climbed down the sloping ladder, lanterns swinging. As they passed in single file he could see them quite clearly through the small holes in the lattice. He held his breath as the yellow light from their lanterns dappled his face and chest but they went straight on down the passage. Pressing his face close to the screen, he saw the light fade as the guards entered the engine room. There was a brief exchange of nonsense words and a burst of laughter. Steve uttered another whispered curse. He had been so intent on watching the progress of the guards he had missed the opportunity to take stock of his surroundings during the brief moment when they had been illuminated by the passing lanterns. Never mind. Too late now. Onwards and upwards.
He wrapped the cloth back around the knife but left the top part of the handle free – just in case. He had a feeling he had pushed his luck just about as far as it would go for one night. A smile crossed his face as he thought of Mr Snow. When the wordsmith found out what he had been up to his whiskers would catch fire. Steve planned to let the news slip casually when they said goodbye in the morning. The journey-men were due to board at first light; the wheel-boats leaving, as always, as the sun came up. Right now, the poor bastards would be whooping it up around the fire, getting sky-high on rainbow grass. Steve whose hair had already been dyed dark brown to enhance his disguise, wondered what Jodi Kazan would say when she saw him step off at the other end. He stooped down and slid his hand towards his quarterstaff. It wasn’t there. Puzzled, Steve knelt down and searched the darkness with both hands. His fingers touched a pair of bare feet. He glanced up and saw a shadowy naked figure towering over him. Before he could reach for his knife or throw himself clear, something crashed against his skull. The blow registered as a jagged flash of lightning on the inside of his eyelids and a thunderclap of pain exploded inside his head. His last memory was of falling sideways, through the floor, into a black bottomless pit.
* * *
At first light, Brickman was still missing. Around the lines, the various clan groups were already astir as the small scattered groups of renegades were hauled to their feet and readied for their last walk on Plainfolk territory. The journey-men, not all of them males, went the rounds, bidding their clan-brothers and sisters a last farewell. As the two flank-boats nosed up to the beach below the trading post, a M’Call Bear brought word to Mr Snow that the cloud-warrior’s walking skins had been found neatly folded under a pile of stones on the beach.
It was obvious what had happened. Mr Snow threw up his arms and cursed loudly. What an idiot he had been! Instead of worrying in case Brickman did something foolish he should have taken steps to prevent him doing so by having someone sit on his head until it was time to board. If he didn’t turn up soon, the young Mute warrior whose place he had offered to take would have to make the trip as originally planned. All the journey-men and renegades had been issued with flat metal armlets which were threaded through a plaque bearing three convoluted signs representing the sounds of words in Iron Master’s language. Fortunately Mr Snow had put off making the substitution until the last possible minute so the unfortunate journey-man was still wearing it. Had the plaque been found to be missing by the tally-master there would have been some awkward explaining to do. The dead-faces were absolutely fanatical about head-counts and lists. Mr Snow had envied their ability to write the signs for silent speech but having now reflected on the way their lives seemed totally dominated by an obsessive concern with organisational structures, administration and paperwork he was beginning to feel that the gift of literacy also had its downside.
The wordsmith paced up and down in a fine old fret. Brickman, running true to form, had jumped the gun and – if he hadn’t already been caught and skewered – had stowed away on one of the boats to begin his rescue mission while he, Mr Snow, was here on the shore with a complete set of instructions! His sole source of comfort was the knowledge that Clearwater had grasped the meaning of his veiled message – that the cloud-warrior had returned as predicted in the seeing-stone and was about to embark on a rescue attempt. But she had been forewarned of this already. The box, with its charged images, had not been intended for him but for Brickman. Things had not gone quite according to plan but it was proof yet again that The Path was already drawn and that Talisman watched over his own.
The last of the journey-men filed aboard and disappeared into the bowels of the ship. Even though he had witnessed the scene many times, Mr Snow always felt the same way. Their going – like the doleful task of despatching dying warriors after a battle – was an occasion for bitter regret. This time, perhaps, when the cloud-warrior returned with Cadillac and Clearwater, they would finally discover the fate of those who, over the years, had been carried away across the great river. One day, when the Plainfolk were one nation under Talisman, they would no longer be forced to kneel to the Iron Masters. They would march to the east in glory and bring forth their lost clan-brothers and sisters.
Surrounded by the rest of the M’Call delegation, Mr Snow watched as teams of white-stripes laboured to wind the walkways back up onto the d
ecks of the two flank boats. The M’Calls were only a small part of the huge crowd now gathered on the beach for the final farewell. Grey and white smoke belched from the tall thin funnels as the huge paddle-wheels churned up the water beneath their sterns. Once clear of the shallows, the two boats turned about and took up their positions on either side of Yama-Shita’s vessel. Its bows were already pointed towards the far horizon. As the sun passed through the eastern door, the assembled Mutes heard a rumbling roar like the thunder of falling water. It was the engines responding to the call for full steam ahead. The great steel-bound blades on the paddle-wheels knifed into the surface of the lake, driving the boats towards the rising sun. All three boats vented plumes of pure white smoke sending a shock-wave of sound reverberating across the water. Vwoooooo-oommmmm…
‘Heyy-yahh!’ roared the Plainfolk with one voice. Lines of drums pounded out an insistent rhythm and the knives that would soon kill each other and the turf-marker poles which, in two short weeks, they would die to defend were raised into the air in unison. Heyy-yahh! Heyy-yahh! HEYYY-YAHH!’
The Iron Masters responded with a final explosive salute. Long stabbing fingers of flame and billowing clouds of red and black smoke erupted from all three decks on both sides of Yama-Shita’s vessel followed by an explosive burst of sound. A great rippling thunderclap that caused many of the watching Mutes to think the sky was being torn apart. Hundreds fell to their knees on the beach as the spreading pressure-wave washed over them like a great wind.
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