Moonrise

by Mitchell Smith

  The hounds hadn't been set after him, the whole chase. It must have been thought they weren't to be trusted to track and pull down one of their accustomed masters. And true, there wasn't a soft-eyed scent-hound or brute mastiff there that Bajazet hadn't played with as a puppy. Even more than Newton, he'd had a way with them.

  "You don't respect him," he'd said once to his brother, concerning a hound's stubborn disobedience.

  Newton had smiled. "I find men difficult enough to respect, Baj. I don't have enough left for even an amiable dog." Though, as was Newton's way, he was more patient thereafter.

  ... The kennel quieted after a time. The lodge camp quieted. Only a fire's hiss and crackle, only an owl far away, only the night wind sounded through the trees as Bajazet walked cloaked into camp as if he were a forester with ordinary business there — had perhaps been out to john trench, and was coming back to coarse blanket and pack pillow. Though the two men at the lodge's steps, if they'd noticed, might have wondered why he strolled around to the back of the building, where no fires burned.

  Bajazet threw back the cloak's hood, managed his scabbarded rapier clear, and climbed the fire-ladder back up the way he'd come, a coward fleeing, the morning before. The climb — a dozen rungs up a simple ladder — was surprisingly difficult; he had to stop once to rest, and hung there, very tired.

  The window was swung closed, its leaded squares of glass giving blurred vision down an empty corridor lit by two whale-oil lamps hung to ceiling hooks by fine brass chains.

  Odd, that he'd never noticed such detail. It all seemed new, not quite the lamp-lit hallway it had been. He'd left the memory of it behind, as he fled.

  Bajazet drew his dagger, slid the long, slender blade between window frame and jamb... and forced it, levering just beneath the simple catch. It was wonderful how the knife spoke to him through its grip, the steel reporting angle and effort... mentioning its limits, but not seriously.

  Bajazet felt the latch at the blade's top edge, and lifted it.

  The window squeaked and swung wide. He threw a leg over and was in, stood in indoor warmth for a moment, smelled roasted meat, and suddenly felt sick. The heat seemed furnace heat, so he swayed, wanting to lie down. He closed his eyes, breathed deep... and felt a little better. Then, his eyes open, he walked as through a dream down the long corridor to his chamber. And, as he lifted the door latch, felt certain as Floating-Jesus who he would find. He stepped in, and closed the door behind him.

  Mark Cooper, awake in this small hour as if by appointment, stood startled before the sideboard and a tray of food, barefoot in a bed-robe of velveted maroon.

  "... Baj!... Thank Lady Weather! I thought these idiots might have killed you." Great relief on young Mark's face. Great relief. "I just got out here, late, and put a stop to it. No reason for you to be involved in this at all." Mark took a step forward, then a step back as Bajazet came to him."... My father. My father has ordered things —"

  "Newton?"

  A nod from sad Mark Cooper. "I'm just so sorry, Baj. Dad... I never thought he'd do something like this!"

  "Pedro, and the others?"

  "Well... I don't know about all of them. But Darry killed three of our people — my father's men. It was all just a real tragedy." He shook his head. "Terrible..."

  Perhaps it was hunger that so sharpened a person's eyes. Sharpened his ears as well. Bajazet heard Mark's voice subtly uncertain as a banjar's slightly warped by having been brought indoors directly on a winter evening. The voice, like that instrument's, was almost true, but not quite. Cooper's eyes, still the mild blue of his childhood, had shifted, just slightly, toward the door — for escape, for what help might come to him if he had time to shout, if a slant-eyed, dark-eyed fugitive, grimed with mud and smelling like a forest creature gone to earth, weren't standing so close, his hand on the hilt of his long left-hand dagger.

  Bajazet saw the food on the sideboard was still steaming, brought up not long ago. A hot meal now seemed as good a reason as revenge. As good a reason as leaving Gareth Cooper with no heir to his stolen throne.

  "You'll be safe, Baj." The heir, frightened, and barefoot in his bed-robe. "Really. I promise, absolutely."

  "And will also bring Newton back to life?" Bajazet drew the left-hand dagger as he reached to cover Mark's mouth with his right hand, stepped in, and thrust him deep, three swift times with rapid soft punching sounds — into the gut, the liver, and through the heart's gristle.

  Mark stood on his toes with the long blade still in him, arching away, squealing into the muffling hand like a girl in her pleasure. Then fell forward, staring, slumped into Bajazet... clutched his cloak, and seemed to slip down forever as the steel slid out of him.... He settled onto the floor, grunting, turned on his side with urine staining his robe, and took slow steps there as if walking through a tilted world. Then liquid caught and rattled in his throat.

  Bajazet, staggering as if his dagger had turned to strike at him, as if the whole of the last day and night had turned to strike at him, stumbled to the sideboard, and wiped his blade carefully on a fine linen napkin. He sheathed it, then took up slices of venison from a serving platter, folded them together dripping gravy and red juices, and crammed them into his mouth.... Chewing seemed to take too long; he bolted the meat like a hunting dog, drank barley beer from a small silver pitcher only to aid in swallowing... then gathered and swallowed more venison, gravy running down his fingers, spattering on fine figured wood and linen. Tears also; he cried as he ate, and supposed it was because he was still young, and though he'd injured men in foolish duels, had never killed a man before.

  As Mark Cooper was certainly killed, since now he was still and silent, and smelled of shit.

  Bajazet crammed and ate until he ached, drank more beer to ease it down... remembering Mark as a small boy, a playmate always amiable, biddable, so often looking surprised at what the great world offered childhood.... Bajazet chewed rye-bread rolls and little roasted potatoes, though they seemed to have no taste at all.

  So much gobbling finally made him feel faint, and he had to go sit on the room's cot, bow his head... take deep breaths to keep from vomiting. He sat sick, as Mark lay at ease in a rich sticky pond, keeping him company.

  "I hope you lied to me, about being sorry," Bajazet said, though now that seemed to make no sense. Perhaps Mark would have understood it.... There was the strongest urge to lie down on the cot, the room so warm with its little stove in the corner. The strongest urge to do that, and sleep, so that waking later might prove all a dream, and Noel Purse come in and say, "Are we hunting, Baj ? Or sleeping the fucking day away?"

  It seemed stupid to stand, but he did. Stupid to search his own locker for his small leather pack, with its flint-and-steel, spare southern-cotton shirt, ball of useful rawhide cord... also a red-checked bandanna, and yesterday-morning's hunter's ration of pemmican, river-biscuit, and little round of hard cheese. A canteen — why in the world did Warm-time copybooks call water flasks canteens?... Strap pack and so forth on over his cloak. And take what else? What else, and why anything, only to run again?

  After thinking for what seemed a long time — Mark lying patient on the floor — Bajazet also chose his recurved bow and a quiver of fine broadhead shafts, shouldered them, then cautiously opened the door to no voices from below... and only soft snoring from another chamber. He stepped into the corridor, closed the door behind him, and walked what seemed a long way down to the familiar window… clambered out to the familiar fire-ladder — the bow's curved upper arm knocking on the window's frame — then climbed carefully down. More burdened now... and less.

  The camp's ground, when he reached it, seemed the first thing in a while solid and real. Real as the chase to come, that would make a poor joke of the hunt before. Now it would be the new king who pursued — a king bereft of his son and that son's future. A king with now no dynasty possible, no continuance. Gareth Cooper would chase, if necessary, to the Smoking Mountains... would have to, or be seen weak as
well as lacking any heir.

  Bajazet, belly overfull to aching, strolled through firelit darkness — waved once to the two men still talking a long bowshot away, standing casual guard by the lodge's entrance.

  Two dead men, soon enough, when the king — pigeoned the news — came to the lodge and asked who had stood watch while his son was murdered.... Some huntsmen, of course, some militia would continue to cast, seeking his trace. But the full hunt would now await the king's coming — a two-days' sail up from Island. Bajazet would have at least that advantage.

  He walked on... walked out of camp, ducked into forest and was gone. Gone running into the last of night, fleeing east and alone through dark, still, and frozen woods.

  CHAPTER 2

  He'd slept till near midday, when the hounds woke him, casting uncertain and far away.

  Uncertain, since they must be following the scent of clothes taken from his chamber's press, then echoed on boot-prints into the woods. Their master's scent, and never before that of prey. So, fragile and reluctant trailing — and thank Lady Weather, or they would have him in a day's running. The foresters, those fine trackers, were more dangerous.

  Bajazet had slept on his belly like an exhausted child — the stems of winter-killed grass were printed across his right cheek. He sat up, then stood, and shook frost-beads and dead leaves from his cloak.... He'd certainly heard the hounds, but then had lost their yodels. They'd be Warm-time miles behind him, west, down a small stream's valley. He'd slept the last of night and half the day beneath a budding alder — and had had to, or stagger in circles and drop to be found as they came on behind him.

  "I killed him," he said aloud, and saw Mark's eyes again, astonished as he sank down. There was satisfaction to waking to that memory, though he supposed it would be better not to dwell on it, draw pleasure from the killing to chew on as spotted cattle chewed to swallow their mouthfuls twice. Better not to dwell on that with pleasure... and also not to talk aloud too often, since he had no good advice to give himself — nor encouragement, either.

  So the hounds, poor followers — but the chase was not yet in full cry. When King Gareth came, it would be with fresh hounds, foresters, and at least a troop of the Army-United's regular Light Cavalry. Those hunters would be difficult to lose.

  Likely impossible to lose, though the chase took them days, weeks. A new king — a traitor king — his only son murdered, could not afford to return to the river, the river lords, and other greats of the Great Rule, without the killer's fire-dried heart dangling from the Helmet of Joy.

  A long, long chase then, and an almost certain end to it. — And if not that end, then what? An escape into deep and deeper wilderness, peopled with savages — and worse than savages, Boston's made-creatures gone feral? And so to an even meaner death?

  Bajazet kicked a shit-hole with his boot heel, swung his cloak off, unlaced his buckskins, lowered them and under-drawers, and squatted for necessity... then used damp leaves to clean himself, and kicked the place covered. He laced his trousers, then reached up to lift his sword-belt, pack, bow and quiver from the low alder branches he'd hung them from the night before. He buckled the sword-belt, then drew on his cloak, strapped his leather pack to his back, and shouldered the quiver and unstrung bow.

  The hounds again. Still distant, several Warm-time miles to the west.

  Bajazet walked... then jog-trotted east along the narrow stream. He didn't know its name, so as he traveled, named it Confusion — and after a while, his night stiffness easing with the exercise, used it as such. He sat, and took his boots and thick stockings off. Then, holding them high, ran to splash down into the icy water... and out and up the opposite bank. Ran a little way angling north — then back the way he'd come and into the stream again... jumping, slipping, stepping from sand to rock to shingle, forging upstream until his legs, in soaked buckskins, ached with effort and freezing water, and his toes were bruised and bleeding from stubbing on stones.

  He climbed out the opposite bank again, trembling with cold, cloak-hem dripping, sat to dry his feet in the cloak's hood... then put on stockings and boots to run again, angling north until the sounds of the stream were lost behind him, and only his footfalls broke the woods' silence.

  He ran while he could — when the close trees and tangled brush allowed it — then, very tired, breathing like a Festival runner, he stopped and bent by a berry bush, hands propped on his knees, to catch his breath.

  "I should have taken a horse," he said aloud — then remembered not to do that, and was silent. He saw himself — Mark Cooper dead — walking to the horse-lines past snoring troopers, choosing some shifting charger (a tall hot-hided roan) amid the warmth and odor of other horses. Unclipping its halter tether, and leading it away, stamping, snorting, to jump swinging up onto its bare back... knee it to a trot, then kick it galloping out of camp, leaving shouts and flaring torches behind.

  Bajazet imagined that so well, he looked behind him as if the horse were there, tethered to a tree while he rested from hard riding.

  Of course, hoof-marks would have been easier for pursuers to track... and stealing one would have required passing many snoring troopers to get to the horses. Careless guard of the new king's son, perhaps, with no danger expected. Careless guard of a regiment's mounts — never.

  Bajazet thought of a bite or two of his pack's pemmican, then decided not. It was startling how empty of game — of any food — these wild woods were. He'd seen nothing, not even a rabbit or squirrel for reason to string his bow. And no time to set and wait out snares.... Unless many tribal hunters had come through, the distant sounds of the hunt had been enough to frighten the game away before them. In that way, by hunger, the chase might kill him without ever catching.

  ... On the royal hunts, of course, the foresters had already found game, or driven it, for the family's pleasure. But he was no longer a person privileged. Now, he was only a person, and could even be alone and by himself — though he'd many times been almost alone with only a whore for company... and with other men's wives. Alone in his chambers at Island, of course, though with Terry Fitz, or Noel, or sad old Ralph-sergeant on duty outside his door. The steward, and the maids. It was Terry he missed most, and was surprised to be missing him. A valet... clothes-press, hot irons, and fussing over colors.

  Bajazet raised his arms, stretched as well as bow, quiver, and pack allowed, and took a deep breath of cold woods air. There was a pleasure to being only a person, and alone — though a pleasure that would likely be short-lived.

  * * *

  Time to angle back to the stream. East.., east would have to be the way, at least for a while. East, and thank Floating-Jesus — or the Forest's Jesus, now — for rising hills and deeper woods, where a troop of Light Cavalry (certain soon to arrive and chase) would find difficult going.

  Bajazet settled his gear, canted the scabbarded rapier back out of his way, and trotted — allowing for frequent interfering trees — a long southeastern way, taking direction from a watery sun

  through graying cloud. His toes hurt.... He felt he must someday

  set bitter loss aside, set the last of cushioned boyhood aside as well, to become a slightly different person, one to whom the panoply, music, and colors of the court would seem odd to remember.

  Alone. The king gone, the queen gone — and Colonel Mosten drowned with them.... Newton gone. Pedro Darry killed — and certainly others.

  And who left alive, who had loved King Sam Monroe? Possibly Master Lauder, who'd seemed so sly. Possibly he and Lord Voss — both in their fifties, now — had survived in North Map-Mexico; the Coopers' arm might not have reached so far.... Come to a wall of ice-sheathed bramble, Bajazet had to backtrack, go around to avoid it. — And if Howell Voss still lived, then his wife, Charmian, would be alive as well, and she a fair and dangerous match for her husband. Lauder and the Vosses, formidable people who'd been King Sam's officers and friends.

  Bajazet had met the three of them once, come up from the Gulf for Lor
d Winter's festival. The Vosses, particularly, an impressive pair, both tall and battle-scarred. They'd brought twins with them, of all things — a little boy and girl clumsy and curious as puppies.... Lord Howell, one-eyed and seeming to Bajazet old to have fathered young children, had been humorous, and played the banjar once in his Second-mother's solar. His wife, not quite as old — her long black hair, streaked iron-gray worn loose down her back as if she were a girl — had come up to the salle once, and stood watching a lesson, a battle-melee where fifteen of the older boys (and a river lord's odd daughter) half-armored, fought with blunted blades in confused turmoil, divided one group against the other. Lady Voss had watched for a while... then, smiling, had left.

  After the lesson, the others dismissed, the Master — a grizzled West-bank Major, still quick as a cat — had said to Bajazet, "Be careful around the Lady Charmian Voss, Prince, now and in the future. Careful courtesy, do you understand?"

  Bajazet had understood, understood even that year before the king's painful lesson. The lady's smile, though pleasantly amused, had seemed to conceal something grimmer. He'd heard the king, later, discussing those two with Queen Rachel as they went hand-in-hand to dinner. "— Howell and dangerous Charmian, together for loss and lack of other loves," he'd said. "But it seems they suit, after all."

  "Suit very well," the queen had said.

  ... Slowed to a walk by thickets, Bajazet paged dripping foliage aside. He could hear the stream again — to the right — returned to after his detour. Odd word; he'd read detour in some old copybook, a seventh copy concerning people using Warm-times' bang-powder guns for robbery.

  "Stranger than we can know," Ancient Peter Wilson had said of Warm-times, "— even with a number of their books copied and in our hands. Even using those books' language as our own."

  Bajazet came to Confusion's bank, and as he stood resting, heard no hounds calling over the soft sounds of running water. He noticed his hands as if they were a stranger's. Dirty — filthy, really — and a fingernail broken like some sweat-slave's on the Natchez docks.... Natchez — not Warm-times' town, of course; that long drowned as the river rose in even the short summers' melt-water off the Wall. Not the same town, though named the same, and likely more than twenty miles east of the old one. But what times he'd had there.... Gwendolyn.