... He woke to a still and frozen world — but was not frozen. Something weighed on him, was tucked under and around him in heavy harsh weave. He started, sat half up amid the hemlock's hanging branches, and found a thick blanket — thick as a thumb, and goat's wool by its oily odor — draped over him. The heavy fabric was frozen stiff as planking, and Bajazet lay for a moment trying to make sense of it, of its being there at all — then wrestled it off, footed it away to roll from under the hemlock and stand trembling... the rapier drawn before he'd thought of it, its lean steel swaying in gray dawn's light, seeking an enemy.
"Who?!" He swung in a circle, his rapier's blade whispering in the turn through icy air, and drew his left-hand dagger also.
"Who...?" Bajazet expected amused foresters — hard men to have chased fast enough through the days, then through a freezing night to catch him. Foresters, and an eager trooper or two. There'd be no killing them all.
Bajazet waited, his morning shadow his only company, and tried to stretch a little on guard, ease stiff muscles for the fight. The left-hand dagger... remember the dagger. The Master always reminding — the rapier for flourishing parry and thrust, but the dagger for close and finish. The Master before — the honored Butter — had preached the knife.
Bajazet took deep breaths, eased his shoulders, lowered his points a little off guard to relax his arms and wrists. There was no sound but sunrise breeze through evergreens and a single birch standing alone up the hill. No laughter... no moccasin-boots and cavalry boots kicking to him through winter-crumpled leaves and pine needles.
He realized, after a while — when little hedge-birds, gray and brown, flitted casually by... then back again — he realized he was alone.
But not alone last night. Blanketed against the cold — but by whom? By that creature seen (or imagined) perching in a tree? But there had seemed (or dreamed) only cruel smiling observation there, not friendship…. Bajazet knew of no friend in Eastern forests. Perhaps a single fast-chasing huntsman, ghosting beside, tormenting with a cat's sense of humor until the king's men caught up? Or, more likely, preserving King Gareth's prey at the king's orders, for an extended torturing pursuit... to a satisfactory conclusion.
And if so, if Cooper intended the chase prolonged, he would have his wish.
Bajazet sheathed his weapons, crawled under the hemlock to retrieve his pack, bow, and quiver. Then he tugged the cold-stiff blanket out, rolled the thick wool lengthwise with some difficulty, tied each end with lengths of rawhide cord, then draped the blanket over his left shoulder, brought the rolled ends down and across, and tied them together at his right side. It made for some awkwardness with his pack, and the bow and quiver over his right shoulder, but an awkwardness that guarded him from any more of Lord Winter's departing rages.
He was hungry again — the little rabbit's gift of life had worn away — but not too hungry to run. Let the king's game player follow fast, and find a broadhead arrow waiting in the hills.
... By dark, a distance east, and down-slope in rough woods where streaks of snow still lingered in trees' shadows, Bajazet lay curled in the mocking gift's thick wool — his empty belly cramped — and stayed awake for a long while, waiting, listening. Then he drifted to sleep and a dream of Susan Clay. In the dream, she did him favors she'd refused before — and fed him, too, or at least offered food he never quite settled to eat. Bread pudding in a blue bowl, with thick, hot, imperial chocolate poured over it.
That must have been an end-of-sleep dream, because he woke to a misty morning, saying "Shit," as he realized the pudding was insubstantial and gone.
Bajazet sat up in the blanket — and bumped his head lightly on a small basket dangling just above him off a hickory sapling's limb.
At that tap, he thrashed out of the blanket, got to his knees with his dagger out — and saw nothing moving in the woods, no one standing or crouched.... His possibles were as they had been beside him. But there was now that little basket, rough woven of twigs and winter-dried lengths of vine.
Whoever had hung it there had followed all through the day, pacing him through brush and forest along the hill ridges. Had followed, waited until he slept... then come to lean over him, and leave the little basket like an Easter lover.
Bajazet got to his feet, stood hunched under close branches, and took the basket down cautiously as if there might be a baby hill-rattler coiled in it.
There were .. . berries. A double handful of blueberries and wild cherries, all winter shriveled, likely gleaned from shrubs that must grow in the hills' deeper valleys.
Bajazet began to eat before he intended to eat — but when he noticed, still could not stop. He picked and chewed — spit out the cherry pits, savored and swallowed little pellets of leathery sweetness while looking around on guard that anyone might come and take these from him.
He ate, swallowed — couldn't stop even to think about this second night-gift until he'd eaten the last, scrabbled a tiny weather-dried blueberry out of the basket's rough bottom.
Finished, he stood staring into the basket as if more food might be found by looking very hard... and was angry there wasn't. A bread pudding — or something, if not a pudding. Why not more berries? The sweetness of them. His heart was thumping... thumping.
Who had left the little basket hanging? No cruel forester, after all, however gifted in woods-running.... And not by the king's wishes, either. Gareth Cooper had no such imagination. Chase, catch, and skin alive, would be his way.
But Bajazet had no friend in the Eastern forests. No friend who was such a perfect ghost of the woods. No friend who wove blankets and baskets, and picked winter-dried fruit.
He set the basket down, gathered his things to travel — then ducked out of the thicket and called, shouting into the woods around him. "Whatever your reasons... I'm in your debt, and will repay!" There was no echo. He thought of calling again, giving his name, shouting that he was Bajazet, son of two fathers — both greater men than any the world still held — then decided not. Whoever had warmed and fed him while he shivered and snored would not likely be impressed.
His belly still ached, but less, and more pleasantly. He unlaced and peed against a rotted hickory stump, then laced, buckled his sword-belt under his cloak, and strapped on his pack. He rolled the blanket, shouldered it and his bow and quiver... and trotted downhill to the east. The hills were becoming greater hills, mountains; level ground was miles behind him. Let the Ghost of Woods — likely some half-crazed wanderer — follow if he wished. And call him a friend, for lack of any other.
It seemed to Bajazet he must be a little foolish, himself — foolish to feel an odd enjoyment as he trotted along, ducking leafless vines, leafless branches. Enjoyment in the chase, though he was the hunted, hungry, weary, and frightened. Enjoyment, though all those he'd loved, and who'd loved him, were gone. He felt a shameful flush of pleasure at all burdens of obligation vanished with his old world, and old life — leaving only action. And supposed he felt so, being still young, and knowing no better.
He left that for his reason as he traveled.... And though fresh frightened past mid-day — hearing hounds voicing not so far behind him in the hill meadows — was not as unhappy as he might have been.
He trotted and ran, trotted and ran, through the rest of the day — imagining he outpaced any dog or horse. Once he went astride a slight stream, a trickling creek, for half a mile, then cut away straight east again by the arc of the sun... then slowed, staggering sometimes, now so weak from hunger.
* * *
Bajazet slept that night deep in brambles — was undisturbed by hounds or trumpets — but woke like a disappointed child at Festival, to no new gift.
He roused subdued, exhausted, no longer befriended, got his weapons and goods together, and crawled out of the brambles — thorns catching, tugging at his rolled blanket, the hem of his cloak.
He was very hungry, and caught himself walking first one way, then another. It was absolutely stupid, since while the hounds might c
ast and wander, the king and his cavalry troop would not — but sit their horses waiting for the pack to call scent, then ride straight to hounds and after him.
He supposed he might be caught, after all. And though he still felt yesterday's odd pleasure in simply being — felt it a little less.
He put his mind to walking straighter... trudged east by the tree-shuttered sun, managing with grunts and groans up a steep slant of saplings growing out of broken stone — then smelled the burned-fat odor of cooking meat.
Weary Bajazet became lively Bajazet then — finished his climb without complaining, and hurried stumbling along shelving gray rock open to the evening sky, a darkening blue, with pale clouds marching away south.... He found the fire set in soil at the edge of the stone outcrop. It was a small fire, a neat pyramid, and already almost burned down to coals. A plucked partridge, its split breast smoking, sputtering, leaned into it on a slender peeled branch.
Bajazet didn't call out, didn't care for the time being who'd left this gift and the others. He knelt, lifted the bird and branch from the heat — burning his hands — tore at it and began to eat, burning his mouth.
... When there was only a little left, a portion to be reluctantly saved wrapped in his bandanna for the morning, Bajazet stood to stretch, easing cramps from so long squatting — and glanced behind him, looking back as he'd so often done, fearful of seeing the riding beasts, or a hound pack flowing toward him, and distant horsemen.
He looked — and had almost looked away, when he realized what he'd seen through failing light. A man's silhouette, solitary, on the near western ridge. And as he saw, he was seen; no question. Seen standing in the open by a fire's ashes, a fool with a cooked drumstick in his hand. Staring, Bajazet could barely make out the limb of a longbow slung over the man's shoulder. A forester, then, and not following with gifts of blankets or food.
Bajazet turned and ran, pack and rolled blanket jouncing, the piece of partridge still in his hand. He galloped down the eastern edge of the stone shelf, scrambling as it steepened, almost slipping, since he could only steady himself one-handed. The partridge leg he wouldn't lose. He reached the base of the outcrop, and ran again — dodging through a stand of stunted evergreens, paused after that for only a moment to look back... found the place on the west ridge, and saw no one there.
The forester, whether alone or with others, would have a choice: follow fast, and bring Bajazet down to be held for the king's pleasure, or hurry back to the column to report the prey in view. — He would, of course, choose the first. Bringing a king encouraging word was one thing; bringing him what a Warm-time copybook had called the object of the exercise was another, and meant royal favor.
"In the fucking open!" Bajazet called out his stupidity to himself. He'd only had to take the bird and keep going, not squat there on the stone like some suppering sweat-slave for the hunters to come upon.
He deserved to be caught. In the fucking open! He ran with the strength the partridge had given, as the little rabbit had given strength before. Ran down into woods on the hill's last eastern slope, and saw nothing but forest and the next hill — a softly rounded mountain, really — rising before him... already dusted the faintest green of spring in the evening's last light.
He bit into the bird's leg, chewed it as he ran. It was hide and seek, after all — a game in everything but penalty. Could he wait at the hill's foot, watch to see if the follower grew careless enough to catch a broadhead arrow? He might, if he were less afraid....
By full dark, Bajazet was on the opposite slope of that next, and higher, hill, and like a winter bear, was searching for a den. He thought he might run a little farther, then they would have him — would already have had him, but for the day of rain. The strange hounds were the problem, eager on his trace. If not for them, he might have lost the king's people in the hills.
If not... if not.
Clouds had come to blur the light of the rising moon, so Bajazet stumbled into trees, searching. He saw deeper darkness under a slanting fallen trunk... and weary, untied his blanket roll by touch, and crawled down and under into close coolness and odor of leaf mold and rotting wood. It was -only partial cover; some moonlight filtered past the log's sides. But cover enough. He curled in his blanket, wishing for a comforting dream.
CHAPTER 4
Bajazet dreamed, but found little comfort. There were vague imaginings, conversations with strangers begun but never completed — then a deeper dream of matters brightly colored, a great parade of odd men armed and in formation as soldiers, pacing along. Crowds — many of those people naked, though not so odd — standing silent as they watched; women weeping. The parade marched through a great, vaulted, palace of ice, so all color shimmered and flashed in reflection. A band among the marchers was playing music he'd never heard before.
Someone pressed against him in the crowd, the person's odor faintly canine... vulpine.
That person leaned against his arm. Bajazet turned in annoyance — and turned out of his dream. A thing was under the log beside him... a hard hand or paw resting on his outstretched arm.
Bajazet sat half up, reaching to his coiled sword-belt for the dagger. He found and fumbled it — struck the side of his face against the log, and gripped fur, his left arm up to guard his throat. Teeth. Teeth shone in moonlight.
He wrestled the thing in shadow, kicked, and Writhed out from under the log. The dagger was — he didn't have it. He jammed his forearm into the thing's jaws, and felt clamping then sickening puncture as fangs went in.
Hauling himself back and up, Bajazet tore his arm free, and was on his feet when he was kicked in the groin.... It was a great relief, though he bent low in agony, and staggered. A relief it wasn't a riding thing, a wolf or mountain lion who'd come for him in the dark, but only a king's forester — and certain death. But later.
Still doubled over, he heard someone say, "I had to. What a silly." A girl's voice, lisping a little at the s.
Bajazet lunged away, and struck his forehead on a tree limb very hard with a cracking impact, so light flashed behind his eyes... his knees buckled.
"Ouch." A much deeper voice, almost an echo in it.
"Here... here, you silly man." The girl again, tugging at his sleeve, turning him in darkness, leading him back. "We're not bad. Well, Errol is bad, but we're not."... "We." Two, three of them at least.
"Your fault." The deep voice. "Clumsy Nancy."
Bajazet heard scrape and striking, saw a small shower of sparks. Another. Then soft puffing breaths.
He stood, dazed, his head hurting badly, the directing grip still on his right sleeve... and took an odd comfort, a restfulness in being caught in the night — caught by someone. Perhaps savages.
A single flame... then more, blossoming to a little fire by the fallen log.
A beast was bent over it, its broad muzzle lit to soft gold, its eyes reflecting silver circles of light.
Bajazet lost his breath and stepped back, but the grip on his sleeve yanked him to a halt.
"Don't be frightened, young lord."
Bajazet saw a girl, quite small, in blurred detail beside him — large eyes set at a slant, their slit pupils black with gathering of light. A long nose and narrow jaw, her hair falling from a sharp widow's peak to glow dark red in the firelight. She was wearing a sort of South Map-Mexican poncho, a belted hatchet... and moccasin-boots. She hadn't bathed recently; there was a musky odor.
Bajazet looked to the fire again — certain he'd been mistaken — and saw not. The creature was hunkered by the flames, watching him. Hunchbacked. It was hunchbacked, and very big, bigger than any man Bajazet had seen, even Festival wrestlers. Silvery whiskers ran down the sides of its face... its muzzle. Black-and-silver fur rose in a crest at the top of its head.
"He hurt himself," it said, the deep voice only a little thickened by a wide tongue, a heavy squared lipless mouth beneath a nose too broad and black. There were fangs.... And the long heavy handle of a double-bitted ax, blade-edges gleaming
, leaned against its arm.
"Boston — that's a Boston-made thing!" Bajazet spoke to the girl, or the night, and felt too sick to stand. Blood was running down from his forehead. There was some, sticky, in his left eye.
"Hurt," the big Made-thing said again. It was surprising how well it spoke. Spoke, then crouched silent as the girl was silent... both apparently content observing their captive, watching him manage to stand straighter as his groin's pain faded, watching him wipe blood from his eye.
Bajazet had known, as everyone knew, of these sorts of creatures — the riding things, and others — created by Boston-talents in captive tribeswomen's wombs. Lord Peter Wilson had explained how a few New Englanders could use their thoughts, guiding the finest-drawn gossamer threads of glass, to alter the making of babies. "... They have inferred — with, I suspect, help from Warm-time copybooks — that there are so-tiny twisted ribbons-of-planning inside only-slightly-less-tiny bits in the juices when men and women come together." The old librarian had nodded to himself.
"— Those little things, much too small to see, make what changes Boston wishes, when interferred with — as for instance, by mixing men's comings with those of animals." Lord Peter had made the face of smelling something spoiled. "... Some of these changes great, others hardly to be noticed once the child has formed in its mother's belly. It does seem, however, that many of these babies die."
The two in the fire's light were certainly just such creatures. Before, and beside New England's riding-things — tame, and feral — Bajazet had seen only Ambassador MacAffee's disgraceful occa, flying his baggage into Island. And only saw that once, before the monster left to return to its home....
Suddenly feeling sick — perhaps frightened sicker — Bajazet went to one knee, retching, vomiting remains of partridge. The Made-girl knelt and held him, cooing. "Oh, poor man. Oh... poor man." There were no s's in that, no slight lisps.
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