Mr Snow had been alive when they parted and one of the first things she wanted to know was his present state of health.
‘Did you not hear of the great battle at Big Fork?’
‘I have heard there was a battle with several iron snakes in which many of the Plainfolk perished,’ said Magnum. ‘One snake was consumed by fire, four more limped away with their backs broken.’
Cadillac squared his shoulders. ‘The blood that was spilt was the blood of the Clan M’Call!’ he declared proudly. ‘And the Old One died leading them in battle.’
The news left Magnum visibly shaken. She hung her head for a long moment and when she raised her eyes to meet theirs her face was streaked with tears. ‘I shall miss him,’ she said. And with that simple epitaph, she threw back her head, cleared her throat and became her brisk, no-nonsense self. ‘How can I help you?’
Cadillac explained the situation that he and Rain-Dancer found themselves in, and how he was hoping that the extended truce might permit their adoption by the Clan M’Kenzi.
‘For how long?’
‘The foreseeable future.’
Had they been ordinary Mutes it would have been out of the question, but it was not without precedent for wordsmiths who, for one reason or another, found themselves without a clan. Cadillac himself had been offered the chance of joining a D’Troit clan and had come close to getting himself killed for saying ‘no’.
Magnum wiped the tear-stains from her cheeks with the back of her hand. ‘You certainly don’t believe in pussy-footing around.’
‘Neither do you.’ Cadillac shrugged. ‘Rain-Dancer and I need a secure base. We won’t be here all the time, but when we are we don’t expect special treatment. We’ll do our share of whatever has to be done like everyone else. You could benefit a great deal from what we know. Always assuming we get back in one piece from the Eastern Lands.’
‘Is that where you’re going?’
‘Yes. All will be revealed at the Big White Running Water.’
The Mute name for Sioux Falls …
‘And we’d like to go there as part of your delegation,’ added Roz.
Magnum eyed them both in turn. ‘That’s okay as far as it goes but what’s in it for us? What exactly are these benefits?’
‘I’ll be in a better position to answer that question when the Plainfolk Council meets,’ replied Cadillac. ‘But Rain-Dancer is a healer and I know the ways of both sand-burrower and dead-face. And I can make you one promise now. If I outlive you, and provided your people so honour and accept me, I am ready to become wordsmith to the M’Kenzi – unless, of course, you find a worthier apprentice between now and then.’
The offer brought tears back to Magnum’s cheeks. ‘How strange life is! If Mo-Town’s hand had caused me to be born in another’s place, unfettered by the traditions which separate our clans, you might have been my son and Mr Snow might have been your father. But it could never be. And now here you are…’
Magnum stood up. Cadillac and Roz followed. ‘Welcome, my children.’ She embraced them both in turn. ‘From this day on, you shall enjoy the same rights and be held in the same esteem as the most favoured of our own sons and daughters.’
‘Thank you,’ said Roz.
Cadillac could see that she was affected by Magnum’s emotional reaction to the news of Mr Snow’s death. He ran a comforting hand across her shoulders then turned back to Magnum-Force. ‘Won’t you need to clear this with the clan elders?’
Magnum’s jaw-muscles hardened. ‘When it comes to important decisions they usually end up doing what I think is best. But before I put this to them, there is one thing. If you’re serious about being our next wordsmith –’
‘I am –’
‘They will probably insist on you both adopting our clan name. It means the end of Cadillac M’Call. Are you ready for that?’
It was one of those rare occasions when Cadillac was at a loss for words.
Magnum-Force exchange an amused glance with Roz. ‘No. Clearly not. Never mind. If the matter comes up – as it most certainly will – I’ll suggest we postpone your formal adoption until you return from the Eastern Lands.’
‘Good thinking,’ said Cadillac. ‘I won’t forget this.’
‘I don’t intend to let you,’ said Magnum.
That night, when they lay between the furs in their newly-erected hut, Roz said: ‘They did.…’
Cadillac eased away from her. ‘Who did?’
‘Mr Snow and Magnum-Force.’
‘Did what?’
Roz hugged him fiercely and pressed her naked body closer to his. ‘What we’re doing now.…’
The first formally convened Plainfolk Council proved to be a rambling affair that spread itself over the first three weeks of September. With so many hatchets to bury, there was a great deal of argument, much of it bad-tempered. The general truce agreed by the shaken delegates after the Battle of the Trading Post had not been universally observed by the young bloods of their own clans, but that had not deterred them from sending representatives to Sioux Falls. As a consequence, the opening round of debates degenerated into a series of interminable slanging matches in which accusations and counter-accusations were hurled across the ring.
Cadillac and Roz were probably the only participants not seeking redress for some real or imagined wrong. After three days of verbal blood-letting had gone by without anything positive having been achieved he began to get a little impatient, but he was shrewd enough to realise that he stood a better chance of impressing his views on the assembly if he waited for the acrimony to subside.
It was in the second week that a constructive dialogue began to emerge, by which time Cadillac had had ample opportunity to discover how well or poorly each bloodline was represented, and to test the varying moods of the major delegations. As expected, the She-Kargo and M’Waukee were there in strength along with the San’ Paul, the lesser bloodline who had stood with them against the D’Troit. There were a surprising number of C’Natti delegations and some from the San’Louis, but still less than half those who, in previous years, would have assembled at the old trading post.
There were no delegations from the D’Troit, but many reports that several big D’Troit clans like the D’Vine, D’Sica and D’Niro who had carved their way into territory which was once the sole preserve of the She-Kargo, had been spotted moving eastwards towards Lake Mee-Sheegun. The migration seemed to indicate that the D’Troit intended to throw their lot in with the Iron Masters despite the clemency shown to the defeated warriors who had survived the tidal wave, and the fact that their illustrious patrons had also suffered heavy losses – plus a severe blow to their prestige.
So be it.…
To Cadillac, the fact that the clan delegations were here at all, and in such numbers, was a minor miracle in itself. The Battle of the Trading Post was a watershed in the history of the Plainfolk, but the traditions built up over nine hundred years could not be abandoned overnight. The changes that needed to take place before the Plainfolk could become a nation struck deep into the core of their belief-system. A warrior measured his worth in hand-to-hand combat in which he or his adversary could die, and often did. Death or dishonour.
Raw courage was the cornerstone of Mute existence; physical strength and endurance the foremost attributes. Their distant ancestors had survived through their ability to fight, and their readiness to kill for food, shelter, to protect their own and what they held to be theirs. Often, territory was the only thing they possessed; everything else of value had been turned to ashes.
With the passing of time, as the wastelands healed, the clans had moved into the vast, empty spaces. Red grass sprouted from the charred earth, fruit trees came into bud. Herd animals, once driven to the edge of extinction by high-velocity rifles, grew in numbers; birds and fish multiplied. The murderous battles for scarce resources became ritualised combats in which the young braves of both sexes gained ‘standing’ – the first step to warriorhood.
&nb
sp; Fighting became a way of life even though there was enough food and raw materials and more than enough space to go round. The need to defend your ‘turf was a legacy from urban life in the pre-Holocaust era when the sidewalks around the block in which you lived were the only thing to which the ghetto-people could lay claim. With few possessions, a crippling lack of education, work-skills and job-opportunities, courage was the only badge the young bloods could wear with pride before they, like their elders, were worn down into hopelessness or destroyed by the system.
Anyone who didn’t belong, intruders from the next block had to pay tribute or be resisted – whatever the cost. That territorial imperative, combined with sewer-rat cunning, energy and ruthlessness enabled a favoured few to survive the War of a Thousand Suns. Many of these perished in the Great Ice Dark which followed, but some found the will to endure until the skies cleared and the blood drained from the face of the sun.
A new world was born but the old ways did not die with the Old Time. The scattered groups of people who were to become the Mutes never learned to put their trust in one another. They remained fragmented. Prior to the Battle of the Trading Post, Plainfolk Mutes made no distinction between the braves of a neighbouring clan and a company of Trail-Blazers. Certain ‘rules of engagement’ were observed when Mute clashed with Mute, but apart from that small distinction, both were regarded as the enemy and an incursion by either was resisted with equal ferocity.
This was the big hurdle that had to be overcome. Somehow, Cadillac had to find a way to persuade the assembled elders that there was only one enemy – the Federation. Drawing their own blood did not strengthen the Plainfolk, it weakened them and allowed the Federation to score easy victories.
From his preliminary conversations it was clear that the elders knew this, but getting them to do something about it was a different matter entirely. The Plainfolk were prisoners of their own history, and it was this same inability to forget their differences and band together which had led to the piecemeal subjugation of the Southern Mutes. It was not yet complete, but those who had escaped the yoke of the Federation remained fragmented and did not pose a serious threat to the overground activities of the sand-bur rowers.
The eventual fate of these remnants and the present condition of their blood-brothers provided a powerful argument for the Plainfolk to unite under the banner of Talisman. But that, in itself, would not ensure victory. In addressing the burnt and blistered M’Call Bears after the battle with The Lady, Mr Snow had spoken of the need for new ways, new weapons. Physical bravery, for which the Plainfolk were renowned, was not enough. Not against the Federation.
That, at least, was something the assembled wordsmiths and elders at Sioux Falls were able to agree on. New weapons had to be obtained. Powerful long sharp iron like the cannon plundered from the wrecked wheel-boats. Some of the iron balls they hurled through the air had been recovered, but no one knew how to make the cannons speak with a tongue of flame and a voice like sky-thunder.
Cadillac knew how, but on making enquiries, he learned that the few unbroken casks of black powder had been prised open and emptied by the scavengers in the hope of finding something useful within. New weapons could only be obtained from one source – The Eastern Lands. Ne-Issan. A way had to be found to resume trade with the dead-faces, but after the calamitous losses they had suffered at the hands of the Plainfolk how could the two sides be brought together to even discuss such a proposal?
Cadillac believed he, and he alone, was the man who could effect a reconciliation and clinch a new trade agreement. With Roz’s help he was ready to venture into Ne-Issan and parley with those who now ruled in place of Hirohito Yama-Shita – the domain-lord who had fallen prey to Clearwater’s earth-magic.
On the day he chose to announce his plan, it was Carnegie-Hall’s turn to preside over the three-deep ring of wordsmiths from the various clans and bloodlines. Sitting crosslegged behind them were the other delegates, mainly elders of both sexes. They in turn were surrounded by a shifting crowd of warriors, some of whom had been recruited to lend their vocal support to a particular faction or argument, others listening out of genuine interest or curiosity.
And when that curiosity was satisfied or their interest in the proceedings waned they wandered off elsewhere to watch or participate in one of the many peripheral activities: bouts of wrestling, feats of strength, practice duels with the increasingly popular quarterstaff which Steve had introduced, and a host of other rough-and-tumble team events. A kind of bare-knuckle Olympics.
Elsewhere, more serious business was being conducted. The process of inter-clan bartering which had started on the bluffs above Du-Aruta continued as the newly-styled ‘vendors’, who formed a key part of each delegation, honed their trading skills amid the hustle and bustle of a sprawling, open-air bazaar.
When it was his turn to take over the centre of the ring, Cadillac reviewed the options open to the Plainfolk. The resumption of trade was a vital first step but they could not go back to the old ways. From henceforth, declared Cadillac, the Plainfolk must not go in fear of the Iron Masters. They must trade as equals. Cadillac spoke of what he had seen in Ne-Issan, of the Lost Ones – the journeymen and women who lived and worked in chains and were regarded as being lower than the beasts of the field, and of their offspring, the Iron-Feet, born into a life of unending slavery.
‘Never again,’ he cried, ‘must we allow our blood-brothers and sisters to journey across the Great River! All of us have closed our eyes and hearts, preferring not to know or even reflect upon the fate we condemned them to – through our inability to help ourselves!
‘That time has passed! We must not only defend this sacred ground against those – on all sides – who seek to take it from us, we must pledge ourselves to win freedom for all those who toil in chains under the whips of the dead-faces and the long sharp iron of the sand-burrowers!’
His words drew a rousing cheer from the outer ring of spectators, but the elders and wordsmiths were less enthusiastic. They nodded gravely to show they agreed with this ringing declaration of independence but remained sitting firmly on their hands.
Magnum-Force, wordsmith of the Clan M’Kenzi who had taken Roz and Cadillac under their wing, stood up and was given permission to respond. ‘These are spirited words, in the tradition of your teacher, Mr Snow, architect of our great victory and in whose name we are gathered here today. But despite his vision, and all the recent declarations of goodwill – which still hang on the air – there are many of our own bloodline, of the M’Waukee, C’Natti and San’Paul still ready to cut each other’s throats! We cannot go forward until those who sit amongst us with blood on their knives –’
Her words caused an immediate uproar. Those who felt unjustly accused, the unrepentant aggressors and their outraged victims, and the anarchic fringe who just liked sowing disorder, all leapt to their feet and tried to shout each other down.
It took several minutes for Carnegie-Hall and the silent majority to restore order. When everyone had subsided leaving only the M’Kenzi wordsmith and Cadillac standing, Carnegie-Hall motioned for Magnum to continue.
She surveyed the seated delegates, treating the most vocal of her detractors to a contemptuous stare. The Plainfolk will never be great while there are more yapping jackals than bears and mountain lions. Those who have broken their solemn pledge may be able to ease their guilt by shouting me down but it is not our tongues that will defeat the dead-faces and sand-burrowers – it is our knife-arms!’
‘Heyyyy-YAHHH!’ yelled the crowd. And this time, most of the wordsmiths and elders joined in the chorus of approval.
Magnum-Force turned to Cadillac. ‘I applaud the breadth of your vision but I think you ask too much of us. Those with wise heads and open hearts from the great bloodline of the C’Natti have chosen to join us, but many more have stayed away. There is not one amongst us who represents the D’Troit.
‘The Plainfolk is a house divided! How can we hope to overcome the armed might
of the dead-faces and the iron-snakes of the Federation? We cannot! We know this and so do their great chiefs. And yet you talk of imposing terms on the dead-faces! You claim to be one of The Chosen who herald the coming of Talisman. You claim to speak for him –’
‘That is true,’ interjected Cadillac.
‘It is true you have inherited the tongue of Mr Snow,’ admitted Magnum. ‘And you can read the seeing-stones – but you have no earth-magic. You are no Storm-Bringer!’
‘That is also true.…’
‘Then tell us! How can you defend the interests of the Plainfolk when you cannot even defend yourself!’
The question evoked a challenging roar from the doubters in the audience.
Cadillac held up his hands to appeal for calm, then sought out Roz and motioned her to join him. As she threaded her way through the seated delegates he said: ‘My given role is to speak for the Plainfolk.’ He swept his eyes around the ring of wordsmiths then aimed his words to those beyond. ‘All of you know that a swift mind and tongue can achieve more than the sharpest blade. The tales a wordsmith spins and the wisdom he dispenses are the cords which bind us to the past and future and hold the clan together. Without the clan, without that bond forged by the shared memories of valorous deeds, we cannot know ourselves or why we tread the earth.
‘That is why you honour us by giving me and my respected colleagues pride of place in this assembly! I seek to reason with our enemy because they have minds which can be entrapped by cunning argument just as bears are lured to honey! Talisman has given me the power of words and…’
He broke off as Roz approached. Seizing her shoulders, he presented her to the four quadrants of the circle. ‘… he has given this woman even greater power than the Storm-Bringer!’
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