“No,” she cried out, even as her hands gave an expert twist. There was a loud snap, and the riverman fell from the saddle, a floppy rabbit with a broken neck. The Cruik straightened, releasing the man, and an anonymous killer withdrew into the depths of Jenny’s mind.
She reined in Seph and leaned over the saddle, sending a spray of vomit over the horse’s flank. Jenny shook with sobs, tears and sick sliding down her face. She’d killed that poor man as easily as swatting a fly.
“What is this?” she howled. “What am I now?”
— 10 —
The caravanserai was almost a mile from the thick sandstone walls of Crosspoint, a messy sprawl of shanties and tents so big that it was a twin of the First Town. Most of the tradeways met here, and Crosspoint was the natural centre of commerce. Here, goods scavenged from bleedthroughs drifted south, the food and water went north, and the cattle and Overland coal went everywhere.
In the Overland, they practiced the slavery frowned upon in the Riverland. Crosspoint pointedly ignored an acre of slave pits that were erected within sight of its walls. Lives were haggled over, and debtors and criminals were distributed to the miners if they were lucky, to crooked mobs flush with coin if they weren’t. Broken Taursi were kept pliable with grog, the chained natives sold off for glass-crafting or for guides, though they rarely showed the waterholes and secret ways of the Inland.
Even crooked folk were tolerated here if they had fair trade and kept the peace. Jenny saw several packs of the man-eaters, raucous folk covered with outfits of skin and bone, hawking bleed-through gadgets and the leavings of those too dead to care about ownership.
This place had the same bustle and hectic pace as Mawson, but the people were pushy and loud. Jenny found it intimidating. As a young girl riding a horse alone, she was attracting a lot of stares. She kept one hand on her pistol as she watched for bailiffs, wondering if a description of her had been sent by telegraph.
Less than a week ago, the Overseer would have received her in his palace, a grand manse rumoured to once have been the house of Papa Lucy himself. She would have wanted for nothing and could have spent hours poking through the historical buildings of Crosspoint. She would have been given anything she asked for, the price be damned.
Now, she didn’t dare approach the town gates.
Her father had visited Crosspoint as a young man sworn in as a Rider of Cruik. Often he’d spoken of the historic sites and promised he would take Jenny there one day. At the thought of her father, her chest seized up in anguish.
It’s not too late, she thought. I can go home. Throw myself on his mercy.
It was a comfortable lie and she knew it. Mawson meant nothing but a noose for her now, if she was lucky.
Fool! You’ll eat the Bastard’s Bacon! one of the spirits in her head crowed.
In her mind, she saw a horrific scene. For killing the High Flenser, they’d peel her in the pit, rub her raw flesh in salt while she still drew breath, and she’d be forced to cook and eat her own skin, while the priests dissected her from the feet up.
They wouldn’t do that to me! Jenny thought, as her unwanted guests mocked her from the depths of her mind. It had been done before, and this would be her fate.
Fighting the torment within her mind, Jenny made her way through the caravanserai, ignoring the catcalls and vigorous touting. She kept her eyes forward, hauling on the long rope. The dead riverman’s bird trotted behind Seph, its beak bound to keep Seph safe. As she approached the bird yards, the animals went crazy, screeching and snapping their beaks at the horse.
I should have left you somewhere safe, she thought, then laughed. There was nowhere safe to store the last true horse, no one she trusted the reins to. Do your business and get the hell out of here.
She found the chief bird wrangler, a heavily scarred man missing an eye and a hand. Pointing to the bird, she tried to talk calmly over the squawking and began the age-old ritual of the haggle.
“I’m more interested in your horse, missy,” the bird wrangler said. “Haven’t seen one of those in a few years, now. If that were mine, I’d have a dozen guards around it. Hell, I wouldn’t ride it either.”
“They’re bred to be ridden,” she said. “The horse isn’t for sale.”
“Pity,” he said, with an appreciative eye to Seph’s form. He gave her an insultingly low bid for the bird, but she caved in quickly. I don’t have time for this, she thought as she took the pittance the man offered.
She felt his eyes on her as she rode away on Seph, then chanced a glimpse backwards. He was talking to a crooked man, pointing at her animatedly. The scofflaw was watching her intently. He gave her a file-toothed smile when their eyes met.
With a shudder, she urged the horse on and gathered provisions. A broad-brimmed hat to keep off the sun and a kerchief to hide her face. A pouchful of cheap bullets, shells refilled, the tips uneven. Through the savvy eyes of someone long dead, Jenny picked out the bullets most likely to fire, tipping the rest back into the box of seconds and scraps.
A hawker sold her a hand mirror with a large crack in it. She tried not to look into the glass as she haggled. She pointed out his half-hidden greypot as a bargaining point and threatened to bring a bailiff. The hawker slid the dead man’s mirror across the counter with a curse.
The ragmen sold her a length of tatty cloth that she used to disguise the Cruik. Hiding beside a water trough, she strapped the hook so that it resembled a crutch, then covered the sections of brass cladding with more rags and mud. The last of the rags became false bandages, covering all sorts of imaginary sores. She rubbed dirt into her face, though she was already filthy from a week on the road.
Pointless. It’s not like I can disguise the world’s last true horse, she thought. Perhaps she should have sold Seph to the bird yard, just to leave a dead trail for the bailiffs.
No. He’s mine.
She loaded up on food and bought Seph a large sack of oats meant for sowing. The road to Carmel was long, and she hoped this would be enough to keep the horse going. Nothing grew in the Inland except for bones.
Finally, she needed water. She’d been putting it off for last, the moment when someone in the Dann’s pocket may spot her. Prudence dictated that she hide the horse, but this left her at a loss. This whole place is full of thieves.
She didn’t trust anyone to hold the horse for her. Father had bought Seph six months ago, but as recently as two years ago, a handful of true horses still lived. Jenny hoped word of this hadn’t travelled north, that these people saw Seph as rare instead of unique, the last of his kind. Even so, he was worth an absolute fortune.
All worship of the Family was done in Crosspoint itself, with only a handful of overlooked shrines servicing the caravanserai. The followers of Leicester-We-Forget kept a large pavilion here, since the religion was frowned upon in the towns. Jenny led Seph into the large tent, noting the guy ropes bolted to blocks of cement, the walls shored up with tin and planking. A permanent structure.
Inside, the shrine was dim, the only light was the bank of candles surrounding a white Leicester. A handful of shapes crept around in the gloom. As her eyes adjusted, Jenny made out the shapes of stacked crates, a buggy, even a line of motorcycles.
She made for the fearsome white warrior and knelt as if in worship. Presently, the priest appeared at her side, his painted face ghastly in the candlelight. He wore the same strange hat as his god, the brim tipped up on one side.
“Good travel, little sister,” the priest said, his eyes straying to the horse and lingering for a long moment. “What road brought you here?”
“A hard one,” was all Jenny offered. She’d learnt from her father the wisdom of brevity, of leaving spaces for others to fill. The man waited for further information, but this wasn’t forthcoming. Jenny knew next to nothing about the statue-lover’s faith. She’d expose herself as an outsider if pressed for detail.
“From Carmel?” the priest whispered and took Jenny’s silence as affirmation. He lai
d a proprietary hand on her arm and patted her like a dog. “Fos Carpidian is a fool,” he confided. “He made enemies that day, enemies for all of the faithful. But don’t worry child, you’re safe enough here.”
“I’ve seen a bleedthrough,” Jenny blurted. The people lurking nearby gasped and whispered. The priest said nothing, but the greed in his eyes said plenty.
“Hold my horse here. I go to treat with the water barons,” she said. The priest took the reins, and she knew that Seph was as safe here as if he were locked in a vault.
Jenny took the disguised Cruik and checked that her little pistol lay within reach. With her hat pulled low and affecting a limp, she made her way through the caravanserai, leaning heavily on the staff.
She cut through a row of shanties, stepping around naked toddlers playing in the dirt, and kicked at the dog pack that barrelled into her, brawling and snapping over a camel bone. Hard eyes watched her from within the slap shacks. The watchers endured a poverty she couldn’t begin to imagine.
Jenny walked around a corner and almost collided with a pair of bailiffs. The sight of their peaked caps made her stomach flip, and for a split second she was sure they’d be reaching for their knock-abouts, ready to strike her down and drag her back to Mawson in chains.
“Pardon, miss,” one of them said.
In her mind, a killer shifted around ready to seize Jenny’s hands like a puppeteer. But the lawmen walked straight past the fugitive without a second glance. They didn’t notice the Cruik right under their noses.
Too lucky, Jenny thought, hobbling along. They’re looking for a Selector’s daughter, someone with the stink of Neville, a stupid rich girl on the run.
I left her back in Mawson. That person is dead.
The water lot was up ahead, carts and tankers ringed by guards with dogs and guns. Factors set up in stalls ready to cut usurious deals with the Inland towns, while small amounts of water could be purchased by waiting in a long line.
The water barons were fiercely competitive, and they hoisted more flags and placards than any of the other merchants in the caravanserai. Jenny recognised the trading mark of Quentin Dann fluttering on several pennants. If the Dann was here in person, he might recognise her and grab the bounty for himself. Even better, this would humiliate her father and he would never save face, not even with her bloody execution.
If she waited in that line for an hour or more, someone might see through her flimsy disguise and recognise her from a poster. As she wondered how to get a trouble-free supply of water, the Cruik throbbed in her hand with a jolt running up her arm. Her teeth twinged.
That means I’m in danger. Sure enough, she turned to see a trio of crooked men approaching her through the slum. She recognised the man from the bird yard and remembered his hand-crafted fangs. A quick flash of that awful smile was enough to send her heart hammering.
Hidden from the busy market lanes by the shacks, they openly came for her. Jenny saw the flicker of knives held low, and though she felt panic, calmer hands than hers drew her pistol and held it steady.
The gun changed everything, and the crooked men scattered. She dropped two of the men in two heartbeats. Crack shots punctured vital organs, with a coup de grace precisely in between a cannibal’s eyes.
She heard the rattle of tin behind her, and turned to see the file-toothed man swinging a crowbar at her. He knocked the revolver from her grip then advanced on her.
“Where’s the horse?” the crooked man demanded. He took an unexpected swing at Jenny’s head, even as she opened her mouth to retort.
The next bit happened so fast that she barely understood what was happening. The Cruik was up in a blur, blocking the attack. Then her hands swung the stick incredibly fast, driving the man back onto the defensive. Wood crashed into the crowbar and his forearm, sweeping aside his legs, staving in his face when he was on the ground. Then, one sharp blow to the heart that stopped everything.
Jenny stood over the dead body, panting, her pulse hammering in her ears. Lucy’s ghosts exulted in triumph, chattering with excitement at this grisly victory. Only Jenny had the sense to be scared. She turned and ran when she heard the whistles and shouting of the bailiffs.
It was the Leicesterites who graced her with a small fortune in water for the expedition. They returned Seph to her, fed and watered. Their dim tent bustled with preparations from a caravan of the faithful ready to escort her to the bleedthrough. Jenny quickly scrambled up into the saddle and dug in her heels. They cursed when Seph leapt forward and knocked over someone stupid enough to stand in the way.
No one shot at her for fear of damaging the expensive animal. She heard the whine of a bike misfiring, the cough as a buggy kicked into life.
Emerging into daylight, she gave the horse its head and it forced its way through the heavy foot traffic. Most of the people simply gazed at the creature in awe, although one man who snatched at the bridle was promptly punished by the Cruik lashing out and breaking his wrist.
Jenny saw a buggyload of Leicesterites nosing along behind her, the drivers shouting for the way to be cleared. Merchants and crooked folk alike jeered at the statue-lovers, and soon the cramped laneway devolved into an all-out brawl. She saw the bobbing hats of bailiffs and kept low to the horse until they’d reached a corner.
Her passage through the press of merchants and slavers was nightmarish, treacle slow. Any moment she expected to be hauled down from the saddle, slapped into chains, or simply stabbed for the horse she rode upon. She did not know how far this strange protection of Papa Lucy’s reached, how many foes the Cruik could break before she was broken herself.
And then, she was past the slave pens, trotting alongside a caravan of grocers headed for Quarterbrook. The stink of the caravanserai fell away, replaced by the warm winds of the plains and the smooth motion of Seph’s body as he pulsed along the tradeway. Both she and the horse were glad to leave that loud place. The coin-riders ringing the caravan eyed her horse a little too closely, and Jenny prudently booted Seph into a canter that quickly outstripped their birds.
She would never walk the streets of Crosspoint with her kind and gentle father. Never see him again, unless it was as a witness to her brutal death. With one last wistful glimpse at the sandstone walls of Crosspoint, she made north for the brutal interior.
Two days travel brought her to the edge of the Inland, an almost divisible line between the scrubby flats and the lifeless red clay. Making a lonely camp that evening, Jenny doled out a portion of oats to Seph, and the horse emptied an entire waterskin in moments.
“Go easy,” she said, a little worried. “Nothing to drink where we’re going.”
Swallowing nervously, she fetched the broken mirror and watched her reflection in the firelight. But tonight, the mirror was just a mirror, and Papa Lucy left her questions unanswered.
When the Jesusman is dead, will you take away these voices and ghosts? she thought, too tired for tears. Or am I your champion forever? Your roving murderer?
She felt her faith slipping away as she stared into the glass. All of that confidence Papa Lucy gave her back at the spring felt false now, like a drug. She reached back to her learning and the rite book she knew by heart. There’d been parables of those tested by the gods and found wanting, but now that she needed help, it was hard to hold onto that lesson.
When will you let me go?
No smiles and no whispers for her, save the quiet murmur of ghosts in her mind. She slept little that night, and when she walked in dream, she walked as these lost people. Their Before-Time lives made no sense to her.
There was nothing to go back to, no option but the dusty track that lay ahead. Success meant redemption, both for her and her father. Jenny could not bear to think of the alternative, of her death or capture. When she dozed in the saddle, she sometimes saw the face of the Jesusman leering in purple and startling her awake.
The mind-numbing landscape stretched on. She saw no one else on the tradeway to Carmel. There was nothing for
anyone there now, just one more town swallowed up by the Inland.
She saw devil winds on the horizon and recognised the Drift from her geography lessons. She wondered if Fos Carpidian had crossed it in a panic, if the bones of an entire town lay stripped and forgotten in the sand. Did Lanyard Everett lurk in that deadly place, abiding with the monsters and devils?
He’s just a man, she told herself. No one could survive in that.
Finally, she stood before the walls of Carmel, dusty and weary. This was exactly the image that Papa Lucy had shown her: patchwork walls squatting on top of a plateau, impregnable gates thrown wide open.
“This whole place just up and walked away,” she told the horse.
She found evidence of the ambush before the gates, dozens of bodies left to rot in the sun. The smell was horrendous. The bloated corpses crawled with maggots and flies. Gagging, Jenny wheeled Seph around and made for the open gates. She did not bother to search for the Half-Dann’s body.
That’s Quentin’s problem. I need to find evidence, something to point to where Lanyard went next. Passing beneath the mutilated stares of a dozen Leicesters, Jenny entered the gates of Carmel, the Cruik stripped of rags and held up high.
The hooked staff was as silent as the abandoned town. There was no voice from beyond, no instruction from her master. The mirror gave her nothing but the reflection of her dirty face. With a sigh, she slid it back into the saddlebag.
Everywhere, she saw the signs of a panicked evacuation. The streets were littered with abandoned bleedthrough goods, broken maliciously to cheat the water barons out of any profit. A broken wagon lay on its side, stripped of wheels, and nearby the remains of an enormous bonfire, books curled and blackened, valuable Before-Time furniture completely destroyed.
Anything wooden had been burned.
She wept at the sight of several dead pets, strung up on clotheslines like a row of tiny criminals. Many of the doorways had been smeared with what looked to be faeces or blood, the white-washed walls painted with insults to Quentin Dann.
Papa Lucy & the Boneman Page 13