The Bone House (40 page)

“We had a glancing acquaintance,” replied Haven, and then went on to explain how she had met the earl previously when he had come looking for Sir Henry at Clarivaux. “It fell out that my father invited him to supper, and I dined with them.” She paused, her expression pleading. “In clearest hindsight, I see that he was seeking to draw my uncle into his nefarious schemes, but there was no hint of it then. Quite the contrary, indeed.”

“So, Burleigh shows up in Egypt and makes you an offer you cannot refuse, is that it?”

“But you
do
see, do you not?” replied Lady Fayth, as if obstinacy alone could persuade. “There was simply no point in
all
of us dying in that tomb. By remaining alive, I perceived that I might return to rescue the others. That, I most heartily assure you, was my sole hope and most fervent intent.”

“You meant to come back and free them?” said Wilhelmina dubiously. They were sitting in the Grand Imperial at a table in the rear of the house. It was the middle of the afternoon, the slow time of day; the serving staff were waiting on the few patrons, and Etzel was napping upstairs.

“It was my plan to return to the tomb as soon as I could slip away from the Black Earl’s knavish clutches.”

“Then why didn’t you? Why did you wait so long?”

“Burleigh’s men,” answered Haven readily. “The day after we left the tomb, His Lordship’s hired ruffians arrived in Karnak with the report that the two young gentlemen had died. The disease of the desert tomb had taken its dreadful toll, they said. I was devastated . . . inconsolable, of course.”

“Of course.”

“To be sure, I knew nothing else until I saw Kit sitting in this very coffeehouse not two evenings ago.” She gazed across the table at Wilhelmina, suitably contrite and forthright. “What is more, I can vouchsafe that Lord Burleigh was ignorant of any other outcome until he was apprised of their presence by his hirelings.”

Wilhelmina considered this. It was all plausible, and it fit with most of what she already knew. She was inclined to accept that, however self-serving, Lady Fayth was telling the truth—at least insofar as Kit and Giles were concerned. About her involvement with Burleigh, Mina still had doubts about the young woman’s sincerity.

“The Black Earl was not best pleased with his minions,” Haven continued. “They have been consigned to outer darkness with much weeping and gnashing of teeth—until such time as they can redeem themselves in His Lordship’s sight.”

“Then I suppose we all owe you a debt of gratitude, my lady,” ventured Wilhelmina.

“Pray, not so!” she objected. “Kit lost and poor Giles wounded—that is hardly a result worthy of commendation or merit.”

“It could have been much, much worse,” Wilhelmina conceded. “Thanks to your timely warning, they were able to get away. As to that,” she continued, “what was that package you gave Kit just before he fled the coffeehouse?”

“Package?”

“That little parcel . . .” Mina described a small square with her fingers. “What was that?”

“It was a book.”

“A book? That’s all?”

“Oh, not just any book, mind you,” Haven said, then lowered her voice. “It was the
green book
—that is to say, Uncle Henry’s private journal of his investigations into ley leaping.”

“By ley leaping, you mean—”

Haven nodded. “I believe you know well enough what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Do you not?”

“I do.”

“I knew it!”

Lady Fayth took a sip of coffee and resumed her confession. “The Black Earl knows about the green book. He has read it, in fact . . .” She allowed herself a sly smile. “That is to say, he has read the portions I permitted him to read. Certain pages of Sir Henry’s book I thought best to keep to myself.” She finished her coffee and pushed her cup aside. “Do you have any idea where Kit has gone?”

“Across the river,” Mina hedged. “That’s what they’re saying. No doubt he’ll turn up again once Burleigh has gone.”

“Yes, well, we must hope and pray he remains out of sight. I do not expect the Black Earl will allow him to escape a third time.”

“It must have been a sight. What will Burleigh do now?”

“Resume his search for the map,” replied Haven. “What else can he do? It is clear that neither Cosimo nor Uncle Henry possessed the map; it was not passed on to Kit. So Cosimo’s portion remains to be found.”

The young woman stood and brushed her hands down the front of her dress. “I must go. His Lordship will be wondering what has become of me.” She smiled nicely. “Thank you for the coffee, and for your confidence. The knowledge that I have a secret ally in this fight—and mark you it is a
most
desperate fight—renews my faith and courage.” She took Wilhelmina’s hand. “May I call you my friend?”

Wilhelmina was taken aback by the question. “Of course.”

“Good. I like that. I have no other friend in which to confide,” she said. Then, still gripping Wilhelmina’s hand, added, “The burden of the quest is ours now. It falls to us to see it through—for better or worse.”

Lady Fayth took her leave, and Wilhelmina saw her to the coffeehouse door. “For better or worse,” echoed Wilhelmina, watching as her new ally sailed into the great market square. “We’re in it up to our eyeballs, girlfriend. Be true to me, and I will love you like a sister,” she said under her breath. “Betray me, and you will wish you’d never been born.”

CHAPTER 33
In Which Formal Introductions Are Made

T
he trees all along the river turned spectacular shades of red, orange, and yellow, and one morning Kit arose to the sight of the leaves falling at once in a silent golden storm. The next day rain came to the valley. A chill north wind stripped the remaining leaves from the trees. The clan gathered all the weapons and tools—the stout spears and axes, the scrapers and pounders, the short, stone-bladed knives—and bundled up their skins and sleeping mats and coils of woven fibre rope, and moved out.

This happened, as so much else, without any discussion that Kit could detect. They simply understood that today was moving day, and everyone began packing. Kit pitched in by rolling the skins he used for sleeping and shouldering the spears. He had learned that whatever he did by way of helping with the chores was always remarked on by the clan, who more and more seemed to regard him as an exotic and unexpectedly useful pet.

When everything had been gathered, Big Hunter led them back through the valley. They followed the river downstream and, owing to the mostly bare trees and shrubs, Kit could get a better sense of the size and shape of the great limestone gorge that was their home. In places the grey curtains of stone rose to tower hundreds of feet above them—now so close the sheer walls cast the narrow gap in perpetual shadow, now so far apart they were but a hazy backdrop rising above the forest. At the narrow parts, the river ran fast over a lumpy bed of well-tumbled stones; when the walls receded, the water widened and deepened to a dark, slow-moving river. But whether quick and shallow or deep and slow, the river wound and wiggled its way through mostly deciduous woodland.

They walked all morning and stopped to rest around midday in a grove on the edge of a spacious meadow of long grass, now dry. They picked and ate some late blackberries and lazed in the sun, which shed a thin warmth from a dead white sky. Kit found a flat rock, stretched himself out on it, and napped until it was time to move on again. They did not stop until the sun had dropped below the cliff tops, and then they found a hollow near the river where they made a simple camp.

No fire was lit that night, and Kit discovered just how inadequate his clothing had become. He wrapped himself in his sleeping skins, but nevertheless spent most of the long dark hours shivering and wakeful. He had known the day was coming when he would have to augment his wardrobe with furs such as the River City Clan wore, but he thought he would have a little more time to get himself properly outfitted.

They decamped early the next morning and trekked along the ever-deepening river. As they passed the trail that marked the ley, Kit tested the ley lamp yet again, but received no response. He had not expected any, but nevertheless resumed the journey with a slightly heavier footstep than before. Pausing only to rest and drink, the clan reached their destination as the sun sank below the canyon rim. Their new home was a massive limestone ledge carved out of the great curtain wall of the gorge, perhaps fifty or sixty feet above the valley floor and overlooking a wide expanse of river. Kit could see why they had chosen it as a wintering place: the ledge was south facing to catch the sun and, owing to the generous overhang, away from the wind and very dry. Farther back, the ledge gave way to two chambers, the smaller of which was a natural basin filled with water that seeped down through the stone from somewhere above. Aside from having to gather firewood and haul it up from the woods below, it was perfect.

In all, Kit estimated they had travelled at least twenty miles from the first camp, which meant they were fifteen or so miles from the ley that had brought him to the valley—too far to just nip ’round and check it from time to time, a fact he noted with some regret. But soon he was too busy to worry about it for, with their move to winter quarters, the clan also set about stockpiling food and supplies for the winter.

The hunters—both males and females, for Kit had long since noted that hunting was not strictly a guys-only pursuit—had gone out only every third or fourth day when they were back at River City. Now they went out every day, leaving before sunrise and coming home around midday. The hunt had taken on a sense of seriousness and purpose previously lacking.

The older, nonhunting females likewise busied themselves with gathering roots and berries, preparing furs and skins, weaving rope, and storing nuts and other odds and ends they would need for the long, cold season ahead. Gradually they transformed the bare rock ledge into something resembling a utopia as envisaged by a band of survivalist gypsies.

At first Kit stayed in camp and watched the little ones so their elders could hunt and gather. Kit had yet to figure out the parentage of the young ones, since none of the elders seemed to take any proprietary interest in any particular individual; all treated each and every one with alike deference and regard. By way of helping out, Kit was content to play babysitter, inasmuch as it allowed him to spend some time getting to grips with Sir Henry’s book—as he had been in his idle moments ever since joining the clan. While he read, the youngsters played around his feet. The littlest of the lot accepted him as a natural part of their world and responded to him as they would to any other elder. The slightly older children seemed more aware of his otherness and were shy around him.

But that changed the day Kit began to learn their language.

The adults had trooped off, leaving him in charge as had become the custom. This time Kit noticed that some of the older tykes had begun vocalising to the younger ones, repeating the same sounds over and over again, which the infants imitated. So Kit joined in the game and was soon enrolled in this rudimentary language class. The clan thought this a smashing good game and vied with each other to teach him sounds. When he had mastered the basics, one of the older children brought him a stone and put it in his hand.

Kit held it up. “What?” he said.

To his amazement the child paused and very clearly replied, “Tok.”

“Tok,” said Kit. He put down the stone and picked up another pebble and held it in the palm of his hand.

“Tok.” The young one tapped the pebble, repeating the word.

Just to see if he understood correctly, Kit tossed the pebble away and then patted the smooth stone surface of the limestone ledge on which they sat. “What?”

Again, the same word was repeated:
tok
. And Kit had effectively doubled his Stone Age vocabulary. He now knew the word for stone to add to his mental dictionary beside the word for bear. Next they tried water, which turned out to be, simply,
nah
.

“Nah?” asked Kit, raising his eyebrows in imitation of their own inquisitive expressions. He poured water from the gourd back into the catchment pool, then put in his hand. “Nah.” He shook off the water from his fingers.

“Nah,” said his small teacher, pointing at the pool, then dipping his own hand and shaking it. Then, cupping his hand, he slurped up some water. “E-na.”

The lesson continued until the elders began to return, by which time Kit had a dozen fresh words. He was polishing his new acquisition so that he could show it off to the elders when they gathered that evening, but he was not given the chance. As soon as the first adults appeared, his small teacher, in full view of everyone, picked up a stone and presented it to Kit with an expression of such keen anticipation, Kit could not help laughing. “Tok,” he declared.

The effect was stunning—as if he had set off a roman candle or pulled a rabbit out of the hat. Everyone gathered around, and before he knew it they were all offering him rocks and pebbles just to hear him say the word. He moved on to demonstrate his mastery of the word for water and for drinking, and wood, and fire, hand, leg, arm, and the rest of the few he had learned. Then, as he had their rapt attention, he placed the flat of his hand on his chest and said, “Kit.”

His gesture was met with baffled silence. He repeated the gesture and said his name once more. The clansmen regarded him with quizzical expressions, their heavy brows furrowed, their broad faces pinched. Kit began thumping his chest and saying his name, slowly, clearly, willing them to understand. His repeated attempts failed to gain any result until Big Hunter stepped forward and, in a fair imitation of Kit, put his own hand on his chest and in a voice that seemed to come from somewhere deep underground, said, “Dar-dok.”