The Fell Sword (63 page)

‘Tobacco!’ he shouted. He opened his own bag and took out his smallest pipe and filled it with shaking hands. He went to the fort’s hearth – dug with his knife in the ashes, and then lifted a live coal, on which he blew. He lit his pipe with the kind of satisfaction that men usually save for food and other passions, and sat on the edge of the stone hearth.

Then he looked around carefully. ‘If this was not Mogon herself,’ he said, ‘it was one of her brood mates – the royals of the lake Wardens. And I would warrant that they are not a war party. The tobacco pouch almost settles it – no one would take such a thing to war.’

Nita Qwan raised an eyebrow. ‘My people and the Albans both tend to take all their most precious things to war,’ he said.

‘There were men with them – and at least two irks. See the prints? That’s a woman, or I’m a heron. So – not a war party.’ The old man shrugged, pleased with himself and smirking.

‘They could be captives,’ Nita Qwan said.

Ta-se-ho grinned. ‘If we had come from the land side, they could be captives,’ he said. ‘Tracks must be read in
tehsandran.
’

Nita Qwan’s command of Sossag was very good, but he had never heard this word before. ‘
Teh-san-dra-an
?’ he asked.

Gas-a-ho looked at the older hunter. The two men had a wordless exchange.

‘Is this – hermetical? Magical?’ asked Nita Qwan.

‘No! It is an idea,’ said the older man. ‘It is like – when I say something by the campfire, in jest, it might have one meaning, and if I say it when we are hunting, it might have another meaning. Meanings change depending on who says the words, and how he says them, and where he says them. Feelings change.’ He flailed the air with his hands. ‘
Tehsandran
is that thing. The change. The place. If we had come from the landward side, this might be a raiding party. But we came from the east, on the inland sea. All the people – the humans – live in the east. So they did not take a woman prisoner in the east, because they would have paddled right past us.’ He spread his hands. ‘See?’

Nita Qwan thought hard and then laughed. ‘I do see. At first, I was afraid you were trying to tell me that if we came from the land, that would change the reality of your observation. Instead, you are saying that it changes your perception.’

Ta-se-ho shrugged. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And I’m not
sure.
Tracking is never about
sure
. It is about a vast range of possibilities, bigger than a herd of fallow deer on the plains.’

‘You are a philosopher,’ Nita Qwan said, using the archaic word.

Ta-se-ho said the word several times and chewed the stem of his pipe while he smiled. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. He walked around the enclosure for another minute, leaving a trail of pungent smoke – then walked out the gate and vanished for some minutes before he returned and emptied his pipe. ‘Eight boats. Fifty warriors, and two irks, both wearing shoes – and one man and one woman, barefoot and in moccasins.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘If they went east, we’d have seen them. If they go west, they reach Mogon’s realm in a day or two – her caves in eight days’ travel. But they came here by boat. So the natural assumption is that they came
from
Mogon’s caves and dens in the west. They did not pass us. Hence they went south – to Tapio at N’gara. It is an embassy – the irks were sent out by Tapio as guides. The man and woman are slaves – but trusted slaves.’

Nita Qwan followed the logic. ‘Why trusted?’

‘They went far to defecate,’ Ta-se-ho said. ‘Humans are far more fastidious about this than Wardens. They were allowed to walk off with no guards.’

‘Perhaps they are not slaves?’ Nita Qwan said.

‘They cooked all the food,’ Ta-se-ho said. He shrugged. ‘But yes – perhaps they are well paid, or merely content.’

‘How sure are you?’ Nita Qwan asked.

The old man was repacking his pipe. He met Nita Qwan’s eye with a wry smile and a raised eyebrow, and went back to packing his pipe.

‘How much time do we lose if we go to N’gara and they aren’t there?’ Nita Qwan asked.

‘A week,’ Ta-se-ho said. ‘More, if Tapio kills us.’

He and Gas-a-ho barked their laughter, and it rang from the rocks and low bluffs around them in the still autumn air.

Natia Qwan had to smile. ‘You think that’s the right thing to do,’ he said.

Ta-se-ho shrugged. But he relented. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘If Tapio and Mogon bury the axe and make friends, they will be the most powerful allies in the north country, and we could not do better than to offer our people to them. Mogon’s brother and father were never bad to the people.’ He made an odd motion with his head. ‘They were never particularly good, either,’ he admitted.

‘And this Tapio?’ Nita Qwan asked.

Gas-a-ho leaned forward. ‘The horned one says he is a deeply cunning shaman – almost like the old gods. He says you must never go to sleep in the halls of Tapio, or you wake to find a hundred years have passed.’ He realised he had probably said too much for a young person, and looked at the ground.

Ta-se-ho lay back on a giant sleeping bench meant for a daemon nine feet tall. ‘Tapio fought a war against our forefathers,’ he said, dreamily. ‘All the stories about the faeries under the earth and the war underground are about that war. He is very old.’

Nita Qwan had never heard such stories. ‘Does he hate the Sossag?’ he asked.

Ta-se-ho cocked one moccasined foot over the other. ‘I doubt he even remembers us. But we most definitely remember him. We used to hold all the land around N’gara. This was Sossag – the people of the western door. Tapio took our great towns and sent us to flee into the Burned Lands in the north.’

Nita Qwan sighed. ‘So much for our embassy, then,’ he said.

Ta-se-ho shook his head. ‘No. We have a good life now. Tapio might help us – he took what he wanted, and we survived. Not unlike the sorcerer who wants our Sacred Island. Listen, Nita Qwan. These Powers happen. It is best to accept the change and avoid death. If we can lead them to fight among themselves—’ The old man chuckled. ‘Well, all the better. If Tapio and Thorn destroy each other, the Sossag will laugh.’

‘And be stronger,’ said Nita Qwan.

The hunter shook his head. ‘That’s your brother talking. Stronger is for those who seek strength. The people want to live. Life is not about strength. Life is about living. The matrons know this – you need to know this, too. We do not seek an alliance to make us
strong.
We seek an alliance to avoid as much trouble as we can avoid, so that hunters can hunt, and mothers can raise children.’

Nita Qwan looked at the old hunter with new eyes. ‘You sound as if you hold the Powers in contempt.’

The old man puffed rapidly on his pipe to keep it lit. ‘You know the kind of child who must keep showing other children how smart he is? While other children run and play and eat and love their mothers, this little boy or girl cannot stop being smart. You know this child?’

Nita Qwan laughed. ‘All too well.’

‘Powers. Mostly, they are people who never learned to live.’ Ta-se-ho leaned back and chuckled. ‘Mind you, I’m an old man with no magic. If I could kill a deer a mile away with a flick of my fingers, I’d be a different man. But I’d never learn to
hunt.
And I love to hunt.’ He sat up. ‘I lack the words to explain better.’

‘You are a philosopher,’ Nita Qwan said again.

The older man nodded. ‘I could learn to like this word. But let me tell you a cold fact. The Inner Sea will freeze in a week. If we are going to paddle, we’d best paddle fast.’

And hour later, they were paddling south, for N’gara.

Lissen Carrak – Abbess Mirim and Sister Amicia

The Abbess read the latest message from Harndon carefully while Sister Amicia waited patiently, hands in her sleeves.

The Abbess winced once, and then her face stilled. Careful observation indicated she was reading the whole message a second time. This time she bit her lip.

She made a face – a very un-Abbess-like face. ‘Do you know anything about the contents?’ she asked Amicia, who shook her head.

‘
Ma dame
, I was at my place by the Southwark ferry, in the chapel, when the royal messenger came. As his message was for here and the sabbath was passed, I brought it directly. He had other stops to make.’

Mirim tapped the arm of her chair. ‘The King has appointed a new Bishop of Lorica who believes that the whole of the Order of Saint Thomas falls within his remit.’ She smiled – not a real smile, but a combative one. ‘I suspect that Prior Wishart and I will agree that he has no power over us, but equally I can see some trouble looming.’

‘The new Bishop of Albinkirk is a fine priest,’ Amicia said.

‘He called!’ Mirim said. ‘Hah, and caught us all in our shifts. Washing day, and the new Bishop comes to the gate! But Ser Michael turned out the guard for him, and we put on a passable show, and got the washtubs into the kitchen. He really is a very pleasant man, and his theology is refreshingly modern.’ Mirim took a scroll of the table under her elbow. ‘He issued you a further license to say mass whenever there is no priest present. And he appointed us a new chaplain – Father Desmond. A scholar, no less! We’ve all been on our best behaviour.’

Amicia curtsied again. ‘I’ll look forward to meeting him.’

‘You must be tired, dear sister.’ She paused. ‘There is a good deal of muttering about the liberties you are accorded. Please be at mass tonight, and at matins, so that all here can see you at your devotions.’

Amicia flushed with instant anger, and fought it back down.

‘And we need you to help us knit the defences back together. The choir – the hermetical choir – needs to practise while you are here.’ Mirim put a hand on her head. ‘Who ever thought that convents were places of rest?’

The Sacred Island – Thorn and Ota Qwan

When the moths hatched into larvae, it was incredibly disturbing for Ota Qwan. When the larvae hatched in the hung-up corpses of men who had been his companions, it made him think about things he didn’t want to, so he busied himself on errands. He gathered the early crop of young warriors of half a dozen tribes who had been inspired by Speaker of Tongues’ vision, and he led them on a short campaign – first, to overawe the Abenacki, and then further east.

No Abenacki force rose to meet him. South of the chain of streamside villages that lay in the heart of the Abenacki nation, he rested his war party and met with a delegation of elders. He demanded warriors and threatened them with destruction, and the two older warriors who had held senior commands that spring reacted with fierce words.

He shrugged. ‘Thorn will be your lord, now,’ he said. ‘Submit and grow in power. Fight and be destroyed.’

He left them to decide, and turned south and east. He had a branch from Thorn that allowed him to control the Ruk who suddenly infested the low country by the Inner Sea, and six of the lumbering giants followed him. The rest stayed clear of his path. He had expected to feel the power flowing through him; instead, there was nothing but the sight of the Ruk doing his bidding.

After six days’ travel the war party emerged from the rock-strewn marshes near the town of Nepan’ha. He walked forward on the first snow of the season and met with the headwoman, Big Trout, who was up on the catwalk of the palisade wall, holding a spear and wearing a fancy caribou-hide coat.

‘Thorn demands your submission,’ he shouted.

‘He should come and make that demand in person,’ she said, ‘and not send some witling to do it for him.’

‘He will destroy you,’ Ota Qwan promised.

The old woman turned, raised the hem of her coat and showed him her bare buttocks. She launched a long fart, and all her people laughed.

‘Tell your sorcerer to go pleasure himself with a birch tree!’ she shouted.

Ota Qwan allowed his anger to take control of him. He felt taller – stronger – and indeed he was. He raised the branch that Thorn had given him, and pointed at the wall.

From far away, there was the sound of bellowing. The ground began to shake.

A dozen Ruk lumbered forward.

The men and women on the wall had bows and spears, and the Ruk suffered much as they attacked. Four of them died outright.

But it takes a great deal to kill a Ruk. Those who withstood the withering barrage of missiles ripped the palisade down with their bare hands and went into the town. They launched themselves on an orgy of destruction, ripping buildings to the ground and killing anything they could catch – sheep, horse, or child.

Ota Qwan followed them through the breech with his fifty warriors. He pointed a hand in either direction, and ordered his senior warriors to clear the walls.

‘And then?’ asked one of the young Abenacki.

‘Then kill them all,’ Ota Qwan said.

That was not the Outwaller way. But the men were young, and they already saw much in Kevin Orley that they wanted to emulate.

Ten hours later, the last desperate mother was found huddled in a root cellar and had her child ripped away and killed. She was raped, and beheaded. His young warriors were covered in blood, and some were sick with what they had done and others curiously elated. Rape was new to the Abenacki and the Sossag – in Outwaller warfare, women were taken home, adopted and made wives. Otherwise, the matrons punished you.

Only Thorn had no matrons.

And he was there. Thorn came, wearing Speaker of Tongues.

‘What you have done, you have done for me, and for your people,’ he said. He went and knelt gracefully by the corpse of the last woman killed. ‘It is horrible, is it not? She was a person, and you took that and made her a thing.’ He rose. And smiled. ‘Listen, my warriors. We do this to save the rest. After Nepan’ha, no other town will resist me. This will save many lives – yours included. But also the lives of other women, and other babies.’ He walked through the rubble and the burning hides of what had been the central longhouse, to where Big Trout’s corpse lay in the doorway, her big axe still in her hands. ‘She was a fool to insult Ota Qwan, and doubly a fool to resist, and the deaths of all these people lie on her, not on you. When a leader accepts the responsibility of command, she accepts that she will bear the guilt. This fat woman owns the guilt you feel. So piss on her – pour your fluid on her and rid yourself of what is hers.’ He smiled beatifically. ‘For many years, you Outwallers have honoured the corpses of your enemy dead. Stop that. Desecrate them as fools and traitors. Our way is The Way. Be soft no longer. Be hard. Trust me on this.’ Speaker did as he said – he paused and pissed a long stream on the corpse, and the fat woman seemed to melt a little, and suddenly the warriors crowded around to do the same – and as they did, found their memories of the obscenity cloud over.