The Tiger and the Wolf (14 page)

Amiyen had been a handful of heatbeats behind, just a few
moments reeling from the knock to her head, Stepped back into
wolf form but still groggy. When she got to the gate, there he
was, and she felt a terrible, ripping sensation within her.

Her child, her youngest, her reckless Iramey.
He lay, human, curled into a ball, and the snow about him
was melting red with his blood. He was still alive, just, shivering
and shuddering.
Maniye had torn open his leg – the inside near the groin,
where the blood ran fierce. Amiyen had seen enough people and
animals die to know it.
She crouched beside him, on human knees now, feeling dead
and cold in her heart. The loss was like a hammer raised, waiting
to come down and spark her rage.
‘Mother.’ He clutched for her, but she drew back, shaking her
head. It was very, very important.
‘Iramey, listen to me, you must Step. You
must
.’
‘Mother, it hurts! Please . . .’ And he was twisting, trying to
reach out for what comfort she could offer, despite the agony.
She wanted desperately to gather him in her arms, but she
needed him to obey her this one last time, for his own sake.
‘My son, listen to me.’ Her voice shook with the same erratic
rhythms as his ravaged body. ‘Iramey, son, please. You lived
within the Jaws of the Wolf, so you must end.
Please
, Iramey,
please, this one last time.’ Tears left freezing trails down her
cheeks. She could see Iramey fighting for another breath,
another heartbeat.
‘Mother . . .’
She opened her mouth, and knew that no words would come
out, that it would be a sound of grief and loss – and all the more
so if he died like this.
And then the dying boy was a dying beast, whimpering and
trembling, Stepped at last into the form that all Wolves must
hope to hold to, as they passed away. To die human was to deny
the soul its exit, to trap it within the decaying corpse. Thus were
ghosts made, tormented and twisted spirits denied rebirth.
Now she went to him and cradled his wolf’s body in her
arms, whispering in his ear, telling him it would be well, that he
would live again, be born again, as man or as beast. Her words
jumped and shuddered with her grief and his faltering breath.
The girl would be getting further away, she knew, and the
snow would hide her tracks. This was more important though.
Family always came first.
But even if she lost the trail now, she would find Stone River’s
daughter over winter, or in the spring, or in twenty years of
searching, and she would tear open that girl’s throat and gorge
on her blood.
In her arms, Iramey faded at last, and she felt that moment
when the soul fled from him. In that instant she had Stepped,
because human grief was shallow and pale compared to the
grieving of a wolf. She flung back her head and howled out the
incandescence of her anguish and her fury.

Twin rivers were the bonds that tied the cold north to the warm
south. In the east, the Sand Pearl fed into the Marl, which
coursed southwards until the dry plains swallowed it up. To the
west a skein of rivers mustered their forces to become the back
of the great Tsotec. Neither the inhabitants of the Sun River
Nation nor those of the Crown of the World truly understood
how these rivers linked their worlds. Few had realized that the
freeze and thaw of the northern winters caused the flooding of
the Tsotec that inundated the fields of the south, bringing
another year’s prosperity and life.

But what they did know was that the river was a road. To walk
from Atahlan to the lands of the Wolf would take many moons
and expose the traveller to all manner of dangers, natural and
human. Even the roads that the Horse Society had trodden out
were safe only for large and well-guarded parties. The rivers
were the swifter, safer path between north and south throughout
the heart of the year, when they were not frozen or running mad
with meltwater. So it was that travellers on the Tsotec heading
north into the first days of winter must always hurry, for the ice
would not wait.

Where they could, the Horse drew their boats up on the western shore, hauling them by main force up little trails or else the
treacherous inclines left by rockslides. Across the river the Plains
began, and the Horse seemed to have no more friends there that
they were anxious to visit.

The western shore of the Tsotec’s back was in the Shadow
of the Stone Kingdoms. Those people lived closed lives, on
the stepped plateaus of the high ground and in cities cut into the
stone itself. They were proud and they had tried to separate
themselves from the world, but history had eroded their reserve,
decade by decade, working with a river’s eternal patience.

One night, Stone men came to the camp, slipping down from
the high paths silently as though they were simply stepping out
of the rock itself. Three were of the White Face tribe, a woman
and two men, broad shouldered and strong. The fourth was a
slender, elegant woman of that people they called Stone Dancers – or sometimes Snake Eaters. She had mail of bronze and
wore a short, curved sword at her side, and Asmander was keenly
aware of the threat of her for every second she was present.

They had come down to talk to the Horse, and ignored Shyri
and the southerners. The hushed discussions seemed to be
about trade and, although nothing changed hands, they left
before dawn with both sides seeming satisfied.

There were men and women of the Stone Kingdom in
Atahlan, in some numbers. They came to work, and they stayed
because they were paid well and valued. They were craftsmen
and quarrymen, whose understanding of the moods and movements of stone was unparalleled. Moreover, they were the arm
of the Kasra: foreigners without ties to any of the great clans,
they made perfect enforcers of the laws. Recruiting the Stone
men to be the shield and the sword of the Sun River Nation’s
ruler was an old tradition. In return, the Snake priests had made
their way even into the Stone halls, conquering ancient enmities
with cunning words.

All of which was relevant to Asmander’s purpose for one
reason: this outside force, these spears hired from beyond the
Nation’s borders, would be a key factor in what happened next.
And for all he hoped desperately that the near future would be
one of peace succeeding peace, he did not believe it.

Hence his mission to the north, and he was not alone. Even
as his prince, his beloved Tecuman, sent out trusted men such as
Asmander, so there would be others . . .

When there was enough wood for a good fire, the whole travelling party clustered about it, and the chief entertainment then
was telling stories. Everyone took their turn. The Horse told
stories about far places, everywhere but their own home. So it
was that one would tell a tale of the Crown of the World, how
some hero tricked the sun into returning, and yet offended it so
that it would always go away again. Another would tell some
familiar Riverlands myth, or perhaps there would be a complex,
badly remembered history of the Oldest Kingdom and the
coming of the Pale Shadow People, a myth Asmander had heard
recounted far better by the Snake priests.

When his own turn came, he felt embarrassed. He was no
great storyteller: his voice would always go dry, and he forgot
key parts of the tale, so that the whole made no sense. When
he had demurred enough, and everyone else – Venater and Shyri
too – had made it plain he had no choice, he had lamely fallen
back on one of the old children’s stories, about the Crocodile
and the Serpent. He muddled through it, how Serpent had come
to the river and sought passage on Old Crocodile’s back, and
been refused three times. Who, after all, would carry a venomous reptile willingly? Here, Asmander found himself mimicking
his long-ago tutors, bringing their expressions and gestures to
life, sparking smiles from his audience.
Simpler tales for simpler
times
, he thought. At the last, of course, Old Crocodile is tricked
into carrying Serpent across anyway, and when he gets to the far
side he’s very surprised that the snake has not bitten him. More,
Serpent has guided him to a new place where the herds come to
drink. And so Old Crocodile learned to trust Serpent’s guidance, just as Serpent had trusted his strength. Asmander thought
he had done quite a good job of the telling, for all it was just a
fable for the very young. When he had been that young, the
world had seemed fit for such simplistic tales.

What will they tell about us, after we are gone?
After that, Venater wanted to give a blood-and-butchery
retelling of some act of pointless villainy, but Asmander elbowed
him sharply, and instead another of the Horse told a midnight
story of the Old Kingdom – the great dominion of the Stone
People – and how it had been eaten away from the inside by the
Rat Cult, by poison and disease, and of the ruins still standing
today where none would dare go again.
‘I’ve seen them,’ Shyri declared at the end of that, when
everyone was pleasantly frightened by the idea of terrible things
done far away. ‘I’ve been there.’
That seemed to be in bad taste as far as the Horse were concerned, but she had a smug look on her face that said the
Laughing Men did not care about the taboos of others. ‘They
are close to here. We will pass through their Shadow before we
reach the north. If you were brave, any of you, you could follow
me up there and see where the Rat gnawed the bones of kings.’
She was grinning fiercely at their discomfort, plainly very satisfied with herself.
Asmander knew where he stood with the Horse Society. He
knew exactly how his relationship with Venater pivoted: duty
and resentment, love and hate. In the days of their journeying
together, he had come to no understanding of Shyri at all. She
remained a cipher.
And so he announced: ‘I will go with you.’
She had not been fishing for this, and his offer caught her off
guard.
‘We shall not have time,’ the Hetman started. ‘We will see ice
on the river soon . . .’
‘We will go at night, Laughing Girl,’ Asmander suggested,
seeing her eyes go gratifyingly wide. ‘Or are you not laughing
any more?’
‘If you can keep up, longmouth.’ But she was quieter now, far
less delighted with her own wit.

‘I have not known many of the Stone Men,’ Asmander commented, reaching out for another handhold. ‘I know they live
shoulder to shoulder in their high places, or so I’m told. Perhaps
I don’t believe in this ruined kingdom.’

He was speaking to cover his own nervousness. The very path
they followed gave the lie to his words. It was steep, but the steps
of worked stone were still evident, rounded by time. Hardy trees
and bushes had forced a foothold with their roots, making for
easier purchase. The moon was close to full, too, but while that
pale light showed them their way, Asmander did not like the way
it seemed to make the rock stairs glow faintly.

Shyri, ahead of him, just grunted, concentrating on her own
ascent.
‘There are many places along the Tsotec where men once
lived until disaster or bloodshed destroyed them. Now those
places are lived in again, by others. Nobody would abandon such
a place forever. If it was good to live there, it will be good to live
there still.’
‘No doubt you’re very wise,’ she cast back at him. ‘But there
are places on the Plains, the old forts of the Horn-Bearers which
are sealed still. We do not go there.’
‘And why?’
‘For the same reason the Stone Men don’t come here now.
Because of what they let in, all those years back. Places where
bad ideas have arisen; places where the people have consented
to their own degradation and death; where the bones of the dead
have been gnawed in such ways . . .’ She paused ahead of him,
and he glanced up and saw she had reached the top.
Clambering up beside her, he remained silent. There were
indeed ruins. None of his rationalizations could wish them away.
An archway cut into the stone stood twice the height of a man,
and through it, just a short distance off, he could see a broad
and moonsplashed space, littered with tumbled stones.
Shyri was watching him with a mocking smile. ‘So brave,
Champion?’
‘You have stood inside there?’
‘In daylight.’
‘How courageous of you.’ In truth he found he did not want
to venture in. A dreadful silence had its hand on the place. He
had reasons, though, for coming up here with Shyri. That
deserted arena within would serve his purposes.
The mission
first
, he reminded himself.
She twice hesitated to walk into that dark passage, before she
finally Stepped and skittered through on four legs. That seemed
a good idea to Asmander. When he followed her, it was without
hesitation, clawed feet clicking on the stone. The Champion was
always a ready antidote to fear.
They resumed their human forms inside, staring about them
at the dead city of the Old Stone Kingdom. Here was a canyon,
sheer sides reaching far above them, with a trickle of a stream
still snaking its way down its centre. The walls had been worked
from top to bottom, cut into rooms one on top of another, not
an inch wasted, so that the stone around them seemed to have a
hundred vacant eyes on both sides.
‘They go straight into the rock,’ Shyri told him. ‘I don’t know
how far. They go down, too. There are shafts like great wide
wells that just go down . . .’
What bare wall there was had been carved. They saw what
had been human figures there, large and small, but everything
vandalized. The faces, especially, had been smashed away, and
most of the hands too: all the imagery that might have told them
of who those lost people were and what they had been about.
‘Did you go in?’ Asmander pressed. The look she gave him
provided enough answer: no, she had not.
His curiosity was more than satisfied. It was time to talk.
‘I will have words with you now.’
She did not mistake his tone, and perhaps she had been waiting for this. ‘So,’ was all she replied, but there was abruptly more
distance between them than before. Asmander still stood
between her and the way they had entered, and the Champion
was faster than she was, whatever form she might assume.
‘I do not understand why you are here,’ he told her flatly.
‘Some southern boy’s foolish dare,’ she said, hands on hips.
‘You know what I mean. Why is one of the Laughing Men
inviting herself to the Crown of the World?’
‘I like to travel.’
‘Plains people do not travel.’
That struck real anger. ‘You know nothing, longmouth. I have
travelled many places. Never to the north. Not yet.’ She had
started loud, but lowered her voice before she finished. The window-riddled stone around them had made something unpleasant
of the echoes.
‘Why did the Malikah send you?’ he pressed.
‘I was not sent.’
‘If you are here to prevent me carrying out my mission, I will
kill you.’ He was ready to right now, right here. This place
reeked of death. One more victim would make no difference. At
the same time, he knew that the thought was shot through with
dishonour. To turn the Champion loose upon this woman for
such a reason would be mean-hearted and vicious. He felt his
intentions tilt in the balance, waiting to see what excuse she
would give him.
She was still angry, hands balling into fists, over and over. ‘I
don’t even care what your mission is.’
‘You know.’
‘If you want to fight, longmouth, then let’s just fight.’ She had
a bronze knife in her hand swift enough that he had not even
seen her draw it. In the echo of her words, he sensed that something else stirred. For a moment he was imagining little feet
rattling troves of old bones; many feet flooding through the
buried halls where the ancient Stone Men had gone off to die.
Looking into her eyes, he realized that she had imagined
exactly the same thing, and so perhaps neither of them had
imagined it at all.
‘What I know is what everyone knows,’ she said, quieter now.
‘I know the Kasra is dead. I know there is no new Kasra, or two
of them, and you cannot have two Kasra of the Riverlands.
Everyone from the south tells a different story. What do you say,
longmouth?’ When he would not answer, she prompted, ‘You
spoke of your prince to the Malikah. I heard you say . . . what
was his name?’
‘Tecuman.’ It seemed a betrayal, to give voice to that name in
this place, but at the same time it brought a little strength along
with it. ‘Tecuman, my prince.’
‘And he’s going to be Kasra, is he?’
‘I’ve heard it said.’
My father has staked a great deal on it.
‘But there’s the girl, that’s what they say. If he’s Tecuman,
then she’s, what, Tecume?’
‘Tecuma.’ He had been listening to Shyri’s voice, letting his
ears search for the hidden intentions he had felt sure must be
there if she was here with an ulterior motive. He had heard
nothing.
‘Two children, one name, right. We may not be River Lords,
but even we know that’s not right,’ Shyri told him. ‘One has to
find a new name. The other one’s the Kasra.’
He realized he had taken his eyes off her – what should have
been a fatal mistake. She had stepped closer, but the knife had
been put away.
‘So this matters a lot to you,’ she observed. ‘Enough to try
and kill me.’ The anger had gone along with the knife. In its
place came something like sympathy, unlooked for in a Plains
woman of the Laughing Men. ‘You know this Tecuma?’
‘From my earliest days.’
‘And?’
‘She is beautiful,’ Asmander replied honestly, seeing a shadow
of displeasure pass over Shyri’s face. ‘She is noble, wise and
brave. She would make a good Kasra.’
‘And your Tecuman?’
‘The same – all of it the same.’
She regarded him, perhaps doubtfully, but he could not read
her expression: the moon did not touch it. In the gap of her
silence, the greater silence of the place around them crept in,
until Asmander’s ears began hearing sounds that might not even
have been there. The scurrying and the scrabbling, as though
the faint echoes issued from chasmed wells and long-lost chambers, winding their way to the surface by the ranks of empty
sockets that lined the canyon.
‘Come.’ Abruptly he was turning, passing a panel of defaced
inscription to the nearest squared-off hole that might have once
been door or window. Beyond was only the darkness, and a
faint, cool breeze that bore something disagreeable upon it.
‘Come here.’
He heard the scuff of her feet as she approached him warily.
He had one foot up on the edge of the hole as though about to
descend into the unseen abyss beyond.
‘The Stone People never returned to this place?’ His voice
echoed into the black depths below.
‘Do you see them here?’ She was at his shoulder, but tense
and suspicious.
‘Those I saw in Atahlan, they were no fools. Sober, serious –
strong and not easily scared.’
‘I told you, nobody will go where the Rat has raised its standard. Once a people have fallen to that despair, their home is lost
forever. But you must tell the Rat stories, even on the River.’
‘The Serpent priests do.’ She had been waiting for him to do
it, ready to hurl herself away from him, and still he was quicker.
In an instant he had her, one hand at the back of her neck, the
other gripping her right arm where she had drawn it back. The
point of her dagger gleamed close to his eye. She was stronger
than he had thought. They fought a silent battle over the precise
distance between her blade and his face.
‘These last three years, I have been hearing of the Rat Cult,’
he told her. They were now teetering on the brink and she
stopped trying to stab him only because it might have toppled
them both. ‘In out-of-the-way places, isolated villages, in old
tombs, they say, the followers of the Rat are gathering within the
Nation. The priests hunt them. I have seen Rat worshippers die
an unclean death by the rope because their flesh is not fit for
Old Crocodile, and their spirits must be penned within their
human bodies. This is because my Nation stands at the edge of
the fall, even as this place fell, as your Horn-Bearers fell. Wherever there is fear and doubt, the Rat creeps in and gnaws. This
is what waits for us, if we descend into division and war between
ourselves.’ He was speaking too loud, and partly it was to drown
the distorted echoes of his earlier words.
He forced himself to stay calm, to lessen his grip a little. She
did not try to break free. Perhaps that was because she had
another knife, for a tiny flint blade emerged between the fingers
of her left hand to graze a bead of blood from his waist.
‘That is why I cannot allow you to harm my mission. That is
what is at stake,’ he told her. ‘Tell me, what do the Laughing
Men swear by, Shyri?’
‘Tell me what you wish me to swear, Asmander.’
He almost felt that he did not need to ask her. That exchange
of their names seemed to have sealed something between them.
‘Swear that you are not sent to work against me.’
‘By my mother’s life. But beyond that I will swear nothing. I
do what I will. I go where I will.’
‘And where will you go?’
‘For now? With you.’
For a moment he stared into her dark eyes and tried to find
truth there, or anything he recognized. At last he said, ‘You
remind me of Tecuma.’
‘Your enemy?’ she demanded.
‘Even so.’ He paused, and perhaps should not have done so,
for at that moment something else sounded from the cold
depths beside them. A shifting stone, or something similarly
innocuous, save what could be down there to shift it? Instantly
they both sprang away from the edge, as frightened as children.
She put a body’s length between them – fighting distance,
save that her knives had disappeared again. ‘What now, Champion?’ she asked, and it was a direct challenge to that part of
him she had witnessed killing the aurochs on the Plains.
Tecuman, forgive me if I am failing you in this.
The two tines of
the fork had him pinned: his duty to his prince and his personal
honour. ‘Now I trust you.’ With those words he was walking
towards the narrow archway by which they had entered, forcing
her to trot at his heels.
‘Just like that?’
‘Even so.’
If they left with more haste than they had entered, well, the
night was cold and growing colder. It was surely not the echoes
of that dead place that drove them.
As they emerged from the shadow of the arch into a healthier
kind of night, Shyri made a sound of amusement.
‘You said she was beautiful,’ she noted. ‘And some other flattery too, but mostly that.’
‘What of it?’ He turned and found she was eyeing him with
the same predatory gaze as the Malikah.
‘Nothing of it.’ Then, as they were descending the worn steps,
‘But you know what everyone will think, now you’ve come back
with me rather than without my corpse. You’ll never persuade
them that we haven’t lain together.’
There was an unmistakable invitation in her voice, and for a
moment he stopped, not so much from temptation as because
he was wondering if he had misread her by
that
much. Was that
all there was to it? He could not believe so.
He said nothing and continued descending. The look in the
eyes of Venater and the Horse woman on watch said exactly
what Shyri had predicted.