The Two of Swords: Part 14 (3 page)

Trahidour took the next watch, and then it was dawn. You could tell by the way they moved that nobody had got any sleep at all. Had Conselh figured out what was going on, overheard them maybe and stayed awake on purpose?

Halfway through the morning they came to the gap in the mountains. Below them lay a wide, flat, grassy plain, through which flowed a broad river. “You know what,” Conselh announced, “I think I can see the sea.”

Nobody said anything, and they turned off the road, heading straight for the river. They reached it not long after noon and lay on the grass while the horses drank. Verjan got up after a while and sat next to Chanso.

“He’s still wrong, you know.”

“He was right about this gap, wasn’t he?”

“Meaning nothing. Maybe he’s got a slightly better memory than me, so what? He’s wrong about going south, and you know it.”

Chanso thought for a moment. “There’s plenty of water now,” he said. “And you can bet there’s deer and waterfowl and plenty other game along the river. Should be cooler in the day and warmer at night. In fact, it reminds me a lot of home.”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong. But we’re going deeper and deeper into hostile territory.”

Chanso shrugged. “Why would there be Ironshirts here?” he said. “I figure, if they haven’t caught up to us by now, they’re not going to. I think we’ve seen the last of them. They’ve got to have better things to do than tracking a few stragglers.”

“Oh, sure. And the moment the country people see us—”

“So we won’t be seen. Don’t know about you, I haven’t set eyes on a living soul since we left the battle. Can’t see any farms or houses downriver, can you? I think this must be ride-around country, like home.” He frowned. “Haven’t seen any livestock either, mind. So maybe nobody lives here at all. That’d be better for us, wouldn’t it?”

Verjan looked away. “The further we go,” he said, “the further we got to go back, once you’ve all seen sense. Look, even supposing we do make it to the sea, then what? Find a boat, he says. Dream on. And suppose we find a boat. We can’t hire anyone to sail it, we’ve got nothing. Sure as hell we can’t sail it ourselves. Down on the coast, anywhere there’s likely to be boats, there’s going to be a lot of people. We can’t just go strolling about, we’re the
enemy
.”

“Doesn’t follow.” Trahidour joined them. “If we get some local clothes, cut our hair off, we’re just half a dozen poor folks looking for work.”

Verjan turned and poked Trahidour’s forehead. “What about
that
? These people don’t have the cuts. What’re you going to do, wear a sack over your head?”

“No,” Chanso said, “a hood. And we can pay for our passage, we got six good horses.”

“Fine.” Verjan was getting angry. “So we’re going to walk all down through Blemya.”

“No,” Trahidour said calmly. “We’re going to head for the marketplace, where there’s always some of our people, and we’re going to send home for them to come and get us. Or we borrow horses. If we get to Blemya, we’ll be all right, I’ve been there, we can fit in easy, find work, we’ll be safe there till we can get home. The main thing is to get the hell away from this war. I’ve had about as much of it as I want. Don’t ever want to see those Teeth again.”

“Exactly.” Verjan got to his knees. “So we go back to Choris Anthropou, where they’re on our side. Damn it, we’ve got pay owing to us there. We can hire a damn coach and four back home, forget about boats. But if you go with
him
, he’ll get you killed. That I can promise you.”

A shadow fell across Chanso’s face; he looked round and saw Conselh standing behind him. “Him,” he repeated. “And who might
he
be, Verjan?”

Verjan got up slowly. “You got lucky,” he said. “There happened to be a gap and a river, and now they think you’re a fucking prophet. Folha? Over here. I want three of those arrows.”

Folha walked over. “What for?”

“I’m going back. This is stupid. I don’t want to leave you boys with this crazy man, but I’ve had enough. So give me the arrows and I’ll get going.”

“Sorry,” Conselh said. “We need them. Go if you must. You can take your horse, but that’s it.”

For a moment, Chanso thought Verjan was going to take a swing at Conselh; but instead he swung round and made a grab for the quiver at Folha’s waist. Folha took a long step back; Verjan staggered and stooped. Then Conselh closed in behind him and punched him in the small of the back.

“Cut that out,” snapped Clar, “you can hurt someone like that.”

“So what,” Conselh said. “He’s my kid brother, I can treat him how I like.” Verjan had dropped to his knees. Conselh came closer and kicked him in the face. “Should’ve done it days ago,” he said, as Verjan rolled over on to his side and lay still. “I don’t mind him bitching, I’m used to it, but I won’t have him making trouble when we’re in the shit like this.” He took a long step back. “Don’t think I didn’t hear you last night,” he said, “fixing to ride off and leave me. Well, you can if you want, though you won’t last five miles. But he’s through making trouble, and you’re through listening to him. And that’s straight from the shoulder.”

Everyone was on his feet now, except Verjan. It was plain to Chanso that they were all afraid of him; probably all of them agreed with him, without Verjan wheedling in their ears, but Chanso wasn’t sure that counted for very much any more. “Is he all right?” he thought, and heard himself say it aloud.

“Don’t worry about him,” Conselh said, “head thicker than a door. Here, you, get up.” He kicked Verjan in the ribs, but he didn’t move. “He’ll be fine,” Conselh said. “Come on, mount up. Plenty of light left.”

They got on their horses. Verjan was still lying there, quite still. “You can’t ride off and leave him,” Folha said.

“Why not? He’ll catch up, once he’s done sulking.”

They rode on and left him. Chanso risked a glance back over his shoulder, then saw Folha was riding next to him.

“You know,” Folha said, “they reckon Senza and Forza Belot never got on. But they’re sweethearts compared to Conselh and Verjan.”

“I never had a brother,” Chanso said.

“You’re better off. Take those two. Been fighting all their lives. One says one thing, the other says the opposite.” He shrugged. “I think this is as bad as it’s ever got, but they’ve never been in so much trouble before. Just as well Verjan hadn’t got his knife.”

Chanso looked at him. “That bad?”

Folha nodded. “Conselh took it off him before we left,” he said. “Don’t suppose he’ll get any sleep tonight. His own stupid fault, mind. Still, he was right about the gap.”

“Do you think we should be heading south?”

“No,” Folha replied, after a moment’s hesitation. “I think we should’ve gone the other way first time Verjan suggested it. But we’ve come too far now to go back. And we’ve got nothing to carry water in, and we’re lucky roast kite didn’t give us all the draining shits.”

From time to time, when he thought nobody was watching him, Chanso looked back over his shoulder. But there was no sign of a horseman hurrying to catch them up. Had Conselh actually killed him? Verjan hadn’t been moving when they left him.

There were fish in the river. If you looked long enough you could see them, perfectly still with the current flowing all round them. Clar had heard somewhere that you could catch them with your bare hands if you were patient enough. It didn’t take long to find out that he wasn’t; but Folha managed to shoot one. The trick, he said, was to aim just behind the tail, to allow for the picture in your eye getting bent by the water. They cooked it over a dogwood spit and got half a mouthful each. It tasted of grit.

They slept in a dense clump of dogwood shoots, tall enough to hide the horses. Chanso woke up to find Folha sitting on a large stone on the bank, patiently stripping reeds with the head of an arrow. “I fancy these’ll shoot,” he explained. “Good enough for fish, anyhow.”

Nine of the twelve reeds he’d prepared broke on the bow. He missed with two, and pinned a small brown fish to the riverbed with the third. “I reckon the dogwood sticks would do better,” Trahidour said. “I heard that’s what they use for arrows in these parts.”

But Conselh wasn’t prepared to spend a morning making arrows. “Maybe this evening,” he said. “Right now, I want to get moving. We’ve still got a fair way to go.”

Still no sign of Verjan. The others reckoned he must’ve taken his own advice and headed for Choris. “If he was following us he’d have caught up to us by now, the way we’ve been dawdling,” Folha said.

“There’ll be ducks in these reeds, bet you anything you like,” Clar said, and Chanso was inclined to agree with him. “Conselh, what about it?”

“No nets,” Conselh called back without turning round.

The reeds filled a slow bend of the river, which they were skirting, since Conselh reckoned the lower ground might be soft. “Don’t need nets,” Trahidour said. “Wind’s downstream. If we light the reeds, they’ll all get up in a covey, we can brown it with stones. Bound to hit something, and we only need three or four. What about it, Conselh? Folha?”

Folha thought for a moment. “Best place would be there,” he said, pointing to a place where the river ran between a high bank and a clump of willows. “They’ll have to bunch up going through there, it might work. And they’re not our reeds and stones cost nothing. Why not?”

“Haven’t you boys figured yet, this isn’t a pleasure trip?” Conselh still hadn’t turned round. “Further downstream there’s a big wood, I saw it from that hill a way back. There’ll be deer in that, probably tame as dogs. Folha can shoot one this evening, when it’s getting dimpsy. If we fire those reeds, we’re telling everyone in these parts who can see exactly where we are.”

“You said the Ironshirts have given up by now,” Clar pointed out. “Look, there’s nobody here. You seen anyone? I haven’t.”

“All the more reason a cloud of smoke’s going to draw attention,” Conselh said calmly. “Forget it, Clar. You can go duck-hunting when we get home.”

Trahidour turned to Chanso. “What do you think?”

Chanso hesitated before answering. “I think Folha’s right, that high bank’s a great place to stand. Do we have to fire the reeds? Two of us could drive them, and then there’d be no smoke.”

Clar clapped his hands together. “I knew we brought him for a reason,” he said. “The boy is smart. You any good with a stone?”

Chanso shook his head.

“Fine. You and me’ll drive, the rest can throw. Conselh? What do you say?”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Conselh stopped his horse. “Fine. But I’ll drive. That reed bed’s likely to be mighty soft, Clar, it’d gobble up a short-arse like you and we wouldn’t know you’d gone.”

Clar grinned, and Chanso guessed he preferred throwing stones to wading waist-deep in mud. For some reason. “You all right driving?” Conselh asked.

“Like I said, I’m a lousy thrower.”

“Fine. And you’re taller than these midgets.” He held Chanso’s horse as he dismounted. “Right, we’d better work a long way back, so as not to spook them. You three, get picking stones. And be ready, I don’t want you standing round yapping when the birds are in the air.”

Conselh led him a good half-mile; dead silence, since the wind was from them to the birds. On the way, they picked up a pair of hand-sized stones each, to bang together and make a racket when the time came. “You done this before?” Conselh whispered, as they approached the start of the reeds. Chanso nodded.

“Good boy,” Conselh said. “Reckon it’s shallow enough to wade here. You stay this side, come on when you hear me.”

As Chanso stooped to take off his boots, Conselh disappeared into the reeds. Not long after, Chanso heard him hollering and clashing stones. He scrambled down into the water, and the mud gushed up round his ankles. He wasn’t sure he liked that, so he waded across until he hit the riverbed itself. The water was up around his knees and the stones were treacherously smooth and slippery, but at least it was firm. He yelled – he’d dropped the stones wobbling through the mud – and took a long, tentative stride forward.

Clar had been right about the ducks. There were about three dozen, sitting in the middle of the river. He advanced on them but they didn’t seem too bothered, so he carefully stooped and picked out a large stone, which he hurled into the middle of the group. That, apparently, was a different matter entirely. The ducks got up in an explosion of wings and spray; low and straight as an arrow downstream, right through the trap. As they flew between the high bank and the rocks they were barely a wingspan apart; and, sure enough, Chanso saw one fold in the air, then another two, then one more. He whooped with joy and splashed ahead, only to lose his footing and go down sideways. The water closed over his head, but he found his feet without too much trouble and stood up again, water streaming out of his hair and down his nose. Victory, he thought.

He trudged and splashed his way back to the bank, not fussed about slipping since he was drenched already. He wiped the mud off his legs the best he could with a handful of short reed, then crammed them back in his boots. Four birds he’d definitely seen go down, could well be others; judging by the way they’d flown, they were lazy and fat, good eating. He ran back to join the others, and saw four ducks spread out on the grass, and Folha gutting a fifth with the head of an arrow.

“Folha got three,” Trahidour called out to him, “Clar and me got one each. Couldn’t miss, hardly. Where’s Conselh?”

Chanso looked back. “He went the other side of the river,” he said. “Maybe he’s gone on up a way.”

Trahidour shrugged, broke a thorn off a bush and picked up a duck. Chanso sat down beside him and took out his pocket knife.

“Went in, I see,” Folha said.

Chanso grinned. “Slipped on the stones.”

“They can be the devil. Didn’t know you got a knife.”

“Forgot I had it.”

“That’ll come in handy,” said Clar. “Not much you can do without a knife, and Conselh made us leave ours home.”

Awkward silence; then Trahidour said, “Where’s he got to, anyhow?”

Folha and Clar looked at each other. Then Folha put down his half-dressed duck. “Guess I’d better go look for him.”

“I’ll go,” Chanso said. “I’m wet already.”