by Moira Young
I relax. Tracker stares after ’em. He’d never chase. Never beg. He’s too noble a beast. But, nose to tail, he quivers with desire. Not jest one mossy, but three. He looks at me. Nero shouts at him, anxious, urgent. I remember their lean squirrel supper. The chance of such a feast is rare.
Go on then, I says.
He’s gone in a streak. I can hear the mossies crashin about, changin direction in their desperate race. Almost right away, I curse myself fer lettin ’em go. They’re my sentries, Nero an Tracker. They can see things, hear things, sense things that I cain’t. Damn. That was stupid. Dammit.
I go on, but it ain’t long till fears rise. What if DeMalo’s had me followed since this mornin? What if he never meant to let the bridge go unpunished? Why should I trust him? He said it’s the endgame. New rules apply.
I double back a short ways. Start to beat a trail east. At a scatter of rocks, I haul off my boots an cross them barefoot. After a weave through some rootsprawl, I lose any trace of my passage on a carpet of hard blackmoss that ribbons among the trees.
Then I race north in the starfall night. I keep my bow nocked an ready. North to Irontree to meet Jack.
He followed her. Keeping well back, slipping cat-footed among the trees. Easy for a canny tracker like him.
Tracker had sniffed him out right away. But no need to raise the alarm over a friend. He kept looping back to check on him. Guarding the hunter and the hunted at the same time.
Not that he was hunting her. It was Jack he wanted in his sights. It was Jack he’d promised to deliver.
He hadn’t seen him since that night at Blackwater Tarn. When he’d watched them from the rocks. Seen them together on the shore. Ever since then, she’d been meeting him. He was sure of it. She had a certain look about her when she’d been with Jack. Nobody else would notice. Only him.
Like Tracker, Nero kept an eye on him. Making sure he came to no harm in the night. Dipping in and out of the trees. But he always flew a forest that way. There was nothing to draw her attention.
Then he surprised a tack of grazing mosstails. And they surprised him. As they panicked away, he took cover. She’d want to know the cause. She’d bring Tracker. Flush him out. His heart pounded the excuses he could give her. She didn’t come.
When all was still again, he found she’d moved on. Tracker and Nero had gone after the mosstails. He picked up her trail again. But not for long. She’d done a quick double back and headed east. He managed to track her as far as some blackmoss.
There, her trail went dead. He’d spooked her. He’d lost her.
He could hardly believe it. He cursed himself. He had no time for wasted chances. Hand Jack to the Pathfinder by the blood moon. That was the deal.
It had never occurred to him this might not be easy. Now the thought crashed on him. Crushed him. What if he couldn’t deliver on time? All kinds of things might happen to prevent it. So much was out of his control. And he’d made a mistake, a basic one, already.
The Pathfinder wasn’t the kind to accept excuses. You couldn’t welsh on a deal with such a man.
Panic gripped him in a sudden, hot wave. He should never have done this. He was out of his depth. This could end in all sorts of trouble. He started to move through the trees. With his thoughts tipping, he was careless, unseeing. He stumbled on a root. He fell to his knees.
And he saw the crow lying dead on the ground.
Relief floods me as I spot the Irontree. It rises high above the canopy ahead. I’ve worked myself into a fine old rattle. Thinkin that every movement in the shadows is a Tonton. This ain’t like me. First time in my life I bin spooked by a night-time wood. That’ll teach me to keep Tracker an Nero nearby.
The Irontree stands in the Ironwood. Some big Wrecker place must of bin here once, way back when. There ain’t nuthin left now but some of its bones. Huge iron girders that rise from the ground like they’re rooted. They ain’t in plain view. You don’t notice ’em at first. That’s becuz they bin swamped by the forest. As the trees grew, they took the iron into their bodies. They swallowed it. Embraced it. An the king of these trees looks down upon the rest. Irontree. A great oak of mighty girth an splendid branches. Jack’s built hisself a little eyrie, a platform, in its topmost branches. It cain’t be seen from the ground.
I give our signal, Jack’s an mine. The quiet krik of a nightpip. I wait. No answer. I track forwards, cautiously, my bow ready to fire. I don’t see no sign of his forest pony, Kell. I call agin. No answer. Where is he?
I’m at the foot of Irontree now. It’s all quiet. Bloody Jack. He’s late agin. With a sigh, I let my bow down.
There’s a whoosh sound above. I look up. A man plunges at me from the sky. Boots first. Straight down. His hands grip a rope. His black robes fly, his head wrapped in a sheema. Fear kicks me. The heartstone’s warm. It’s him it’s DeMalo he’s here!
I duck, go to run. But he’s hit the ground, snatched me round the waist an we’re bouncin in the air. Up, light as birds, soarin high. The rope’s rubber. I gasp. Clutch him tight fer dear life. My bow an quiver tumble to the ground. The red hot’s wild in me. The heartstone’s hot. Before I can think we’re landin on the platform, high up.
As he unhands the rope an lets go my waist, I haul off an deck him. A swing at his chin sends him flyin. He lands on his back. I snatch the knife from my boot an I’m on him, I’m on top of him, my knife high, ready to slash. I’ll kill him, I will. This time I’ll kill him if it kills me. He grabs my wrist, we grapple an twist an then he’s sittin on top of me. I struggle an thrash. I rear up to bite him. Hand, arm, anywhere I can reach. He holds me off, his eyes flashin outrage. His silver moonlight eyes.
Silver eyes. Not black. Not DeMalo.
I freeze where I am. Jack? I says.
He clamps a hand to my mouth. Yer bein followed, he hisses.
In the woods below, somethin’s crashin through the trees. Headed this way. Movin fast. We scramble to our feet. He pulls two shooters from his belt an throws me one. From the edge of the platform, we part the hangin moss so’s we can see what’s goin on below. My bow, my quiver an arrows, spill all over the ground.
A gang of flathead pigs come stampedin through the unnergrowth below. Not one of ’em’s higher than my knees. There’s maybe eight of the little beasts. As the sounds of ’em start to fade, jest as I’m openin my mouth to blast him, Jack shins to the top of Irontree. He scans the forest with his looker. It’s gone quiet. He shakes his head an climbs back down.
Flatheads! I grab his sleeve. I don’t believe it, I says. Are you crazy or what?
He eyes me warily as he feels his chin an jaw. An jest when I thought you was startin to mellow, he says.
What the hell was that? I says. Swoopin down on me? I could of killed you.
How? Bit me to death? he says. You was bein followed, Saba. I was watchin out fer you from up there.
Yeah, pigs, I says. Save me.
Use yer head, he says. Somethin startled ’em. I mean, the woods’re dark an I couldn’t see who an I guess I couldn’t swear to it, but it sure seemed—
Seemed? Couldn’t swear? Oh, yer quite the lookout, I says.
Aw, fergit it, he says. We’ll be arguin the toss all night long. Anyways, I guess if there was somebody, Tracker would of sniffed ’em out. Where is he, by the way?
Here, I says, somewheres around. I don’t dare tell him that I sent Nero an Tracker off huntin. He’d tear a strip from me an no mistake.
Jack pulls off his sheema. Ruffs his short hair to confusion. Anyways an by the way, Saba, what’s got you so edgy? he says. You must of known it was me. He flips the hot heartstone with a finger.
Some Tonton comes flyin at me outta the sky, I don’t stop to think, I fight, I says. An speakin of by the way, what’s with the gear, Jack? An the words infiltrate the Tonton better not cross yer lips.
I give him my hardest stare. His gaze slides away.
We agreed, I says. We agreed you wouldn’t, you know damn well we did.
None of yer eel talk, speak plain, I says.
I only done it once or twice, he says. Today an … okay, maybe a few times. But only when I know it’s safe. Information is power, Saba. An we need as much inside information as we can git. How d’you think I found out about the bridge? Keep yer friends close an yer enemies closer, right? He gestures to his robes. Who better than me? I know their ways, how to blend in. We ain’t gonna git no closer’n this.
If only he knew how very close I bin to the enemy. He cain’t ever know. Nobody can.
What if the Tonton know you helped us at Resurrection? I says. That you warn’t one of them but a fake an a plotter? They could all have orders to find you, to watch you, follow you.
Nobody follows me, he says. He heaves a sigh. Look, he says, we demolished the place. There was fifty men killed. It was complete confusion. If anybody spared me a thought after the fact, they’d figger I got blown to the sky. Jest like yer Free Hawk gang do. If the Tonton knew about me, we’d all of us be heads on spikes by now.
Don’t ever say that. You take too many chances, I says. Don’t do this no more, Jack. Promise me. Promise.
No, he says. If we don’t risk, we don’t win. This ain’t no cakewalk, darlin.
Don’t you dare talk down to me, don’t you dare, I says. If you git yerself killed, I swear I’ll … I’ll kill you.
My fury boils. With him. With DeMalo. With the whole gawdamn world. Fury I’m beset by doubt an weakness. Reduced to a frightened girl. Me. The Angel of Death.
Take off that gear, I says. I hate you in it, I hate it, d’you hear?
I attack his Tonton robe. Start yankin at it. But it tangles in his weapons belt, so I pull that off an dump it. Jack stands there, not helpin, not hinderin. I drag off the robe, grab a fistful of shirt an walk him backwards, fast, till he hits the tree trunk. I hate it, gawdamnmit, I says.
Then I kiss him. An I kiss him. An I kiss him.
I’ll burn DeMalo from me in the fire between us. I’ll stoke the flames high with my lies an secrets. Feed ’em with my weakness an my fears. I’ll lay waste to myself in the heat of Jack’s body. Melt the flesh from my bones. Blaze my bones to ash.
A breath of night air stirs the haze of my mind. He ain’t kissin me back. He ain’t touchin me. He jest stands, not movin. His shirt hangs open. Did I do that? I don’t recall. I press closer, ever closer. My fevered hands roam him. Reckless. Hell-bent.
Uh-uh. He grabs ’em. Firmly. Stop right there, he says.
I’m dazed. Halfways to scorched, but nowhere near burnt. Why? I says. What’s wrong? You want me, you know you do.
He makes a strange noise. A strangled-at-birth kinda laugh. He’s all rumpled an ruffled an hot silver eyes. He takes a deep breath. Boy, he mutters, this is a first fer me.
We both know that ain’t true, I says. I go fer his lips agin, but he steps back. Puts space an air an coolness between us. What’s the matter? I says. Why ain’t you kissin me?
Becuz you ain’t kissin me, he says. Right now, all you want is a warm body. Mine jest happens to be the closest one. I’d say the state yer in, pretty much anybody’d do.
I bristle, shake free of his hold. How dare you? I glare. What the hell’re you talkin about?
He smiles his quirk of a smile. An cue righteous indignation, he says. Never bullshit a bullshitter. I know this one, Saba. I bin there, I done it. He shakes his head, rueful. You dish it out, eventually, somewhere down the road, somebody dishes out the same to you. I jest discovered I don’t much care fer the taste. Ain’t that how it goes. Measure fer measure.
Spare me the sermon, I says. When did you git so gawdamnn virtuous?
He swipes a gentle finger down my cheek. I dunno, he says. The moment I seen yer face?
That takes the wind from my sails. I stare at his chest. The marks an the scars. From shoulder to hip, three thick puckered lines. The rake of a hellwurm’s claws. The red risin sun inked over his heart, the blood tattoo of the Tonton. The same as DeMalo’s. DeMalo agin. Always, always DeMalo. So. There won’t be no oblivion fer me.
Tell me what happened today. Jack’s voice is quiet. Determined.
Fer the first time, I notice what he’s done. He’s made a bower at one end of the platform, with branches of fir to soften the floor. Rainbow shimmer discs hang all around. As they turn an swing, they play in the moonbeams. There’s a cold roast fowl, bread an a bottle.
He went to a lot of trouble. It’s beautiful. Special. It makes my heart hurt. I hug myself tight to stop it from weepin. I see you bin thievin agin, I says. Whatever happened to virtue?
Overrated, he says.
I’m sorry, I says. My timin always did stink. Especially when it comes to you.
I cain’t argue with that, he says. Let’s eat. We’ll talk.
Fate had nodded his way. Shown him the dead crow. He’d instantly known what to do. It hadn’t been dead long. He tucked it inside his shirt and went in search of Nero.
The mosstails had left a trail of broken branches in their flight. He followed it to the killsite. Nero was there. Gorging himself on the carcass of a tiny mossjack. Tracker was nowhere in sight. It looked like he’d made a quick kill for his friend and gone after a bigger beast for himself. He’d done such things before.
He couldn’t let Nero know who was taking him. His scent shouldn’t give him away. Crows had a weak sense of smell and Nero’s beak was deep in a heaven of blood and flesh. Still, he’d better make sure of it. He’d already slipped out of his coat. Now he silently scooped handfuls of rotting forest floor into it. Crows always know a face though. He wrapped his sheema around his head.
He’d only get one chance. He waited among the trees for the perfect moment. As Nero burrowed deeper into the guts, his greed was greater than his caution.
He edged closer. Closer. Close enough. He threw the coat over Nero. Then he grabbed him and hurried away.
In fact, I talk. Jack eats. An he drinks. An he listens. We sit cradled in the bed of fir boughs an I tell him how it all went aginst us. About Lugh’s brush with death. The fog that meant Ash couldn’t warn us in time. How the convoy was on top of us before we knew it. That I tried to stop the blast an failed. I talk of the slaves an the beasts. The Stewards an the Tonton. I cain’t speak of the unspeakable. The noise an the smells an the nightmare realness of the death we dealt them. I tell him it was dreadful an leave it at that. Then it’s Creed wounded, the curious joy of findin Mercy, an Creed’s challenge. I don’t tell the untellable. DeMalo. The blood moon.
Jack don’t say much. The odd question an once or twice, he nods. I can tell he’s thinkin hard.
We did wonder why they built that bridge, he says. But a settlement party—slaves too—headed to the Raze. What do they want with a wasteland like that? What’s DeMalo up to? You can bet he’s got a plan. We need to find out what it is.
I want Jack to know that DeMalo was there today. But I cain’t tell him straight. I might give somethin away, in my tone or my eyes or my face. So I says, There was two big dogs with the Tonton today. Creed called ’em ghosthounds.
Jack sits up straight, his eyes sparkin. That means DeMalo was there, he says. Them dogs never leave his side. He got ’em after Resurrection. Guess he don’t feel too safe. Did you see him? Tell me he didn’t spot you.
We was too far away, I says. There was smoke an noise an confusion … no, he couldn’t of. I sure didn’t see him.
Outright lies. Half-truths. Evasions. Each time I open my mouth.
DeMalo bein there means that convoy was definitely somethin special, says Jack. Otherwise, he would of left it to his Tonton grunts like usual.
That’s what Mercy said, I says.
Mercy, he says. Yeah. You can bet slaves notice things nobody else does. We gotta find out everythin she knows. Saba, d’you hear? You need to talk to Mercy.
Yeah, I says
, Mercy, of course. I’m only half-listenin. Starin at a shimmer disc that hangs low beside me. At the play of moonlight as I spin it. Now I look at Jack straight. We cain’t win this, I says. We’re way outnumbered.
He frowns. That’s old news, he says. We knew that from the off.
But now I know what that means, I says. What it looks like an feels like. We got six fighters, Jack, that’s all. Emmi’s a dead weight an now we got Mercy too. Tommo an Creed only jest escaped. Lugh nearly fell to his death. If we’d lost them, we’d be finished, an fer what?
It was our first op, he says. We learn an move on. We git better. Smarter. Yer talkin like we didn’t win the action. We did.
They’ll be rebuildin that bridge already, I says.
So we hit ’em agin, somewhere else, right away, he says. It’s the whole idea, you know that. We ain’t many, but we can move fast. We make quick hits. Unpredictable. Time an agin.
Today was a waste of our effort, I says. An our firepower an our nerve. We ain’t gonna win by killin people. Death only leads to more death.
Today will of shook DeMalo, he says. Another few hits like this one, he’ll be scramblin to cover hisself. His losses mount up, he starts to look weak, people lose confidence in him. A few more start to bleed to our side—
That game’s way too long, I says.
We need to step it up, he says. We’ll hit the Tonton next. That’ll hurt him the most. I got a plan to take out two checkpoints on the same night. Opposite ends of New Eden.
I’m tellin you, this whole idea’s wrong.
It’s right an you know it, he says. It’s about who owns the future. One man or everyone. DeMalo or the people of New Eden. Fine, good, heal the earth, who wouldn’t want that? Come together fer a common cause. Work together fer the common good fer a change, instead of each person guardin their own little patch. But as free people in charge of their own destiny. Not with the gun of a tyrant at their backs.
New Eden’s too small, I says. There ain’t that many places we can hide. He’ll track us down before long.
