Bronze Summer n-2

by Stephen Baxter

  ‘What way?’

  ‘Like I didn’t fit. Our world here, the Northland way — it’s fine, and it works, but it is rigid. It’s a world where you are expected to find deep spiritual joy mucking out a canal.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘You know what I did. I gave up my chance of ever becoming a father, for the sake of a greater ambition. And it was all the fault of Prokyid the Second, the nearest to a king we ever had here in Etxelur, about a thousand years ago. Did you know that? He did just what all these other petty kings and princes do on the Continent — strutting and posing, picking fights with others of his kind, starving his people to wage war on others. And for a generation the important stuff, the engineering, was neglected. When he was toppled, the Annids decreed that no man could ever again join their number, for generally it’s men who cause trouble of that sort. And so now-’

  ‘It’s women only, or eunuchs.’

  He shrugged. ‘I made my choice years ago. It’s as if a different person made it for me. I jumped off a cliff. I had no way back, and I have none now.’ He glanced at the children playing on the bank. ‘Like you, I wanted more.’

  ‘And was it worth it?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I got what I wanted, which was to see how Northland works from the inside. But that’s what worries me now. Northland is ponderous and slow-moving — frankly, the Houses are usually too busy infighting to look outside. And yet there are new things in this world. Things that need to be looked at. An arrowhead that can pierce bronze. The nestspills who come trickling into our country from their failing drought-ridden farms-’

  ‘I’ve seen some of them.’

  ‘In the east people are starving, dying, marching. Ancient kingdoms are collapsing. Even the Hatti are in trouble. The world is changing. And if it’s to survive Northland must change too. Change and adapt.’

  ‘How? You just said the Houses are too busy fighting each other.’

  ‘But the Houses you know about aren’t all there is.’

  ‘Now I really don’t follow you,’ she grumbled, pecking at another patch of hardened canal mud. ‘What other House is there?’

  He dug under his shirt and pulled out an amulet — a crow’s foot, dried and suspended from a loop of leather.

  She stared.

  ‘Keep digging,’ he murmured.

  She bent over her spade. ‘I never heard of a House of the Crow. Besides, you’re an Owl. You sacrificed your balls to become one! How can you be in two Houses at once?’

  ‘It just evolved that way… Milaqa, like most things in Northland, the House of the Crow is very old. Somebody far back in our history realised that we have this basic problem of getting stuck in our ways. And that every so often the world changes, something new happens, and we have to be able to cope with it. So the Crows emerged. Like the other Houses, you can only join if you’re invited. And you’re only invited if you have the right kind of mind.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘The kind that doesn’t fit anywhere else. The whole point of the Crows is to be the ones who deal with the new, the unexpected, the challenging.’

  She felt her heart beat faster. ‘The exciting.’

  ‘The dangerous,’ he warned. ‘Look, Milaqa, I’m just offering this to you as a way forward. I already showed you something unexpected. Something strange.’

  ‘You mean the arrowhead.’ She pulled it out from under her tunic, as he had his crow’s foot.

  ‘What have you done about it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said slowly. ‘I…’ She had felt reluctant to face the fact that her mother must have been murdered. Somehow asking questions about it would make her seem even more dead. It was easier to dive into the clamour of the Scambles and forget everything.

  ‘I know it’s complicated,’ Teel said. ‘But that arrowhead isn’t just lethal, it’s new. Maybe if you can find out where it came from, what’s different about it-’

  ‘Nice pendant.’ Ximm was only a pace behind them. Teel hastily tucked away his crow’s foot. Ximm reached out to cradle the arrow in his palm. ‘I know a bit about iron.’ He frowned. ‘An arrowhead? Funny sort of ornament.’

  Milaqa took a breath. ‘It’s not just an ornament. This works. It’s been fired.’

  ‘You saw that, did you?’

  She stayed silent, hoping she wouldn’t have to lie.

  Ximm turned. ‘Here, Voro, take a look at this.’

  Voro straightened up from the mud and strode over. ‘Iron?’

  ‘Not just iron. Hard and true iron, good enough for the bow, according to the lady here.’ He tapped the head on the shaft of his shovel. ‘How come? Iron falls from the sky, doesn’t it? No use for anything but showing off,’ and he cackled.

  ‘I heard rumours,’ Voro said. ‘About the Hatti. You know how it is — we send them potato and maize mash, and tin for their bronze. We get iron goods back from them in exchange, among other stuff, and so we know something of their techniques. I heard they have a way of working iron that makes it harder. Better than bronze, so they say. I may be meeting some Hatti myself. Some of their high-ups are coming to the Giving in midsummer. I’m supposed to go with Bren to meet them in Gaira and escort them here.’

  Teel pulled Milaqa away, and murmured, ‘Maybe this is your way forward.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Follow the thread, Milaqa. If you can find out where this arrowhead was made and how it got to Northland, maybe you can find out who pulled the bowstring. If there’s some connection with the Hatti-’

  ‘I don’t know any Hatti. I don’t know anything about them.’

  ‘What, you don’t bump into any in the Scambles? Then it’s time you found out, isn’t it?’

  12

  The midsummer Giving at Etxelur was, Qirum had learned, a custom more revered than all the ceremonies of Egypt, more ancient than the rites of vanished Sumer and Akkad. And as the solstice approached people travelled from across half the planet to attend the Giving, like a great drawing-in of breath. Now Qirum was going to Northland for the first time, he was going to a Giving. And he would have a queen of the Hatti at his side.

  The long journey began as they pushed off from Troy’s long gritty beach. The rowers dragged on their oars under Praxo’s gruff leadership, and Qirum worked his steering oar as they navigated the treacherous currents of the strait.

  Kilushepa was fascinated by Qirum’s ship. She paced the length of it, picking her way between the eight rowers’ sweating torsos and the bales of food, water, wet-weather clothes, folded sails, bailing buckets, bundles of weapons and other junk that crammed the narrow hull. Her balance was good, as the ship pitched and creaked in the offshore swell.

  ‘Twelve paces long.’

  ‘About that.’ Qirum, sitting at his position in the high stern, was unfolding the periplus for this stretch of coast. He was amused by the way the rowers were distracted by Kilushepa’s slim figure brushing past them, and by Praxo’s clenched, furious expression under his salt-stained felt cap.

  She sat down at the prow, running her fingers along the hull beams. ‘Your paintwork is flaking.’

  He laughed. ‘Probably. We never were the smartest ship on any of the oceans. But it’s pitch, not paint.’

  Praxo growled, ‘Smart or not, she’s the fastest and most feared of all — right, lads?’

  The only answer he got was a couple of uninterested grunts. Most of these rowers had been signed on in the dingy taverns of Troy, and most looked as if all they wanted was to work off last night’s mead or wine or beer. At least they seemed to be an experienced bunch, however; they could handle their oars, and none of them was throwing up as the sea swelled under them.

  ‘Oak,’ Kilushepa said now. ‘These planks are of oak, are they not?’ She picked at the withies that bound the planks, the caulking. ‘And these lengths that bind them?’

  ‘Yew. And then it’s all caulked with moss, beeswax and animal fat. The hull is sealed to keep out the water.’

 
‘You know, we Hatti generally don’t have much time for ships. Even though we rely on the fleets that bring us our grain from Egypt. Everything this ship is made of was once alive, wasn’t it? The wood, the wax, the moss, the leather — all these bits of trees and plants and animals, sliced up and stitched together. The living stuff of the land moulded to defy the sea. It’s wonderful when you think about it.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes! As if the ship is itself alive, a creature bounding across the waves.’

  ‘Praxo says she has a mind of her own, that’s for sure.’

  His only response from Praxo was a scowl.

  They were putting out from the land now. Troy diminished to a shabby blur on the eastern horizon, and a breeze was picking up, fresh with salt. Sitting at the prow, Kilushepa turned and looked out to the open sea, breathing deep. She was remarkably composed, Qirum thought, not for the first time, considering her circumstances — considering she had been the booty of her own people’s army so recently, and now here she was alone on the ocean with ten violent, lusty men.

  ‘So we sail for Northland,’ Kilushepa called back. ‘Will we be out of sight of the land altogether? How remarkable that would be — the world reduced to an abstraction of sea and sky.’

  ‘Only for brief stretches,’ Qirum replied. ‘We’ll do some island-hopping before we get to the Greek mainland. Basically we’re following the coastline.’ He held up his periplus, a linen scroll. ‘From Gaira, we’ll work our way up the river valleys and overland to get to Northland.’

  ‘Would you get lost, out of sight of land?’

  Praxo hawked and spat over the side, a green gobbet on the grey-black water. ‘ He would. There are clever sorts who have tricks to find their way around on the open water. Such as to see how high the sun rises at noon, and from that you can work out how far north or south you are.’

  She frowned. ‘What sort of divination is that? Sounds like the Greeks to me. Always full of tricks, the Greeks, clever-clever, like clever children. What is that scroll, Qirum? A map, is it?’

  He unrolled the periplus carefully, passing the fragile fabric from one spindle to the other, holding it up so she could see the writing, the little sketches. ‘This is my periplus. A guide to the coast. It cost me half my fortune when I bought it from an old seaman down on his luck. And he bought it in turn from somebody else, long ago. I’ve been adding to it since. See, the three different writing hands?’

  She came back down the boat to see. ‘I can’t read your script. But yes, I see the differences. And this faded writing must be the oldest.’

  ‘It’s a kind of description of the coast. Of landmarks, dangers like shoals and shallows — and dangers of a human kind. You see, there are little sketches to help you understand. Good ports, safe places to beach, the prevailing winds. Look at this.’ He ravelled the scroll back. ‘Here is an old description of how it was to come upon Troy, before the Greeks burned the place. A sketch that shows how it might have looked from the sea.’

  She studied the picture solemnly. ‘You have crossed it through.’

  ‘I hadn’t the heart to erase it.’

  ‘This little scroll is shared wisdom. You treasure it, don’t you? A sailor would have to be desperate indeed to sell such a thing. How would you feel if you had to part with it?’

  ‘I hope I never have to.’

  Her gaze was steady. ‘You hope to have a son, don’t you? A family. You don’t want to be doing this all your life, fighting all day, whoring and drinking all night… You want a legacy. A son to have your periplus, when you’re done with the sea.’

  Praxo, at his oar, was staring at the two of them.

  Qirum felt unaccountably embarrassed. ‘That’s all for the future.’

  ‘You aren’t wrong to dream,’ she said, her voice like a rustle of linen. ‘I saw that in you when I met you.’

  Praxo guffawed. ‘And did you see his father the rapist?’

  Qirum threw a water jug at him. He ducked, it hit the man behind him, and Praxo laughed.

  By mid-morning they had picked up a breeze blowing offshore. Under Praxo’s brisk instructions the men shipped their oars, fixed the mast to its socket, and unfolded the leather sail. Soon the sail billowed out, and they were driven east with a creak of wood and leather. This was another new experience for Kilushepa. As the rowers stretched and took food and water, she sat in the prow, letting the wind ruffle hair that was growing back after its brutal shaving by the Hatti soldiers.

  Praxo came to sit beside Qirum in the stern. They shared a leather flask of wine mixed with water. ‘This is a stupid plan,’ Praxo said. ‘To meet up with Hatti traders and officials in Northland?’

  ‘She sent letters to arrange it.’

  ‘But the Hatti threw the woman out, remember! Why will they accept her now?’

  Qirum shrugged. ‘She says it will work.’ Hattusa itself was a big place, Kilushepa had said, and the reach of the Hatti kings stretched much further. Traders out on the edge of the world might not even know Kilushepa’s name, let alone know of the intrigues in court that had deposed her. If she simply claimed to be back in power, even if they suspected her, how could they prove her wrong?

  ‘Get rid of her,’ Praxo said bluntly. ‘I mean it. She’s trouble. She’s getting into your head.’

  ‘We wouldn’t even be making this voyage if not for her,’ Qirum said. ‘At least she has a plan. Face it — before we met her we were sailing in circles, going nowhere, you and I. She’s given me a direction, Praxo.’

  ‘She’s given you a hard-on, that’s all. Well, that’s my advice, and you can take it or ignore it, I’m past caring. Now I’m going to get some sleep before the wind dies.’ He handed Qirum the wine flask and slumped down with arms folded over his belly, his old felt cap pulled down over his eyes.

  If Kilushepa had heard any of this conversation, she showed no sign of it.

  13

  In another boat, crossing another ocean, it was Caxa who was the first to glimpse Kirike’s Land.

  ‘Smoke!’ she cried.

  Tibo, buried in a heap of furs, thought he was dreaming. ‘Hmm? What?’

  The Jaguar girl nudged his ribs.

  They were side by side in the stern of the boat, like two fat seals in their layers of furs, under a sky that was deep blue but streaked with pink cloud to the east, the sign of the coming dawn. There was the usual morning stink of greasy human flesh, farts, fish guts, and the stale brine of the bilge water. Around them the men were waking, more bundles of fur from which peered human faces, thick with beards and smeared with fat to keep out the night cold. On Caxa’s other side the priest Xivu lay curled up, still asleep. Caxa was the only female in the boat, and these men had been away from home for a long time; Deri had made sure that whenever they slept the girl was walled in by Xivu on one side, Tibo on the other.

  Tibo was falling asleep again. She nudged him. ‘Smoke. Smoke!’

  He struggled to sit up. ‘No. Not smoke.’ In the course of the long voyage he had been trying to teach her the rudiments of the Etxelur tongue. She was a slow learner, or an incurious one. ‘We didn’t light the boat’s fire last night, remember? It was raining.’ Another night of salted fish, wet furs and cold. ‘There can’t be any smoke. Do you mean “clouds”?’

  ‘Not clouds.’ This time the nudge was hard enough to hurt, despite the thickness of the furs. ‘Know clouds, know smoke. Smoke!’ She thrust out an arm and pointed beyond the boat’s prow.

  He peered to see in the dim light. And he made out a black column that rose up from the north-east horizon, billowing, spreading into a layer at the top, flat and tenuous. He thought he saw a flicker of light in the column — like lightning, like a storm.

  The men saw it; they stirred and muttered. Deri was already awake, sitting up, one hand loosely holding a rope rowlock. He was watching the smoke too.

  ‘What is it, father?’

  ‘Home. That’s Kirike’s Land. We’re due to come on it today, tomorr
ow at latest.’

  ‘And what’s that smoke? Fires?’

  ‘Not that. A different kind of smoke. I saw it once before, years ago — before you were born. It might mean nothing. And, see the way it’s climbing straight up? Not a breath of wind. No point unfurling the sail this morning. Come on, lads, time to get moving, this boat won’t row itself.’

  The men, seven of them plus Tibo and Deri, stirred, grumbling. The boat rocked gently as one after another knelt up to piss over the side, or to bare his arse and dump his soil. Deri got to work dragging up the sea anchor.

  And a noise like thunder came rumbling over the sea, from the north-east, from the direction of Kirike’s Land.

  ‘Told you,’ Caxa said, her thin face almost ghostly in the dawn light.

  They came upon Kirike’s Land after noon, approaching from the south. Snow-capped mountains and glaciers, bone-white, showed first above the horizon, and then the green of the lower lands, the meadows and birch woods. The men grew animated at the sight of home, and they pointed out landmarks to each other, massifs, cliffs and headlands.

  The southern coast was long and with few harbours, and as soon as Deri got his bearings he directed the crew to row west, towards the big bay called the Ice Giant’s Cupped Palm. There was a touch of breeze now, blessedly coming from the east, and the men gratefully hoisted their leather sail and let the little mother of the sky guide them home through these last stages. They passed through the usual fleet of fishing boats, and were greeted with hails and waves and obscene cries. One fast little boat raced ahead of them to the Cupped Palm, so a welcome would be made ready for them. Caxa stared out curiously as the island’s shore slid past — gaunt, rocky, yet with birch forest lapping down almost to the sea in some places, and the flanks of mountains beyond striped with ice. It was late spring. The winter always lay heavily on this land.

  And that smoke pillar towered over the island. When the wind shifted it brought a smell of ash and sulphur. Deri said it seemed to be coming from a mountain called the Hood, in the south of the island.