‘You mean the less I can disclose to them under torture, the better,’ Gapp corrected him.
‘Now you’re getting it.’
Gapp sat silently, observing a few hens stalking around near the mouth of the cave. One of them was drinking from a bowl on the ground. It contained a cloudy brown fluid with a partial layer of pale scum on top. It reminded Gapp of what his mother’s fish pond had looked like when they had found the bloated carcass of a sheep in it one day.
As the bird tilted its head back to swallow, it kept one eye firmly upon the humans that watched it.
‘So what do we do now?’ Gapp sighed, none the wiser, as usual. ‘Wait here for Finwald or go meet the Vetters?’
‘As I said, Plan A or Plan B. I still haven’t decided yet.’
‘Well, let’s start with Plan A then,’ Gapp persisted. ‘Meeting Englarielle.’
‘That’s Plan B.’
‘Plan B! What d’you mean, Plan bloody B?’
‘Those Vetters, they’re just convenient backup in case I need a strong force in the Maw. It might well be that there’s nothing active in there, nothing of any danger to us, in which case of course I – we – could go there alone and complete the job in secrecy. On the other hand, there may be considerable danger there – as I suspect there will be – and in that case we’ll need every bodyguard we can get hold of.’
He paused, then continued, ‘But if we can only find Finwald, it’ll all be so much simpler.’
Gapp did not know which stunned him more, the callousness of the man or his deviousness. To drag the Pride of Cyne-Tregva, fifty trusting faithful Vetters and their steeds through the worst stretches of Fron-Wudu simply to serve as a contingency plan . . . Methuselech was clearly not the same companion who had travelled with them from Nordwas, of that Gapp was now certain beyond doubt.
‘And if we do find Finwald?’ he enquired. ‘What of the Vetterym then?’
‘Then they can go home, of course,’ Methuselech replied, puzzled at the question.
‘Right, just like that.’
At this, had Methuselech been wearing spectacles, he would no doubt have peered over the top of them at the boy. ‘Would you prefer, simply to justify their long journey, that they got killed in the Maw? This may turn into a conflict to change the whole world, Radnar, make no mistake about that. And in war people get used.’
Of course Gapp did understand about using people in war. He was after all the esquire to a Peladane. But that seemed like such a long time ago, and he at least was different now.
‘In any case,’ Methuselech went on, ‘there’s not much we can do about it at the moment. Englarielle will still be travelling through the forest, and I can’t see him getting to the Last Shore for a while yet. Maybe in a few days. And Nibulus and the rest should take even longer. Whichever way, boy, it looks like we’re here for the duration.’
‘What about Plan A, then?’
‘Stall for time, wait until Finwald comes, finish the mission. If we can’t wait here any longer, I’ll try and leave a message for Nibulus here with the chieftain, and we’ll go on and find the Vetters.’
‘You’ve met the chief then, have you?’
‘Not yet. Those wire-faces wouldn’t let me see him. Wouldn’t let me near their Majestic Head, so they call him. But I’ve been promised an audience this evening. I’ve got a special deal I need to talk with him about, something I’m sure he’ll find very interesting indeed.’
Not more deals! Gapp thought in vexation.
‘But that can wait for the moment,’ Methuselech said, rising stiffly to his feet at last. ‘I’ll tell you about it once we get to the tavern. Come on, let’s eat.’
Leaving Hwald and Finan to occupy themselves in the bathhouse, Gapp, with Shlepp at his side, followed his leader to the tavern. He did not question Methuselech; he knew better than to try to get straight answers from him, so he contented himself with the thought that they were at least going to an inn and whatever comforts that promised.
The new Methuselech, however, cared nothing for such earthly pleasures. He strode on, silent with his thoughts, plans and strategies.
Ah, decisions, decisions! If only he knew where Finwald was now. Could he really risk wasting time here, waiting or hoping for him to come along, when for all he knew he might already be on Melhus Island by now? After all, there was no guarantee he would be coming to Wrythe at all. That damn priest seemed to know so many secrets; perhaps he knew about the ice bridge over the Jagt Straits?
Yes, maybe it would be better to forget about settling old scores and just accomplish what he had been yearning to do for over five hundred years.
On the other hand, if he could get hold of that sword, by all that was unholy, he would die a happy man!
Methuselech had still not forgotten or forgiven the Peladane and his rabble. Bitterly he recalled clawing his way out of the Valley of Sluagh only to find that they had abandoned him. Yet it was nothing as petty as human revenge that burnt in his soul; there was a far greater wrong than theirs that needed to be righted.
Gapp did not have a great deal of experience of alehouses, or indeed anything that might fall into the broad category of nightlife. It was not that youths in Wyda-Aescaland were forbidden to drink; on the contrary, in Nordwas it was common to see packs of gawky, gangling little pillocks making even greater fools of themselves in the local taverns than they did in their sobriety. No, it was just that he was – or had been – the esquire to an important Peladane, and thus his weekends were always the same. Whereas his peers, after an exciting afternoon’s stone-skimming, could be found pretending to enjoy beer and making derogatory comments about the local girls (until some huge-buttocked belle happened to flash one of them a knowing smile, causing him to spend the rest of the evening in a hopeless, puppy-eyed stupor, until finally getting the elbow and sobbing in a dark alley wiping bile from his acne-encrusted chin), Gapp would be confined to Wintus Hall serving mead to that drunken oaf Nibulus and his gaggle of loud, slobbering friends. And then mopping up their mess the following morning.
So there was, then, more than a flicker of curiosity and anticipation at the prospect of a night out in Wrythe. It provoked an incongruous juxtaposition of images. First, he pictured the throng at Wintus Hall, the Peladanes singing, quaffing, fighting and wenching, faces smeared with pork fat and red with wine and laughter and heat from the roaring hearth. Silverbacks, one and all. Then he pictured the silent wall of grey, blank faces standing outside in the fog the previous night. Try as he might, he just could not put the two images together.
This should be interesting, he thought.
As it transpired, here they did not have taverns in the traditional sense. No ale, food, music or fire. The good folk of Wrythe’s idea of a night out was apparently to crawl down into one of the communal mushroom cellars and lick lichen off the walls. There was little light down there except for a few candles and a slight purple aura surrounding the Oghain who had been licking all day, and hardly any sound save the constant rasp of tongue upon brick and the occasional moan when some lucky reveller came across a particularly hallucinogenic patch of fungus or some other cryptogamous spore that might temporarily pique their senses.
In one corner, several punters, having apparently gorged themselves to satisfaction already, were now settling down to one of Wrythe’s more popular pastimes: mushroom racing. This involved a considerable degree of concentration and unearthly self-restraint. Each player would select one of the mushrooms that sprouted from the gaps between the flagstones and then keep a careful eye on it – all night. Whoever had chosen the mushroom that grew the tallest by sunrise was the lucky winner.
Judging by the behaviour of his companion these two weeks past, it would not have surprised Gapp one bit if Methuselech had joined in with those revelries and felt quite at home there. But Gapp himself maintained a very bad feeling about this whole scene.
As if reading his thoughts, the older man said by way of reassurance, ‘They sell
beer here, too. Just ask one of the cellar maids.’
Sure enough, some time after they had descended the slick flight of steps that led in from the street, a servant woman approached the two men. The Oga placed an earthenware bowl firmly in Gapp’s palms, then folded his hands around it. Her fingers felt like frozen blindworms, and it was all Gapp could do to stop himself shuddering at their touch, so that he almost lost his grip on the bowl.
Steady, Radnar, he scolded himself. Don’t do anything to offend them; I’m sure they mean well.
But it only took one glance into the bowl to remind him that they probably did not.
‘Isn’t this the same stuff we saw the hens drinking earlier?’ he asked.
‘Oh indeed.’ Methuselech beamed. ‘The finest brew in the north. Mmm, haven’t tasted this since I was nine!’ He took a bowl for himself and drained it in one go.
Gapp regarded his own with apprehension. He noticed several insects crawling around the rim of the bowl, and when one had the misfortune to fall in, its death throes disturbed the contents, causing a plume of sediment to rise from the depths that gave off a sweet, frowsty odour reminiscent of Traders’ Mild, a cheap brew one could purchase at Nordwas’s less reputable hostelries.
‘What’s it called?’ he asked, stalling for time. The Oga guessed his meaning and, smiling shyly, replied in a croaking whisper, ‘Leuccra-ho’i.’
Gapp looked at her blankly. Methuselech translated: ‘Hop juice.’
For the next hour the two travellers squatted on the floor among their whispering or groaning hosts. Methuselech seemed content to drink bowls of hop juice and just stare about himself with a kind of misty-eyed fondness in those sunken eyes of his. Gapp, however, noted with consternation a soft patter of liquid on the flagstones soon after each draught his companion consumed. It seemed almost as though Methuselech’s body was leaking.
Eventually, Gapp could stand it no longer. ‘Meth,’ he began, trying not to sound too urgent, ‘couldn’t we just proceed to Plan B?’
Xilvafloese surreptitiously wrung the hop juice from the seat of his pants and gave Gapp a questioning look. ‘I thought you wanted to be reunited with your friends?’
‘Well, yes,’ Gapp replied, ‘but I can’t really imagine that’s going to happen now. Not in the next week or so, anyway. And I hope – no, I fervently pray – we don’t have to wait even that long; this place is like some kind of purgatory.’
In truth, though he did indeed hold out little hope of ever seeing their old companions again, and despite his yearning to be away from Wrythe, the real reason he wanted to leave now was Methuselech. He trusted him even less than he did the Oghain and craved the security and companionship of the Vetters. Although he had not shared their acquaintance for long, he trusted them, and in this part of the world they were probably the most normal individuals one could find.
So much for humans, he reflected bitterly.
But Methuselech was not ready to leave just yet. ‘We’ll see how it goes tonight with the chief. The meeting I told you about earlier—’
‘Your “special deal”,’ Gapp interrupted sulkily.
‘Yes. It might buy us a lot of time and, if we’re lucky, without having to put any money up front.’
‘Go on then, what is it?’
‘Marmennil scale,’ replied Methuselech with a grimace of satisfaction.
Gapp stared blankly before him at one of the Ogha, whose glistening blue tongue was carefully scooping out the feculent dregs of a bowl of hop juice in the same way a doctor might swab the contents of an ulcer.
‘Mar-what?’ he asked distractedly.
Methuselech rolled his eyes. ‘Marmennil scale, boy. The scale of a Marmennil. Tougher than iron but three times lighter, and worth about fifty times its weight in gold. Used to make armour. Merchants will cross entire continents to acquire it. I’ve asked for four sacks, about as much as two Paranduzes could be expected to carry. In other words, a perfect cover story, one which should allay their suspicions and buy us time. It could take them weeks to gather that quantity of the stuff. Clever, eh?’
Again that feeling of irritation, and the weariness that went with it, surfaced in Gapp. Marmennils? What the flipp are Marmennils? He just never stopped, that Xilvafloese, springing bizarre facts upon him out of the blue, talking of matters of which the boy could have no knowledge and then not explaining how he knew.
‘What exactly is a Marmennil, then? Some kind of fish?’
Methuselech coughed with mirth, an ugly, dry sound. ‘You really are a stranger to these parts, aren’t you?’ he sneered.
‘Well, yes actually,’ Gapp protested, just as you’re supposed to be too.
‘No, not fish, not exactly,’ the other explained. ‘Rather Selkind, the Children of the Waves, a marvel the length of the Far North coast but seldom seen elsewhere. Even here, though, where they are at their most abundant, it is the luckiest of fishermen or whalers that have ever caught one.’
‘Yes, so what are the chances the Og-people have any of their scales to sell?’
‘Next to none, I’d imagine.’ Methuselech smiled smugly. ‘It’ll take them a long time to gather my order. As I said, that’s the perfect excuse to hang around here without actually buying anything more.’
Gapp eyed him darkly. For someone who was supposed to come from the southern deserts, Methuselech seemed to know an awful lot about the Far North. But as ever he could do nothing but follow the other man’s lead, allow himself to be dragged behind the magnetic pull of this most northerly of men.
It was time now for them to meet the Majestic Head and face whatever that encounter might bring. Gapp called Shlepp to his side, took a deep breath and followed his leader out of the mushroom cellar.
It was beginning to get dark already. As they walked, the young Aescal studied the town about him and found himself memorizing landmarks, noting streets. He seemed to be mapping the layout of this place in his head, almost as if he were expecting to have to flee from it at any minute. He already had a profound sense of foreboding about what might happen in the chief’s hall and, more disturbingly, a sense of powerlessness to stop it. That feeling, so recently awakened in him of being master of his own destiny – ah! Under the cold gleam of the setting sun it had withered like mist. This was the Far North, a sub-arctic wilderness set wholly apart from the rest of the world, and Fate governed it entirely.
They returned first to the karst tower to fetch Hwald and Finan. Both creatures were sulky at having to leave the baths, and pointedly took their time getting dressed in their new pelts. When they were done, however, they picked up their moonspears and followed the two men and the forest hound out into the chill of the evening. There was nobody about and, as the small company made their way up the narrow lane towards the chief’s hall, an uneasy feeling once again began to steal into their minds.
‘Shlepp, what is it, boy?’ Gapp called out. The dog had suddenly veered to the left, trotting, ears erect, up to a large timber bunker to one side of a house. ‘Just be a second,’ he said, and went over to fetch him. ‘What’s the matter, Shlepp?’ he asked. The dog’s head cocked this way and that, and when Gapp laid a hand on the animal’s side, he could feel the tension and the trembling through his whole body. He glanced ahead at Methuselech, who had stopped and was waiting impatiently. Gapp was just about to try and haul the dog away when he heard a sound from within the bunker.
A faint thudding and, almost beyond the range of his hearing, a tiny muffled voice. It was croaky and fey, and reminded him of the horrid little voices when he was trapped in the mines. An icy tremor ran through his body, but he managed to stifle it. Instead, he gently forced Shlepp’s head away from the little gap he was staring into, and himself peered inside.
It was completely dark in there, but as he strained his eye to see, there came from the gloom a long, strangely echoing whisper, a sound somewhere between a human voice and the gases escaping from a corpse. His eye widened as he noticed a large spider staring stra
ight back at him. It seemed to snicker, winked at him with four of its eyes, then sealed up the peephole with gauze.
The sound of heavy, flapping feet snapped the boy’s head around, to see two wire-faces approaching. They immediately placed themselves between him and the bunker. They did not move, did not make a sound, but the menace of their garrottes was unmistakable.
‘Come on, Shlepp,’ Gapp whispered. ‘Time to go.’
They rejoined the others, calmly but swiftly, and continued down the street. Gapp glanced behind and was relieved to see the wire-faces were not following. They still stood there, two contorted figures in bloodied aprons, their cheesewires ready in knotted claws.
He hissed into Methuselech’s ear, ‘You really want to stay here for several more weeks?!’
Methuselech, however, did not appear at all troubled. ‘They’re probably just the local militia,’ he suggested, ‘or maybe the royal guard. Don’t fret; the same thing happened to me earlier today when I was shooed away.’
‘From a timber bunker? What d’you think they keep in those things? It sounded like there was someone in that one back there.’
‘Not a bunker, no; I was stopped from getting too near a cabbage patch. There are clearly some places in this town they don’t want us to get close to. Best just respect their wishes. I wouldn’t fancy getting into a fight with them.’
A Fire in the North Page 13
