by Gayle Greeno
Stream ahead, and he squirreled up one of the maples, shifted from that into a long pin pine, and then another. Supreme faith and a harder scramble swung him from there into a beech that overhung the stream. Harder than it used to be, but he managed. Sat breathing a little heavier than he liked, straddling a branch, assessing his options as he unbuckled the belt from his waist, the one that wrapped round him twice, made people laugh. “Lost a lot of weight in my time,” he’d joke when people teased. “My poor wife, may she rest in peace, was a terrible cook.”
Wrapping the belt’s end around the branch, its length snugged under the buckle, he readied himself to slide down, unlaced his boots, and slung them round his neck. Just drop easy into the stream. Wouldn’t do now to sprain an ankle. Belt had to hold in place just long enough. Belike then he could twitch it free, bring it down to him. The leather burned his hands as he slid. Despite himself he winced as he sank knee-high into the water, icy cold on thin legs. Bedamn, winter coming fast, or was he so senile he’d forgotten how true cold stung and numbed?
He waded midstream for what felt like forever, slipping a few times, stone gashing a knee when he fell. Least the cold water kept the swelling and bleeding at bay. At last he reached the overhanging willow he remembered, pulled himself up its long, dangling shoots, and sat panting, shivering, massaging his blue-white toes, the pleached, puckered skin. Feeling returned eventually, always did, whether feeling to flesh or feeling to the heart, and he’d not let his heart feel the pain of the past for so long. Injustice, unfairness always turned him soft, vulnerable, when it should have hardened his heart. So the Fifty, his brother and cousin and all the rest, hadn’t paid all, and he’d inherited their outstanding debt—with interest, no doubt. Come due today without warning. Mayhap pay them back in their own coin? Too dangerous unless he could make it look like an accident. How many others trapped in the same straits as he? Mayhap it was safer to be open about it, admit what you were. Then, at least, if anything happened to you, they’d know it for murder—and why. Didn’t matter what edicts the Monitor and the High Conciliators set down. Dead was dead.
He jammed his boots back on, limping, slower now but still steady. Slower was fine since he’d gained a good lead. Those half-wit boys and their half-grown hounds couldn’t track a plow in a snowstorm if they followed its path! Dusk soon, although the woods were hazed, that strange not-quite dark that turned a mounded berry bush into a lowering bear. Too bad it wasn’t; a nice surprise for the boys if they’d managed to track him. Willed his heart to steady, ticked at himself for his false scare.
The sound of barking again, that sonorous baying that belled out of the hounds, bigger than they were, almost. Best move, double-time. Pick it up through the break in the elms over there, and on over hill and dale. And then he saw them, long, limber shapes running fast and furious, arrowing in on him. Not tracking hounds, but staghounds, their shoulders near as high as his waist, long, pointed muzzles, legs that devoured distance. They could lope forever and practically did sometimes, chasing elk or deer, running them down.
He ran anyway, refusing to give in. They’d stick to him like ticks wherever he chose to run, however long, could almost feel their breath, see the lolling tongues, the slashing teeth. Make friends with them? Douse them with pepper? Have to let them close in for that, and they seemed content to hang behind, drive him toward the gap in the trees. Until one drifted close, gave a nip at his heel, and he speeded up, frantic to regain his lead, sacrifice it on his terms. Fumbling with the pepper sack in his pocket, checking over his shoulder.
The ground disappeared beneath his feet, the woven vine net covered with moss, leaves, pine needles, grass sinking away under him, and he was falling, almost a swan dive, frantic to bring his hands forward to break his fall. Pit drop! The cunning little bastards had dug a pit drop—who would have thought they had the brains, the savvy to drive him ahead like this into a trap? The sharpened spikes pierced his body, and he hung, writhing, gut-speared and chest-speared, ground beyond the reach of dangling, lax fingers.
Two heads rose over the pit’s edge like full moons. “Thought’e was too canny by half, did Uncle Billy. Gullible old fool.”
“Aye, pity though. Nobody could sharpen a blade the way Uncle Billy could, even if’e were a Gleaner. That be a funny, I reckon. Gleaner should ha’ a sharp blade.”
“Yonk, you. Gleaners glean, sift the leftovers. That’s why we Reapers be better’n they.”
Jenret sat on the ground, cuffed at ankles and wrists, his right handcuff linked by a meter-long length of chain to his left ankle, while a similar chain connected his opposite hand and foot. The chains, in turn, passed under a wide leather strap belted around his middle from behind. Sighing, he drew his foot higher on his thigh to give his right hand more play, shook the dice, and tossed them.
“You win.” Sarrett threw two pinecones in his direction while Towbin grudgingly passed along three. Although both wore ankle shackles, their hands were free. If, Jenret observed bitterly to himself, you ignored the chains, it made for a jolly little scene, a touch of friendly gambling over lunch.
The chains proved utterly effective—if he wanted any hand freedom, he found himself with his feet in his lap. Choose to walk—forget about running—and he hunched over, slamming into any tree that hove into view. Variations on the theme of immobility were played when the Resonants moved camp, something they did with numbingly constant irregularity—sometimes twice a day, or once, or for three blessed days, not at all. Moves meant a blindfold or hood, hands behind back, leashed by a chain from the strap around his waist. Towbin and Sarrett received more lenient treatment on moving days, though they both insisted on blindfolds, more to make him feel less ill-treated than anything else.
The only other woman besides Sarrett in their nomadic group, Yulyn Biddlecomb appeared subject to no strictures, or at least no physical ones. Scrupulously neutral, she left Towbin to his own devices, but showed no camaraderie toward their Resonant captors. Whether she mindspoke Towbin he wasn’t sure, knew only that she rarely spoke aloud, and when she did, she conveyed brief apologies or explanations, all designed to cool his simmering temper. Even without her comments, the reason behind the constant camp moves was obvious: the Resonants showed caution in sequestering their hostages anywhere near loved ones, still hidden in the forest. Their nomadic movements also increased the difficulties any search parties would have locating them.
Once he’d thought he’d heard a woman’s voice other than Sarrett’s or Yulyn’s—Faertom’s mother Claudra, he was quite sure. Although he hadn’t glimpsed Baen or any of the other Thomas men, it wouldn’t surprise him if they’d joined Garvey’s rotating group of guards, the family seemingly as hostile to Jenret as they were to Faertom. Garvey’s scrutiny lately seemed destined to bore holes through him, as if he wanted to see inside Jenret, his usual phlegmatic personality giving way to a hectic intensity. Whatever shoe had dropped, Garvey seemed alert for the other to fall.
Giving up worrying about Garvey, Jenret anted four pinecones, tossed the three dice. Nine—triple three’s. A perfect match by Sarrett or Towbin would win his cones; a combination of nine—say a two, a six, and a one—would earn the thrower half Jenret’s bet. No match and Jenret won theirs. A stupid, petty game, and he played it relentlessly, bullying the others into playing.
To be honest, it afforded him a tenuous grip on sanity for the moment. Mayhap he should ask Garvey to join in, calm his nerves as well. He glowered at the dice, waiting for one or the other to scoop them up, rattle them for luck, shake, and toss. Even the muted clicking chipped at his nerves, likely to go stark raving mad if he didn’t win his freedom soon, return to Doyce, find out all was well! The Monitor had to be doing something to quell anxiety, didn’t he? Holding him hostage as surety against any harm befalling other Resonants or Normals was the slimmest thread of hope, didn’t they see that? So slim nothing could be spun from it. Bound to be one idiot somewhere in Canderis, one malcontent—one? he snorted, on
ly one?—who would never heed the Monitor’s and the High Conciliators’ proclamations, the laws protecting all citizens. Nor would he obey, he reflected, suddenly somber, if he believed Doyce and his unborn child threatened. His head ached, everything a muddle.
Reluctantly, Towbin’s big hand scooped the dice, fingers spread to nip them between his fingers like extra, skeletal knuckle bones. Cradling the dice in his fist, crooning to them, Towbin cocked his wrist and released them, Jenret fulminating under his breath as the last one finally rolled to a stop. Six-Six-Six. Damn, a perfect double on his throw. He pushed the four cones across, added another four from his hoard, double winnings for a double match, face thunderous, scowl as black as his clothing.
“It’s only a game,” Rawn trotted into view, T’ss trailing behind. “And you devised the rules.”
Jenret pulled both feet inward to sit cross-legged, raising his hands to run fingers through his hair. “Find out anything?” For whatever reason the Resonants couldn’t monitor his conversations with Rawn, so he could ‘speak him or T’ss, and thus Sarrett without resorting to audible speech. He’d sent the ghatti exploring as often as possible to pinpoint their location, whether anyone looked for them. The Resonants had to assume the ghatti had broadcast for help, that it was only a matter of time before it arrived.
“Does Doyce know yet?” he prodded Rawn. Would he feel better or worse if she did?
Rawn patted a pinecone, blinked as a prickly tip stabbed a toe pad. “No, Khar knows, Koom assured me. She said she’d tell only if she had to. Otherwise she’d have to wind her in a fishing net and weigh her down to make her stay put.”
It almost made him smile. Sudden hands gripped his belt, jerked him to his feet, his legs unfolding to support himself and his chained wrists inexorably following downward till he bent at the waist, stared at his boots. Someone seized his hair and jerked his neck back until it cracked. A knife-blade glinted, disappeared to caress his throat, and Rawn erupted in a soaring black fury. Jenret grunted in satisfaction as the knife sailed clear, its wielder wrestling with twenty kilos of enraged ghatt, wrapped like a clawed, fanged limpet around wrist and arm, blood spattering. Collapsed on his knees, Jenret groaned as Somerset Garvey bodily slammed his beleaguered, encumbered arm against a tree trunk. A dull thud, but Rawn twisted aside, most of the blow absorbed by Garvey’s arm, although a minor growl indicated a pinched ghatt paw. Without warning a white ghatt with shocking black stripes draped himself over Garvey’s head, half-hooding him, front feet grabbing at eyes, hind feet digging behind ears—T’ss, a fraction late from shock, had entered the fray.
Sarrett hurriedly hobbled after T‘ss, stretching to pry him loose, Towbin struggling to help. A long, thin shadow whipped by Jenret’s face, flash of metal on one side, and smashed under his chin so hard he bit his tongue. An ax handle levering him backward, forcing him straight despite the chains’ pull. “Tell the beast to cut loose. You don’t need a voice to command him, and if you don’t, I’ll crush your voice box so you can’t speak.” Faerbaen-Baen’s voice—of course he should have recollected who carried an ax as a weapon.
“Rawn!” he ’spoke urgently, praying he could catch the ghatt’s attention through his boiling wrath. “Rawn! Back off, now—or I’m going to be strangled!” The pressure mounted, something in his throat cracked and protested at the bruising, inexorable pain.
“We’re all dead anyway!” Rawn snarled, teeth sunk into Garvey’s wrist as the man danced drunkenly, trying to batter Rawn loose. “A Resonant killed out Gilboa way!”
“Dead?” Sarrett shrieked as she wrestled T’ss into submission. “Are you sure? Who was killed? How?” Her gilt hair seemed haggard, grayed as she clumsily spun around, gauging their expressions, finally comprehending their jeopardy. Even noble gestures had consequences. Pawns were used, forfeited.
“Everyone! Stop it! Wycherley, call off the ghatts, if you can. Baen, release him. Calm the others, move them back!” The woman’s mindvoice stung, snapped with a controlled anger ready to spill at one more heedless move. He recognized that tone all too well, a tone mothers wielded when driven to distraction by children of any age. The pressure on his throat reluctantly eased and he leaned on his arms, gasping, trying to draw steady breaths. Had to get Rawn clear, make him understand, but everything shimmered before his eyes, two of Sarrett, two of Towbin—and that was a great deal of Towbin. “Rawn! Let up—now!”
Rawn and his double both dropped free, two black ghatts coming toward him, finally merging into one. That ghatt limped, a gout of fur floating free, blood smearing his chops and whiskers. “Rather die fighting.”
A reprieve of sorts, but Jenret couldn’t determine how much of one they had, and it hurt to call Rawn off. If nothing else, he could have escaped, won free, and carried word. “I know, but we’ve others to think of, not just us. ”
Claudra Thomas stepped into his line of vision, ran deft fingers over his throat. “You’ll keep, but have trouble swallowing for a bit,” and moved to examine Garvey, one eye swollen shut, a nick in one ear. He held his mangled arm tight against his chest, groaning. Looking to Sarrett for confirmation, Claudra interrogated, “Ghatti scratches and bites the same as a cat’s? Tend to pucker, fester if not well disinfected? Fever risk if you don’t?” Mouth quivering, Sarrett nodded dumbly. “Then do something to help, then. Garvey may not have been pretty, but he’s worse now. You must carry disinfectant, salves?” Jolted, Sarrett hurried to comply.
Rolling on his back, gulping, Jenret dragged Rawn close, worked his hands along him to check for injuries. “Dead?” he croaked, able to finally focus on Claudra Thomas, formidable as ever. “Who died?”
“Uncle Billy—everyone’s surrogate uncle, Resonant and Normal alike. Traveling knife-grinder down Gilboa, Waystown-way.” Stern eyes assessed his knowledge. “The second to die since your capture.” She flung the accusation like a gauntlet at his feet, and he flinched. The second to die? Meticulous, she amended herself. “The first we’ve proof of. A sheepherder not too far from here, round Alkmaar, has disappeared, but that’s all we know for sure. A reprieve for you on that whether you appreciated it or not.” A sigh, “Holding you hostage isn’t saving anyone. Can’t blame Garvey for wanting to be rid of you, though I don’t approve of his methods.”
Jenret sat frozen, hand at his throat as Garvey forced words from between puffed lips. T’ss’s claws had ribboned his lower lip and it leaked blood. “Do ye know what they did to Uncle Billy? Any idea? Ran him into a pit trap.” A gulping sound as he swallowed blood. “With stakes. Stakes speared through him!”
“Could have been an accident, not knowing it was there?” A slim excuse but plausible, and Jenret seized at it. “I’m truly sorry, but bad luck finds us all sooner or—”
“Stop making excuses,” Garvey interrupted and spat for emphasis, his voice thick. “Uncle Billy knew the land, tramped all over it. His tracks ran straight toward it—ran, not walked—dog tracks right behind him, driving him forward, couldn’t veer to either side.”
“Hush, Somerset, hush. We’ll mourn later, him and all the rest.” She checked on Sarrett’s handiwork, motioned for her to continue working. “Might have been an accident, but not very likely. Something maybe only a Seeker Veritas could find the answer to. As to our sheepherding friend, all we know is that he’s gone missing. No body’s been found. Funny, it’s said that most murderers are someone the victim knows—I suppose it could have been another Resonant. Jealousy, insanity, a desire for revenge—we’re human, not immune to the emotions that cause people turn on each other. Until we know for sure, we do nothing. Garvey has no right to take it out on you, become as uncivilized as some of you have become. It’s just that Garvey’s got more reason than most—his father was one of the Fifty.”
And again Jenret pondered what that meant, “the Fifty,” but didn’t think it a good time to reveal his ignorance. Rolling to his knees, hands low to give him slack, he got one foot under him and rose, still crimped in the middle. “Yulyn!” L
ess a name, more a plea as it burst from his ravaged throat. “What happened?”
She shrugged, clearly pained. “We just don’t know.”
He wheeled, a pitiful gesture, more like a stunted, deformed clown, arms dangling down. “Dear Lady!” he let the sarcasm and disgust drip from his mangled voice. “We’re a wonderful lot, aren’t we? Superior abilities, and all you can come up with is this—tit for tat? And be subject to all the human foibles of the world as well? Why I ever wanted, ever bothered to try to save you, I’ll never know!” Impossible to stalk away in disgust, but he did, as far away as he could get, as far as they would let him go.
Bard relished his newfound freedom, the ability to ride when and where he chose, to ignore messages passed by other Seekers, although he suspected M‘wa hadn’t broken the habit, still listened without imparting the news to him. The ghatt acted distant, wistful at times, longing for the old days, perhaps. But the old days would never return—mutilated beyond recognition by Byrta’s and P’wa’s deaths. The little girl, Lindy, distracted Bard from his disjointed thoughts, and he’d been in no rush to return to Gaernett, deliver her over to Doyce. Time enough, if his calculations were correct, for that. Better weather would be nice, but this wasn’t terrible for a season bending from fall into winter. The increasingly early dusk each evening simply meant they halted sooner, sometimes camping out, sometimes staying at an inn or with a farmer, spent the time regaling each other with stories. Lindy had a store of childish tales that echoed his own at times, soothed him into occasionally recounting stories from his and Byrta’s childhood. Then, like a knife at his heart, the pain would stab and he’d fall silent. She never minded.
