by Gayle Greeno
Rawn’s whiskers grazed his hand as the ghatt conducted his own investigation. “I don’t agree. A scent of great age clings to it. It’s possible that nature’s pared away the earth over the grave, ice scraping across it, water flow, I’m not sure.”
Hoarding the knife to himself, faintly jealous of Rawn’s interest, he worked the blade against his ankle chain, rubbing the blade against a link. Might as well polish it a bit, it deserved better care than it had received. To his infinite surprise the blade peeled a thin sprig of metal with it, easy as paring a butter curl. A little harder, a little more force, and a larger paring spiraled free, the blade sliding along the link and nicking the next one before he could stop his motion.
“Rawn,” his breath stopped, made him almost light-headed with delight, “I think it’s arborfer! It cuts like a dream!”
“Must be an old Erakwan grave, then.”
“But it can’t be that old,” he protested, unconvinced.
“Has to be. Arborfer hasn’t grown this far south in years. Addawanna and Nakum and the Erakwa use steel knives like ours. This must be a relic from the past when it was plentiful enough that you’d bury it with someone because more was readily available.”
With a stifled grumble, Jenret acquiesced. As usual, Rawn made sense and, frankly, he’d no desire to argue the knife’s provenance, as long as he had it. Hope blossomed, though he refused to force it to full-bloom—a weapon, a way to defend himself, perhaps even escape!
“Think it through, think it through,” Rawn nipped his joy in the bud. “You can’t just burst out of camp, stabbing Resonants left and right to escape, can you? What about Towbin and Sarrett and Yulyn? Would you desert them? Or do you think you can protect yourself and them with one little, though very sharp, knife?”
“I don’t know, Rawn, I don’t know yet. ” Rawn’s comments pricked his pride, his sense of honor. Could he kill a fellow Resonant—even Somerset Garvey?—slink up on him and slash his throat? Could he cold-bloodedly kill anyone, Resonant or Normal? And the answer drumming at the front of his brain was a resounding “Yes!” If he had to, if he lacked any other choice. After all, what option had they given him? His building, righteous rage felt good, gave him a purpose, a justification.
Except ... except ... however desperate he might be, they had even greater justification for their despair. Despite his black mood he couldn’t envision them killing him unless hope was a long-forgotten memory. They had no stomach for killing—cooler heads had prevailed, even during the incident with Garvey. And Garvey, Towbin had whispered to him that night, didn’t know where his sons were, if they survived, was half-mad with grief. They didn’t want to kill him and he didn’t want to kill them. His mind wavered, yearned to regain that dangerous, ugly edge, justify any action—would he do anything, anything at all to return to Doyce? Abandon the others? Knew he could not, although it was shamefully close, regret slashing as sharp as the arborfer blade.
Rawn continued his vigil, black-furred implacability, awaiting his answer, trusting him to search his heart. Sinking the knife into the dirt so it stood upright, he scratched Rawn’s ears. “Embarrassing to have two better halves—you and Doyce. Should make me whole, perfect, but it doesn’t seem to, does it?”
“I am not your conscience, nor is Doyce, but neither of us minds prodding you a bit.”
“And damn well enjoy it, ” Jenret groused. “Always trying to get my goat..”
Rawn’s head swung round, consternation furrowing his brow. “Why would I want your goat? You don’t have one—and even if you did, why would I want it?”
“Figure of speech, my friend, and an old one at that. ” “If they don’t let you shave soon, I’d be able to tug you by your chin whiskers just like a goat.” Rawn bit down on the back of Jenret’s hand. “Now, what do you plan to do with the knife?”
Cradling it against his boot, he thought. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with being prepared to escape-if the right opportunity comes along. First, I’m going to shave these links as thin as I can without making them look as if I’ve tampered with them. Get them thin enough and I should be able to snap them if the time’s ripe. At least I’ll be ready if an opportunity comes my way.”
Rawn made an aheming sound in his throat, a polite cough. “I’ve another ancient saying for you. You could turn the tables on them, seize one of them as a hostage, although how and why you’d turn a table on someone, I don’t understand.”
“An admirable thought, my favorite ghatt, an audaciously admirable thought that I’ll bear in mind.” And with that Jenret set to work, painstakingly shaving the inside of each link, working by touch, stifling his impatience now that he had a goal in mind.
Rawn watched, impatient with himself and with Jenret. How many opportunities would his Bond squander? Escape, avoid, elude—all things that Jenret did without conscious thought, a preservative instinct to avoid a commitment that might bind his heart and soul. At first Rawn had convinced himself Jenret’s captivity would provide an opportunity for him to really learn what Resonants and their lives were like. Garvey’s actions had temporarily shaken but not dissuaded the ghatt. If only Jenret would reach beyond himself, his own needs. Another wasted opportunity, just as his relationship with Doyce boded that. And should Khar suspect he thought that, she’d flay him alive. What would it take to change Jenret?
Despite her intentions, Doyce found it was several days before she dared return to Matty’s world, see how he fared. Each time she thought of him driven out of Neu Bremen, reviled for discerning the truth, it made her question anew everything she’d taken for granted about the Seekers’ place in society. A hard-won place. And questioning wasn’t a wise idea—the last time she’d sustained a crisis of faith she’d been expelled from the eumedicos.
“I understand the ceremony’s quite impressive, reeks of solemn disdain and disappointment.” Khar’s eye whiskers jutted forward.
She’d been holding a skein of yarn between her hands, obediently dipping one, then the other as her mother rewound it into balls. Inez didn’t harbor her own dislike of knitting, and Doyce suspected she’d be seeing baby sweaters speedily tumbling from the needles. By the time she’d manage to finish anything; the baby would have outgrown it. She tried to ignore Khar but found she couldn ’t, not in the restless, doubtful mood she’d been indulging in. “Have you actually witnessed one?” For the life of her she’d never encountered the ceremony, knew she wouldn’t have forgotten if a person had been barred from the Seekers.
“First,” Khar intoned with relish, “they divest you of your earrings. Then the miscreant hands over his tabard, and they shred it before your eyes. Then—”
“You’re making it up! Don’t scare me like that!” Always the fear that she was responsible—not just for her duties, but for some greater, unnamed charge she was bound to fail.
“Then share a story with me—or I’ll help with the yarn.” Not an idle threat the way Khar’s head moved back and forth, synchronized with each loop that unwound from Doyce’s trapped hands. Grab for the ghatta and she’d wreath her with the skein, very possibly what Khar intended to happen. “Action, adventure, death-defying heroics ... I promise.”
“And the ending? Happy or sad?” What had happened to Matty, how could she have waited so long? Because she couldn’t bear any more hurt for him or for herself.
“Some of both. But if you don’t dare it, you’ll never know for sure.”
She made a face, smoothed it into an insincere smile when her mother looked at her, only to shake her head and keep winding.
Heartsick, dazed, Matty wandered aimlessly, trapped in a nightmare of self-recrimination that disrupted distance, direction, time. Again and again he berated himself for so blithely believing he should reveal the unvarnished truth, his unwitting innocence and eagerness resulting in a man’s death. So this was what his pride in discerning the truth accomplished? Berating Kharm might remove some of the onus from him, but she’d done precisely what he’d asked—soug
ht out the truth. And the truth was an insupportable burden, crushing his heart and soul and mind.
He shuffled through frosted, rotting leaves, ran into trees on occasion, tripped and sprawled while his mind worked furiously, chewing over his responsibility. This time when he fell, his hands slithered, gouged dark tracks. Shaking his hair from his eyes, he realized the world was slowly growing white, a sleety, granular snow sifting from the sky, eddying around him, stinging his bare hands and face, burrowing into creases of his clothing. Damn it all, he was so incredibly tired of life, of everything! Kharm licked at the tears leaking down the snow-dusted face. “Truth is—you have to accept it, you can’t change it.”
He slammed his hands over his ears, as if that would extinguish her mindvoice. “I don’t want to know the truth! Never, ever again! I want to die!” With the rusty movements of an old man, he pushed himself to his knees and thrust his arms toward the leaden sky, snow crusting his shoulders, damp face upturned toward the heavy clouds. “I want to die!” he screamed, but the wind swallowed his words, swirled them in mockery. “Die—ie—ie!”
Rearing on hind legs, Kharm placed her paws on his shoulders, nose icy, then warm-moist against the soft skin under his chin. “Selfish. Unreason, untruth. You do not want to die! Now, will you listen to reason?”
With a grudging acknowledgment that the Lady refused to strike him dead, end his agony, Matty lowered his arms and embraced the ghatta, both of them quivering with cold. “Why did it have to be Flaven? He was basically a good man, a good husband to Rema. Why?”
“Would you have traded his life for Lorris Stratforth’s?” The question took Matty aback. “Is one death more acceptable than another? The death of an innocent but unpleasant man for the death of a guilty man who was basically good?”
Matty shuddered. “But I’m responsible, without me ... without you ...” he trailed off. Too easy to accuse another when he himself was to blame.
“Could you, in good conscience, have ignored the evidence that exonerated Lorris and pointed the finger of guilt at him?” The ghatta pushed inexorably.
He jerked to relieve the tightness in his chest. “No.... It’s just that life’s so unfair sometimes.”
“It is. But even more unfair if someone, someone like you doesn’t search for the truth, make people understand and accept it. Do you wish me not to share these truths anymore?” The ghatta’s nose nearly touched his, yellow-green eyes fixed on dark blue ones, stormy with shame. “It will cripple me and it will cripple you, but if you wish, I’ll stop.”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I just don’t see where or how I became responsible for spreading the truth.”
“You aren’"t—unless you make it your responsibility, your role in life.”
A strangled laugh exploded into a hiccup. “It won’t do much for my popularity, will it?”
“Well, we don’t have to tell everybody the truth about everything—only to prevent an injustice. How’s that?”
He hugged her close, snow melting between his cheek and her fur. “Mayhap I could live with that.” Gently releasing her, he forced himself onto his feet, still clad in their wooden clogs, Flaven’s work boots in his sack, a silent reminder, a constant reproach. They’d have to be worn someday, but not yet, not now. “And speaking about living or dying, we’ll freeze to death if we stay out here in the snow. Like it or not, winter’s setting in.” He circled in place, considering, trying to determine his bearings, the likelihood of shelter. And food, his stomach rumbled with anticipation, he couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten. “Where are we, anyway?” How long since he’d paid attention to where he walked, which direction the sun rose, the time of day, the day itself? Led them into the middle of nowhere and lost them both.
Kharm stood on his clogs, escaping the mounting snow that whistled around them. “We’ve been moving mostly north. There’s some sort of settlement ahead. I can smell it.” Her nose wrinkled to indicate the smell was less than pleasant, although he could scent nothing but cold dampness overriding woods odors.
“Could we have reached Free Stead?” If so, the farthest reach of the River Kuelper was west of him, the Taglias to the east. Mountainous, densely wooded lands, but nothing so bad as what he’d heard of the Tetonords on the other side of the Kuelper. “Have we come that far?” He’d not intended to winter at Free Stead, but at the moment any place appealed. “Can you find the settlement, Kharm?”
“Of course.” With a bound she led off, Matty trailing behind, slipping, leaning into the wind, hair and eyebrows stiff with snow.
And thus Matty and Kharm found themselves about to winter at Free Stead. His first glimpse of the enclosed community did little to welcome him: the stockade reared defensively and almost invisibly, a sensation of bulky presence, slivers of timber and bark striating the coating of wind-driven snow like an animal’s fur changing for winter camouflage. The gates stood firmly closed and showed no sign of recent opening, the snow pristine in front of them. Given the timbers’ size, a knock wouldn’t penetrate. Mayhap pound with a rock? Scuffing deep, praying the clogs would protect his numb toes, he hunted for something to beat against the door. Before he succeeded, dark figures armed with bows and arrows crowned the stockade top. “Halt!” and he obeyed. What other choice did he have? “What do you want?”
“Shelter from the storm, at least.” Start with that, see how it went.
“For how many?”
Stupid—didn’t the men have eyes? Did they think a horde of people hid in the woods, awaiting an invitation for shelter? “For myself and my animal,” he shouted, afraid the storm had whipped his words away, so he gestured toward himself and Kharm.
“They do wonder if others are with us. They’re suspicious, and with good reason. They’ve been attacked before.”
If this were Free Stead, their caution held a certain wisdom, hard-gained, according to Kharm. This heavily guarded hamlet held the dubious distinction of being Canderis’s most northerly outpost, although how civilized remained to be seen.
Bleary with cold, he tried to collect the bits and pieces he knew, anything to keep his mind working. A hunting and trapping post in the mountains’ shadows, and in the mountains lived the Marauders, those men and women unable to abide by the laws each village voted on. Men and women with a brittle, urgent recklessness, and the conviction that since their world had cheated them, its dreamed-of bounty snatched away by the Plumbs, by the spaceships’ desertion, it entitled them to survive on the backs of their brethren, plundering and stealing, killing if necessary. Yes—the world owed them a living—and more. Cold as he was, the memories made Matty colder, then hot with shame.
As children, the planet’s firstborn after space colonization, they’d accepted life’s luxuries as their due until they abruptly disappeared, replaced by hazy recollections of technological marvels, of plenty grown mythic in memory now that it had vanished. For some who reached maturity, the daily danger of Plumbs, the change from comfort to hardscrabble existence had turned them aimless, alienated. Life was barely worth living: all efforts at survival doomed, nothing worth the attempt. Why build, why plant, why care when random devastation struck, and once simple tasks took on monumental proportions, where eumedicos could no longer protect against simple illness or accident? For others more determined, the desolate mindview crystallized into a flaming, self-righteous creed of entitlement, immediate gratification of any need or desire. This second group turned dangerous, became Marauders, while Matty’s father, Manuel, drifted aimlessly between the two extremes, never one to plunder and kill, but never able to concentrate on anything useful, from raising a crop to raising a son. It was all too, too much effort. Others could and did make such efforts, but not he.
Most Marauders lived here in the unsettled north, beyond the haphazard efforts of a civilization they sneered at as a paltry shadow of past splendors. Ravaging offered easier plucking than anything else their world offered. By now the second generation swelled their ranks, children younger and
older than Matty, themselves breeding more new citizens devoid of conscience, respect, or ideals.
“Do they think I’m a Marauder?” It struck him as ludicrous as he swayed in the cold, slapping his hands against his arms, stamping his feet, but for them it was no laughing matter. “That they’ll take me in and I’ll unbar the gates in the dead of night, let in others to attack?” He fidgeted, miserable and exhausted. Patience, let them talk amongst themselves, decide, Granther’d be equally wary. “Pitiful Marauder I’d make!” and felt distinctly sorry for himself.
At last a deep voice thundered a command. “Toss your sack over the stockade.” He hesitated; all his worldly possessions, so few, inside, give them up and he’d have no chance of survival. Mayhap they were Marauders, out to pluck him clean. Wary, he ventured as close as he dared, measured the trajectory, and began circling his arm to build momentum. The sack flew free, slammed against the palisades and dropped, burying itself in the drifts, a jeering laugh following it. A surge of heat ran through him, frustration and exertion, and he ran to reclaim it, backed off, and tried again. This time it sailed clear with room to spare. Now, nothing to do but wait, pray they wouldn’t keep his sack and its contents and leave him barricaded outside in the storm.
A smaller segment of the main gate cracked free and a disembodied arm beckoned. “Come on, then.” As he and Kharm rushed inside, blissful at the thought of shelter, Matty found himself flung to embrace the wall, arms jerked upward, legs kicked apart while cold, rough hands efficiently roamed his body. “Knife. Only a knife,” a voice behind him announced. “Can’t expect anyone to travel without a knife. But nothing more. Probably safe enough long as we watch him.”
Indignant, he lowered his arms and turned to confront the voices, working his jacket into place, tugging the sheepskin down over that. His jacket had parted company from his trousers during the search, his waist swathed with the full brunt of the cold. “Who be you, lad? Making your pelts trot along with you before skinning them?” A joke, he guessed, though Kharm didn’t appear amused.
