Turtledove, Harry - Anthology 07 - New Tales Of The Bronze Age - The First Heroes (with Doyle, Noreen)

by The First Heroes (anth. ) (lit)

  iron bars not far away, with men inside gripping the metal with their hands. He bolted straight

  upright, letting the blanket fall away—

  "Easy friend, easy!" said a voice in his own language.

  Blood Wolf looked around, blinking and squinting and holding up a hand against the light of the bright mirror-backed coal-oil lamps. The voice came from Eric Iraiinisson, still dressed all in blue, jacket and trousers. A hand rested on his revolver, and Kreutha forced himself to wariness. Then he noticed that he was outside the cage, unbound, and that a corridor led to a door that swung open and closed as folk passed by. A woman dressed in blue like the man sat behind a table, writing on many papers before her; even then Kreutha shuddered a little at the casual display of magic. The Alban traders he'd met had carried revolvers, some of them . . . but the knowledge of writing on paper had proved to be a weapon nearly as strong and far harder to understand. He'd heard that the priests of the wizard-folk would teach it to those who took the water-oath to their God. It might almost be worth it.

  "You're safe here," the man in blue said. In English, he continued: "I'm chief policeman of the dockside station . . . in your language . . . hard to say. I guard the peace in this area. I found you in the street."

  I am safe, Blood Wolf thought; and with that the nausea came back, redoubled. It showed on his face.

  "The bucket, use the bucket!"

  It was a big wooden one, but already half full; he knelt in misery and then staggered erect when the last cupful of sour stomach-acid had come up; he was spending far too much time these days puking. That thought made him smile a little, a very little, as the policeman guided him back to the bench and handed him a blanket; Kreuha clutched it around his shoulders, and took the cup of hot steaming . . . something-or-other that he was handed. Sipping cautiously, he found it unlike any of the herbal teas wisewomen had given him for childhood complaints.

  It had cream in it, and a delicious sweetness without the musky flavor of honey, and under that a bitterness. Still, it warmed him and diminished the pain in his head and brought something like real wakefulness. The two tablets he swallowed with it seemed to help as well, for all that they were tiny, white, and tasteless; the effect was like willowbark tea, but stronger and quicker.

  When he had climbed far enough out of wretchedness to talk, he looked up to find the man-at-arms also dealing with papers. Occasionally other armed men—and a few armed women—would come in, sometimes leading prisoners in the manacles known as handcuffs; many of the captives were drunk as well.

  "Is it the custom here to make men drink and then fall upon them?" he asked the . . . policeman, that is the word.

  Eric Iraiinison laughed. "No, it's the custom to arrest men who break the town's peace," he said. "This is a seaport, and a fast-growing one, with many folk who are strangers to each other and many rootless young men. When ships come in and crews are paid off, we get a lot of traffic here."

  "I broke no peace!" Kreuha snapped. "I was set upon dishonorably, by stealth!"

  Eric nodded. "And so you're not under arrest. The three assaulting you would be, if I could find them—and evidence against them."

  "Ai!" Kreuha's head came up; he was owed vengeance for this indignity. "I can give you faces, and names. Arktorax son of—"

  He told all he knew, then scowled as Eric shook his head.

  "I know those three," the policeman said. "They're criminals—" he dropped the English word into the conversation, then paused to search for an equivalent "—evil-doers, breakers of taboo and custom. If you were to take them to court, they'd lie truth out of Creation. They're crimps, among other things. If you'd fallen asleep, you'd have woken up in the foc'sle of a sealer or a guano-boat, with a thumbprint on a contract and no way back until you'd worked a year for a pittance and daily swill."

  Fury flushed more of the pain out of Kreuha's system. "They sought to make a slave of me?" he cried, springing erect, his hand reaching for a missing axe. "I will take their heads! I will feed their living hearts to the Crow Goddess! I will kill, kill—"

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  Eric's hand went to his revolver; Kreuha considered that, and the blood-debt he owed the man, and sank back.

  "Not quite a slave," the policeman said. "If I could get them on that, I'd be a happy man; the penalty's death. Or if I could prove crimping charges, that would be nearly as good—ten years' hard labor. But they're careful, the swine; they never pick on citizens and never do anything before witnesses. We don't keep track of every stranger who wanders in here—we can't."

  "Is no man here man enough to take vengeance on them?" Kreuha said indignantly. "Or to call

  them doers-of-naught before the folk? I will challenge them to fight me between the wands—the

  men, of course, not the woman."

  The policeman chuckled. "You remind me of my grandfather," he said. "Or me as I might have been, if Nantucket hadn't come out of time. . . . Fighting to the death is against our law here. It's treated like murder, killing-by-stealth. You could invite them to meet you outside our Township boundary." He pointed northward. "The Zarthani still allow death-duels. Arktorax and his friends won't do it, of course. They'll laugh at you, no more, and so would most other people."

  Kreuha stared in horror. "Did the wizard-folk take all honor from you Iraiina when they overcame you and ground you beneath their heel, then? You were warriors in our grandsires' time, even if we prevailed in the end."

  To his surprise, the policeman's chuckle turned into a full-throated laugh. "You do remind me of my grandfather's grumbles," he said, then held up a hand. "No offense. No, we fled here after you put defeat upon us, took in the Nantucketer renegade Walker, and he led us to war and yet more defeat, and then the Nantucketers did something far more . . . drastic" —that was in English— "more powerful, you might say, than grinding us down."

  Kreuha shivered, imagining the vengeance of wizards. "What?"

  "They lifted us up again, helped, taught us their faith and all their secret arts." He pulled a silver chain around his neck, showing a crucifix. "My father they took to Nantucket—he was young, our chief's nephew and heir—and the sons and daughters of many powerful men—and sent them to their . . . schools, places of learning. My father lived for years in the house of the Republic's chief like one of his own sons. When he saw all that they had, how could he be content to sit in a mud-floored barn and think himself grand because it was the biggest barn? And so he sent for teachers and missionaries, and . . . well. My sons could be Chief Executive Officers of the Republic, if they desire to go into politics."

  The conversation had mostly been in something close to Kreuha's tongue, which Eric spoke easily enough. The young warrior noted that when the policeman spoke to his own subordinates—who must be his own tribesfolk, or mostly—he used English.

  He shivered slightly, he who had never known fear before a mortal foe. Mighty wizardy indeed, to make a whole tribe vanish as if it had never been. Then he shook his head. That was an Iraiina problem, not his. Or perhaps not a problem for them either.

  "I thank you for your courtesy to a stranger," he said formally and began to rise.

  Eric reached over and pushed him firmly down again with a hand on one blanketed shoulder. "It's a cold wet night to go out with nothing but a kilt—and if you are truly grateful, you could help me deal with that God-damned crimp and his gang."

  Kreuha's eyes went wide. "I thought you said—" "I said you couldn't chop them up with a war-axe in fair fight," the other man replied. "But we in the Republic have a saying that there is more than one way to skin a cat."

  Slowly, as Eric outlined his idea, Kreuha's smile matched that of the man across from him. If the wizards of Nantucket had taught the Iraiina all their arts, then they must be a crafty, cunning, forethoughtful crew.

  I like it, he thought. Aloud: "Tell me more."

  "Arktorax!" Kreuha called jovially. The little tavern was half empty on this afternoon; with the tide beginning to mak
e in a few hours, crews would be back on their ships and fishing boats, and most ashore were at work. The big hearth on

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  the inner wall had a low coal fire burning, and two big pots of stew simmering on iron hooks that swung out from the chimney wall. The tables were littered but mostly vacant, their few occupants looking to be oldsters or idlers, and a harlot or two.

  Arktorax was sitting with a cluster about him, throwing dice from a leather cup; he rose, his expression a little wary, one eye puffed up and discolored. Long greasy blond hair swirled about his face as he turned to face Kreuha, carefully putting his back to the wall without seeming to hurry about it.

  "Ah, I see you took some blows also," Kreuha said. "Shame and eternal shame to me that I was too drunk to ward you—or myself. Between the whiskey and the crack on my head, I don't even know how badly I did! But I did remember I left my gear with your friends here."

  He seated himself, and Arktorax took the bench across the table, waving a hand. A wench—it was probably the same one who'd helped to befool him last night—brought a plate with a loaf of bread and lump of cheese, and two thick glass steins of foaming beer. The barkeeper called her over, and after a moment she returned with his spear, axe, dagger and bundle of goods. They might be wealth in the Keruthinii lands, but here they were only a pittance of scrap metal.

  Kreuha made himself smile as he lifted the stein. In daylight, he could see what a shabby den this was—his mother would never have allowed rushes this fusty or garbage-strewn—but the crofters and gan-grels here drank from glass mugs! And the beer was better than any his father brewed, as well. For a moment he saw himself as this Arktorax did, as a woods-running savage to be plucked and sold.

  No, he thought. Lord Bear here thinks he has fallen on a sheep in a pen. He will find it's a wolf—a Blood Wolf

  "The police took you off," Arktorax said, relaxing a little and cutting a slab of the bread and

  cheese. "Officer Iraiinisson, that would be."

  "Yes," Kreuha said, and scowled with rage. It was a genuine enough expression; the other man

  didn't need to know it was directed at him. He went on, his voice rough:

  "And threw me in a cage full of vermin, and barked questions at me as if I were some thrall to be

  thrashed for not shoveling out the byre! By He of the Long Spear, by the Crow Goddess, I swear I will

  have my vengeance for last night's work!"

  Arktorax nodded. "He's given to questions, is our officer Iraiinisson, and no mistake," he said

  genially. "You told him all, I suppose."

  Kreuha grimaced. "I did not, not even what little I knew. I am not a spear-captive, to be kicked and cuffed. And he said he would not let me leave this place, so long as I did not tell him what he would know!"

  "There've been complaints about him in the Town Meeting more than once. I complained, the last time he ran me in on suspicion— and had to let me go," Arktorax said. "He's had a feud with me for years, the son of a pig, but he and his kin have too many votes behind them."

  "Why don't you kill him, if he's defamed your honor before the folk-moot?" Kreuha said. "I would give much to see his blood."

  The big burly man looked at him blankly for a moment; they were speaking the same language, more or less, but it was as if Arktorax had just heard words without meaning to him. He smiled, shrugged, and switched to English:

  "Was your mother a whore by choice, or did her father sell her?"

  "I'm sorry," Kreuha said, with an effort at self-control greater than he'd needed to remain motionless on night ambushes. Eric had warned him they'd probably test him so. "I speak none of the wizard tongue."

  Arktorax chuckled. "I asked if you would like me to assist in your vengeance," he said smoothly, with a genial grin.

  "I would like that very much," Kreuha said. "Very much indeed."

  The planning went swiftly. This time Kreuha turned down whiskey; that would not arouse

  suspicion, not after last night. He did grumble a little, as the urchin Arktorax hired sped off

  toward the police station and they left the tavern, the barkeeper and the woman in tow.

  "Can you shield me from the blades of his kin?" he asked. It wasn't a question he would have

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  made, or at least put that way, on his own.

  "Just this way—"Arktorax said.

  The building they entered was large and dim; empty as well, up to the high beams that held the ceiling. Mysterious piles of boxes and barrels hid much of the floor, stretching off into dimness. "Yes, of course, my friend," he went on, clapping Kreuha on the shoulder. "You will vanish from this place as if you had never been." The fat man chuckled, and spoke in English: "Just as we planned; Captain Tarketerol will be most grateful."

  Kreuha smiled and nodded, the skin crawling between his shoulders. That was a Tartessian name; the wizard-folk of Nantucket kept no thralls, but the men of the far southern kingdom most assure dly did. Perhaps the villainy of these three was worse than Eric had thought. . . which was very good.

  "And Officer Iraiinisson will be dead," Arktorax said. "We three can swear you were with us—and that's the truth, isn't it?"

  He laughed, and then there was a long while of tense waiting, until a knock came at the door. The woman swarmed up a ladder to peer down at the doorway, and then turned to give a signal: the policeman was alone. That had been likely anyway, since there were only a score of the blue-clad armsmen in Southaven.

  "Kreuha Wolkwos?" Eric Iraiinisson's sharp voice came through the boards.

  "I am here," Kreuha said, taking stance in an open space not far from the portal.

  The light was dim and gray, through small windows high up around the roof, but there was enough for someone who'd hunted deer and men by moonlight. "And the Blood Wolf is ready to speak as you wished," Kreuha went on. The door opened, letting in a spray of light along with a mist of fine rain. Kreuha poised with his

  spear, and the policeman staggered back—

  "Kill!" Arktorax shouted, pushing him with a heavy hand between the shoulders. "What are you waiting for?"

  Kreuha dove forward, rolling around the spearshaft and flicking himself back erect, facing the man who'd pretended friendship. The Keruthinii grinned like his name-beast and bayed laughter that might have come from his clan totem indeed.

  "I am waiting for you to put your head in the rope," he said—in English, thickly accented but

  fluent enough. "Arktomertos," he added, in a savage play on the man's name: Dead Bear.

  The crimp roared anger, turned, snatched up a barrel and threw it. That took strength; it was heavy, and the policeman dodged, falling backward into the street. When the wood staves struck the thick timber uprights of the door they cracked open, and fine-ground flour exploded in all directions. The fat man who'd been Arktorax's henchman turned to flee; Kreuha's arm cocked back as he squinted through the dust, then punched forward with smooth, swift grace. The flame-shaped bronze head took the barkeeper between the shoulders and he fell forward with the spearshaft standing up like the mast of a ship sailing to the ice-realms where the spirits of oathbreakers dwelt.

  That left Arktorax. The big man drew a broad-bladed steel knife from beneath the tail of his coat and lunged, holding it underarm and stabbing upward in a stroke that would have opened the younger man like a fish filleted for the grill. Kreuha bounded back with panther ease beyond the reach of the blow, his hand unslinging the bronze-headed axe slung over his back as, for the first time since he'd set foot on the boat that brought him to Alba, he felt at ease: here was something he understood.

  Arktorax wailed as he stumbled forward, drawn by the impetus of the failed stroke. The keen edge of the bronze skittered off his knife and gashed his forearm. He dropped the knife and tried to catch it with his left hand; Kreuha struck backhanded, then again, and again, smiling.

  He was holding up the head when Eric Iraiinisson came through the door—this time with his revolv
er drawn. He swore in English, then by the hooves of the Horse Goddess.

  "I didn't mean you to kill them!" he said at last. "We were to capture them for trial—"

  "You didn't mean to kill them," Kreuha grinned. "I did, Eric son of the Iraiina—and ask your grandfather why, some day."

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  The policeman shook his head. "This means trouble."

  "Didn't you say your law allowed a man to fight in self-defense?" Kreuha said. No. I can't keep the head, he decided regretfully; he did spit in the staring eyes before tossing it aside, and appropriating the dead man's knife and the contents of his pockets.

  "Yes . . . but there's only one witness, and I'm known to have accused him before," Eric said. "It

  could be trouble for me as well as you—he does have kin, and friends of a sort here."

  Kreuha grinned. "Then let me not be here," he said. "I've been thinking of what you said earlier."

  Eric looked at him, brows raising. "Now that's forethoughtful," he said. "Maybe you'll go far, young warrior. If you live."

  "All right," Timothy Alston-Kurlelo said.

  Lucy and her younger brother both stood in the forward hold, watching a cargo-net sway down. It dangled from a dockside crane, which made the rate of descent something she needed to keep an eye on—if they'd been using one of the Pride's spars as a derrick, she'd have trusted her deck-crew.

  Two sailors had ropes on the net and were guiding it to the clear space at her feet; orderly stacks of other goods rose fore and aft, covered in tarpaulins and tightly lashed down. The early morning air was cold; the first week in November was usually chilly and raw here in southern Alba, and she could scent the faint mealy smell of snow.

  "I'll be glad to get out of the harbor," she said, mentally running over the list herself.

  Simple goods for the raw-native trade: spearheads and axe-blades, saws and hammers, kegs of nails, chisels, drills, printed cotton cloth, glassware and ornaments, cheap potato vodka. Wind-pumps and ore-breakers and stationary steam engines for the mining dredges Ellis & Stover had set up out east these last five years; treadle sewing machines and corn-shellers and cotton-gins, threshing engines and sugarcane crushers for the Islander settlements in the Indian Ocean. . . . She took a deep satisfied sniff of the smells, metal and oil and the pinewood of boxes and barrels. Even the bilges were not too bad; the Pride had been hauled out for complete refitting in the Fogarty's Cove shipyards on Long Island not four months ago.