THE TRADING POST / DU-ARUTA 2991 A.D.
Over the years of trading with the Mutes, the Yama-Shita family had amassed a great deal of information about the various bloodlines and the multiplicity of clans grouped within. And with the Iron Master’s passion for paperwork, everything had been duly recorded in great detail by a battery of scribes.
In some respects, such as the size and breakdown of each clan, they probably knew more about the Plainfolk than the Plainfolk themselves, and like any military-minded organization gathering intelligence about a potential enemy – or client-state – they had even identified the distinctive headgear and turf-markers that placed a clan within a particular bloodline but set it apart from its neighbours.
As part of the larger picture the wheel-boat captains knew the relative size of the various bloodlines and the numbers they could expect to find waiting for them at the trading post. The She-Kargo bloodline contained 242 clans, the M’Waukee 103 and the San’Paul 38. Each sent an average of 150 delegates – making a grand total for the She-Kargo faction of some fifty-seven thousand five hundred delegates – adult males and females from 15 to 55, all fit and able to fight.
Under normal circumstances the D’Troit, C’Natti and San’Louis would have fielded, collectively, some fifty-two thousand delegates giving the She-Kargo faction the numerical edge. But with the closing of the Bei-Sita trading post, the D’Troit faction had been swollen by another 92 delegations from the clans whose turf lay to the east of Lake Michigan. The total number of C’Natti and San’Louis delegations had also increased for the same reason.
Added together, this should have produced a grand total of some seventy-six thousand warriors – large enough to confer a comfortable margin of superiority. But each clan had sent an above average number of delegates. Reinforced by the unexpectedly large numbers of ‘journey-men’, the D’Troit, C’Natti and San’Louis had fielded a staggering one hundred and sixty-three thousand warriors – giving them an advantage of almost three to one. With that number of people milling about the camp site, it was hardly surprising that the She-Kargo faction thought the odds were even greater.
Since they had no independent means of checking out the state of play at the Bei-Sita trading-post, the She-Kargo were obliged to accept the explanation they were offered. It seemed plausible enough but it did not justify the inflated numbers of journey-men which the D’Troit and C’Natti had brought with them to trade for goods and weapons. Some surreptitious head-counting by the same intrepid intermediaries established that some D’Troit clans known to be only half the size of the M’Calls were proposing to exchange over one hundred men and women whereas the M’Calls themselves had never sent more than fifty down the river in any one year.
The situation was unique and potentially explosive. A hastily convened meeting of elders from the She-Kargo delegations could only envisage two possible explanations: one – by offering so many ‘guest-workers’, the D’Troit and C’Natti hoped to elbow their rivals aside and grab the lion’s share of whatever the Iron Masters had come to trade or, two – the army of journey-men with their yellow headbands were not destined to sail away across the Great River but were here for some other purpose. Either way it spelt trouble.
The M’Call delegation, some seven hundred miles from their settlement, were too far away to send for reinforcements but some of the other She-Kargo and M’Waukee delegations whose homes were within a day’s run promptly despatched messengers to summon reinforcements.
All this was done in great secrecy. Mr Snow and the other wordsmiths had decided that there was to be no provocation and no outward show of suspicion. The explanation furnished by the D’Troit wordsmiths had to be taken at face value. By their own sacred tradition, wordsmiths – even from opposing bloodlines – never lied to one another. If they had not betrayed their oath, then the Iron Masters must have closed down Bei-Sita. The question everyone in the She-Kargo camp was asking was – why?
A hint as to what the answer might be came with the arrival of Carnegie-Hall, wordsmith of the Clan Kojak from the bloodline of the M’Waukee. Entering the bullring where the other wordsmiths habitually gathered to exchange news and gossip, he sought out Mr Snow and under cover of the formal greetings exchanged on such occasions, passed over a whispered request for a meeting when darkness fell.
Several hours later when a thousand camp-fires pierced the darkness like orange blossoms scattered on black velvet, Carnegie-Hall, accompanied by five Kojak warriors, was led by a M’Call guide into the small wood west of the camp-site where Mr Snow and his own body-guard stood waiting.
The two wordsmiths sat down on talking mats, their faces lit by the solitary flame of a fire-stone which lay between them. Its glow which sharp eyes could have seen from the camp-site was masked by the cloak Mr Snow had thrown over a nearby bush and the dense undergrowth beyond. As a person, Mr Snow would not have given Carnegie-Hall the time of day, but as a fellow wordsmith he had to be treated with the courtesy traditionally accorded to all practitioners of the ancient art.
‘What say you, brother? Do you bring me good tidings or bad?’
‘I bring news of great happenings. It is for you to judge whether they are good or ill. But first let us speak of The Chosen. Did your clansmen return safely and in good spirits?’
Mr Snow was familiar with the term ‘The Chosen’, but for some reason, didn’t catch on immediately. ‘Clansmen …?’
‘Cadillac, Clearwater and Cloud-Warrior.’
Mr Snow’s present anxieties vanished under a great surge of elation. ‘They escaped from the Eastern Lands?!’
‘Escaped and more! They are The Chosen – the first of the Lost Ones whose return heralds the coming of Talisman!’
‘It is true that these three were born in the shadow of Talisman. By what token do you know them as The Chosen?’
‘The words were born on my lips!’ exclaimed Carnegie. ‘The Thrice-Gifted One appointed me to be the first to recognize them and name them! And when the history of the Plainfolk is retold in the ages to come, the Kojak will be remembered as the clan that first gave them shelter, and whose valiant warriors played a decisive part in the victories achieved by their mighty powers!’
‘Victories …?’
‘Over the arrowheads, the iron-snake and the wheel-boat!’
‘Sounds like they’ve been busy,’ grumped Mr Snow. ‘Tell me more.’
Carnegie-Hall gave him the whole story including – to his credit – the treacherous deal struck with Izo Wantanabe which, as events unfolded, had reinforced his belief that his steps had been guided by Talisman. And as might be expected he laid great emphasis on the part the Kojak had played in the destruction of the wheel-boat.
As Mr Snow sat listening to Carnegie’s graphic description of how the Kojak had massacred the horse-borne samurai, red-stripe infantry and sailors who had struggled ashore, his sense of foreboding increased. All this had happened weeks ago. Since when, Cadillac, Clearwater and Brickman had departed in triumph, with a pile of booty and more than a hundred head of horses – the four-legged beasts which the dead-faces had tamed and learned to ride but which, up to that moment, Mr Snow had never seen.
The trio had last been reported heading westwards towards Nebraska. The southern route! Mr Snow silently cursed the Sky Voices for sending him in the wrong direction. No doubt, by the immutable perverseness of Sod’s Law, his protégés would – barring some mishap – have arrived at the settlement within a day or two of his departure!
Never mind. Carnegie-Hall’s story had amply confirmed Mr Snow’s belief that his two young charges and the cloud-warrior were destined to achieve greatness. They were indeed The Chosen, recognized and hailed as such not just by the Kojak, but by the clans they had encountered in crossing the Central Plains. Whatever misfortune might befall them, they would survive and grow ever stronger, for the power of the Thrice-Gifted One was upon them. An invisible force which, if not an impervious shield, would preserve and heal their earth bodies
and the spirit within.
Once again Mr Snow regretted that he would not live to see the saviour of the Plainfolk revealed. But he now understood why the Sky Voices had directed him towards the trading post. It was here the immediate danger lay, and it was here that his gift of power and his courage would be sorely tested.
Perhaps to the limit – and beyond …
‘What you have said explains a great deal.’ Producing a pipe charged with rainbow grass, Mr Snow lit it, taking a soothing puff before offering it to his visitor. ‘Old Golden Nose is not going to let such a catastrophic reverse pass unavenged.’
Old Golden Nose was a nickname derived from the elaborate black and gold mask which Domain-Lord Hirohito Yama-Shita wore whenever he appeared at the trading post. Depending on their rank, all Iron-Masters wore masks of one sort or another when dealing with the Mutes – a practice which had given birth to the generic term ‘dead-faces’.
‘Lord Yama-Shita is dead,’ announced Carnegie-Hall.
The news took Mr Snow’s breath away. ‘How do you know this?’
‘Cadillac told me. Before escaping from the Eastern Lands, your clansmen fought a mighty battle with the dead-faces.’
Mr Snow listened with a mixture of pride and dismay as the Kojak wordsmith repeated Cadillac’s spell-binding story of death and destruction at the Heron Pool including, in all its gory detail, the moment when Clearwater had compelled the domain-lord to kill himself several times over.
The loss of the wheel-boat with all hands, coming hard on the heels of the mega-debacle that Carnegie-Hall had just described merely added insult to injury. Lord Yama-Shita might be dead – and that removed one formidable adversary from the field – but his successors would be honour bound to strike a devastating blow in return.
The first opportunity to do so would be when the wheel-boats ran their noses aground on the beach by the trading post. It was going to be a strange feeling, watching the vessels appear over the dawn horizon and knowing that this time, as they grew larger and larger and the dread sound of their engines reached the ears of the waiting Mutes, there would be no obsequious welcoming ceremony, full of false smiles and bogus cameraderie. This time, the rising sun would mark the beginning of a countdown that would end in an explosive confrontation; an orgy of blood-letting whose limits could not be foreseen and whose consequences were incalculable.
After a long moment of reflection Mr Snow said: ‘I think I can see how this is going to play. The Yama-Shita won’t attack us directly. To do so would jeopardize their whole trading operation. That’s why the D’Troit and C’Natti are here in such large numbers. The family is going to use them to put the knife in.’
Mr Snow smiled as he took back the pipe and inhaled some more smoke. ‘You’re probably on the hit-list too. I’m surprised you came.’
Carnegie-Hall bristled. ‘You dare to call the Kojak cowards – after all we have done?!’
‘Calm down, Carney. No one’s calling you anything. The M’Calls have never backed out of a fight, but if I’d known what we were walking into, I’d have been severely tempted to stay at home.’
‘We came because we thought The Chosen would be here!’ exclaimed Carnegie-Hall. ‘We have seen their power! With them at our side we have nothing to fear. The dead-faces are powerless against them!’ Then, with engaging candour, he added: ‘Had I known they weren’t going to show, we might have had second thoughts too. But where could we go?’
‘It’s a big country,’ replied Mr Snow. ‘But if someone’s determined to find you, there’s no place you can hide. If you have to make a stand, you might as well make it here – amongst your own kind.’ He paused and appraised his visitor. ‘The M’Calls can count on their blood-brothers. Can the She-Kargo count on the M’Waukee?’
Carnegie-Hall shifted uneasily. ‘At this moment I cannot say.’
‘You trying to tell me you’ve found a way to get your head off the block?’
‘No! It’s just that –’
‘– by standing aside, you hope to save your own skins.’
‘Never!’ cried Carnegie-Hall. ‘The M’Calls may be the paramount clan of the She-Kargo. but it is the Kojak who have proved their worth in battle with the dead-faces!’
‘With a little help …’
‘How generous of you!’ sneered Carnegie-Hall. ‘It takes little courage to face the enemy when you know you are protected by the mantle of Talisman! Your clanfolk emerged unscathed. Mine paid for their triumph with their own blood! How dare you impugn the honour of the Kojak! This conversation is at an end!’
Mr Snow laid a restraining hand on his visitor’s knee as he moved to get up. ‘Nice try, Carney. You always were good at the old huff’n puff. But don’t give me this honour nonsense. Everyone knows you as a man with his eye on the main chance. You’ve admitted as much yourself. You were prepared to sell my people down the river for a boxful of geegaws!’
Carnegie-Hall dropped the self-righteous anger and adopted the air of a honourable man who has been sorely wronged. ‘That was before Talisman revealed his purpose to me! Yes, it is true that when he put his words onto my tongue my heart was full of treachery, but all that changed when he filled my mind with his presence! It is easy for you to look down on us from your safe haven in the far mountains. We live on the front line! The dead-faces now have men and boats on the far side of the waters which were once our own! You seek our help now – what help can we expect from you once you have journeyed beyond the Black Hills?!’
‘Not much, I grant you. That’s why we have to stand together now. If there is a fight, we have to win it. Do you want to live under the heel of the D’Troit?’
‘It is a fate many of the M’Waukee already endure.’
‘Then now is your chance to get out from under. We can count on the San’Paul. You are the only people who can talk to the San’Louis.’
It was obvious that Carnegie-Hall did not relish the prospect of getting embroiled in a potentially fatal confrontation with the D’Troit. ‘It will not be easy,’ he muttered. ‘Is there no hope that The Chosen will get here in time?’
Mr Snow drew down some more smoke. ‘Carney, I could make the right kind of noises in order to string you along but I’m not going to. The answer is – I just don’t know but from what my gut is telling me, I’d say the chances are virtually nil. We’re going to have to manufacture our own miracles. The only consolation I can offer is the news that Clearwater, the young lady whose performance has so impressed you, is a pupil of mine. She’s good – but I’m better.’
‘The D’Troit have summoners too.’
‘The D’Troit?! Don’t make me laugh! Their best man can’t even move a pile of buffalo shit unless he has a shovel!’ Mr Snow waved the threat away. ‘Go back to your lines and talk to your blood-brothers. Contact the leader of each delegation and persuade them to come to a meeting with their paramount warrior plus every available wordsmith and summoner. I want them here within two notches for a meeting with their opposite numbers from the She-Kargo.’
A notch was a standard measurement of time marked on candles made from animal fat and represented one pre-Holocaust hour. The system had originated with the Iron Masters. Having obtained some of these candles at the trading post, the Mutes had made copies of their own. In their normal daily lives, Mutes were not clockwatchers; the candles were only used in situations which were time-critical – such as the present gathering at the trading post.
‘Two notches! Sweet Mother, that doesn’t give us much time.’
‘We’re as short of time as we are of people. That’s why we’ve gotta move – fast!’
As they both got to their feet, Carnegie asked: ‘What about the San’ Louis.’
‘Sound them out. See which way the wind’s blowing but don’t tell them about the meeting.’
Carnegie-Hall nodded, his eyes full of doubt. ‘I hope we’re doing the right thing.’
‘Trust me,’ said Mr Snow. He gave Carnegie’s arm a reassuring squeeze.
‘I too am guided by Talisman. This is what he sent me here for. To preserve the freedom of the Plainfolk.’
Between dawn and nine o’clock on the following day, the last of the trade delegations arrived and set up camp in the area allotted to their own bloodline. Most of them were new faces belonging to the D’Troit. Their appearance caused the heavily-outnumbered She-Kargo and M’Waukee to feel both beleaguered and belligerent and by mid-morning, when all the wordsmiths had gathered in the bull-ring for the opening round of their annual talk-fest the atmosphere had become electric. Everyone was filled with that oppressive sense of foreboding you get when a violent storm is about to break.
In order to appreciate what follows it is necessary to explain that while most but not all clans possessed wordsmiths, very few of these gifted individuals were summoners. Mutes born with two gifts – such as Mr Snow (wordsmith and summoner) and Cadillac (wordsmith and seer) – were extremely rare. And summoners as powerful as Mr Snow and Clearwater were rarer still.
The same degrees of professional competence applied to wordsmiths. The M’Calls had enjoyed the benefit of an unbroken line of wordsmiths stretching back through successive generations to the War of a Thousand Suns. This distinction, shared by only a handful of clans, enhanced Mr Snow’s standing but also engendered a great deal of envy.
In many respects, wordsmiths resembled any group of Pre-H professionals. Like lawyers, they came in all shapes and sizes and while they all possessed what was once known as ‘the gift of the gab’ their performance – as 20th century clients often discovered to their cost – spanned the ratings from the peaks of excellence to the troughs of incompetence.
Death-Bringer Page 12
