Like the plethora of personal computers of the pre-H era that came fitted with differing amounts of hard-disc storage, some wordsmiths’ memories were better than others. Compared to the ordinary Mute armed with the equivalent of 256K RAM, your average wordsmith with a hundred gigabytes on line was a mental giant – a walking reference library.
However, as with all people-based systems, there was one drawback. Memory is not a product or function of character: the most able brains do not necessarily reside inside the heads of charismatic human beings, or even just plain nice ones. The greatest data-bank in the world is not worth a row of beans if there’s a dildo manning the front desk. But when a few zillion gigabytes of memory was allied to an exceedingly acute mind – as in the case of Mr Snow – the result was an outstanding personality whose opinions and influence extended far beyond the narrow confines of their own clan or even their own bloodline.
But while Mr Snow might be regarded as the star of the She-Kargo, there were other noteworthy contenders among the D’Troit and C’Natti ready to pit their wits against his. And they were present on that fateful morning.
Last year, Mr Snow, by virtue of his age and experience, had been selected to chair the proceedings; this year, his place had been awarded to a senior wordsmith from the rival faction – Prime-Cut, leader of the Clan R’Nato from the bloodline of the D’Troit.
Because of Cadillac’s triumphal progress through Illinois, Iowa and eastern Nebraska – where the trail had run cold – the hottest topic among the wordsmiths from those areas was the appearance of The Chosen, the trio from the Clan M’Call. The news of their exploits and their escape from the Eastern Lands was not confined to the bull-ring. Exaggerated reports of their prowess passed on by those who had witnessed their travelling road-show were now spreading like a bush-fire through the whole encampment.
To the wordsmiths from the various delegations it was both a source of satisfaction and alarm. Apart from Carnegie-Hall and Mr Snow, none of those present were aware of any prophecy which bore a reference to these individuals and no seer had found their image in the stones. The prediction which came closest referred to the return of The Lost Ones – the generations of Mutes who had been taken away by the dead-faces to the Fire-Pits of Beth-Lem and their off-spring, the Iron-Feet – born into slavery in the Eastern lands.
Invited to take centre-stage, Carnegie-Hall launched into a colourful explanation of how he had met Cadillac, Clearwater and Cloud-Warrior – carefully omitting the details of his treacherous deal with Izo Wantanabe. Guided by Talisman he had despatched a posse of Kojak warriors through the winter snows to a rendezvous with the select band of individuals who were to herald the coming of the Thrice-Gifted One.
A graphic account of their powers – which Clearwater had used to destroy four arrowheads with one wave of her hand and which, later, had been employed to rip the belly out of an iron-snake – made a deep impression on his attentive audience. When he had finished, he appealed to Mr Snow. Had the Sky Voices not told him that Cadillac, Clearwater and Cloud-Warrior were born in the shadow of Talisman?
Rising to his feet, Mr Snow agreed that this was so.
His affirmation of Carnegie’s claim sparked off a heated argument. Individual wordsmiths from the D’Troit and C’Natti camps leapt to their feet to protest. Out of all the Plainfolk why should three warriors from the Clan M’Call have been chosen to herald the coming of Talisman? It was just another ploy by the She-Kargo and their lackeys amongst the M’Waukee to further inflate their already exaggerated importance.
No wordsmith, claimed the protesters, had ever spoken of The Chosen in this bull-ring until Carnegie-Hall had coined the phrase. It was all a put-up job; something concocted on the flimsiest of evidence by the Kojak and the M’Calls. At best it was a well-intentioned mis-reading of the events in question; at worst, a total fabrication.
Carnegie-Hall vigorously defended himself but the carefully orchestrated outburst had achieved its aim, splitting the gathering into three camps: the pro-She-Kargo faction who supported the proposition, the pro-D’Troit faction who rejected it, and the uncommitted who were waiting to see who was going to get the better of the argument.
Mean-Machine, a C’Natti wordsmith, made his voice heard amid the hubbub and threw down a challenge. If Carnegie-Hall and those who supported him were speaking the truth where was this mysterious trio? Why had the Clan M’Call not brought them to the trading post where they could display their powers and spread their message to the assembled representatives of the Plainfolk?
Good point, thought Mr Snow. He cursed himself for not having a ready answer.
Carnegie-Hall leapt up angrily and confronted Mean-Machine, his menacing bulk towering over his smaller opponent. ‘Do you dare to call me a liar?!’
Prime-Cut – an equally imposing figure – rose and stepped off the low mound which the chairman traditionally occupied. ‘No!’ he cried. Pushing Carnegie-Hall and Mean-Machine apart, he aimed an arm between them, an accusing finger pointed at Mr Snow. ‘There sits the man who has lied to us all!’
His words drew a shocked gasp from the uncommitted and an angry roar from the She-Kargo wordsmiths. Half of them got to their feet, exchanging accusations and abuse with their more aggressive counterparts on the other side of the ring.
Prime-Cut spread his arms in a commanding gesture. ‘Cease this noise!’ he thundered. ‘Sit down and parley in the proper manner or leave this place!’
The uproar subsided as the more vociferous protestors and counter-protestors resumed their seats but the murmuring continued, becoming a sullen underswell of sound.
As Mean-Machine and Carnegie-Hall settled into their places, Mr Snow got to his feet and appealed to his supporters. ‘Let peace descend! Let your minds be tranquil. I am the one who stands accused here. My conscience is clear! Let the charges be heard!’
The murmuring gradually subsided under the fierce gaze of the Plainfolk’s two most prestigious wordsmiths. When silence had been obtained Mr Snow turned to face Prime-Cut in the centre of the bull-ring. Attracted by the violence of the argument, the open space between the inner and outer rings was now crowded with clan elders and other members of the various delegations.
As the R’Nato wordsmith circled him with a wolfish grin, Mr Snow muttered: ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘Oh, I do, my friend, I do.’ Prime-Cut halted by Mr Snow’s shoulder and thrust his mouth close to the Old One’s ear. ‘You are in deep shit,’ he whispered. ‘I’m going to bury you!’
‘You’re not the first man to try and do that.’ Mr Snow’s voice had a confident ring but he felt cold and sick inside. Already outnumbered on the ground, the She-Kargo was in danger of losing the battle for hearts and minds and he could see no way to reverse the situation.
Drawing back, Prime-Cut pointed a finger at his victim and addressed the ring of wordsmiths in a voice loud enough to carry to the expectant crowd beyond.
‘You have heard our brother speak! His name is renowned, his memory legend! Yet even he is bound, as we are, by the wordsmith’s oath to forswear all falsehoods, to faithfully chronicle the deeds of the Plainfolk and reveal, in their full majesty, the revelations of the Sky Voices!
‘To relay the truth, adorned and embellished by his art but sure and solid as a rock, clear and pure as a mountain stream’ – his voice hardened – ‘not buried beneath shifting sand, or muddied by deceit! You were witness to his claim that the Sky Voices had told him that Cadillac, Clearwater and Cloud-Warrior were born in the shadow of Talisman. Is that not so?!’
‘Aye!!’ chorused the wordsmiths.
‘Were those your words?’ demanded Prime-Cut.
Mr Snow sensed the trap but could see no way out. ‘They were.’
Prime-Cut could hardly contain himself. ‘You hear?!’ he thundered. ‘He stands condemned out of his own mouth! The young brave known to the Kojak as Cloud-Warrior, and who our revered brother’ – he indicated Mr Snow with an elaborate gesture
– ‘claims as one of the three M’Calls chosen to lead the Plainfolk towards nationhood is not a Mute at all!’
The charge provoked roars of anger and cries of disbelief.
‘“Cloud-Warrior” is a name as false as the colour of his skin! He is a sand-burrower from the dark cities – known to his masters as Brickman!’
More shouting. Prime-Cut demanded silence and faced Mr Snow. ‘How do you answer?!’
Mr Snow eyed his accuser calmly. ‘Is that it?’
‘No, there is more!’
‘Then I’ll wait till you’ve finished.’
Prime-Cut appealed to his audience. ‘Evasions! You see how his serpent tongue wriggles to avoid the truth?! Well I shall reveal it! All of you seated here who played host to The Chosen have been cruelly deceived! Cadillac, Clearwater and Cloud-Warrior are agents of the Federation! And they are not alone! Mr Snow – who would have us believe he is our brother – and the entire clan have sold their souls to the sand-burrowers!’
Once again the meeting erupted with cries of protest and condemnation. Charges and counter-charges were hurled back and forth by the opposing camps and the D’Troit and C’Natti wordsmiths set up a strident chant: ‘OUT-OUT-OUT-OUT!’ The confusion and bitterness spread amongst the spectators outside the bull-ring, leading to angry exchanges and physical violence. Fortunately there were enough line-capos on hand to restrain the D’Troit hot-heads who were clearly out to cause trouble. Mr Snow had foreseen this and following his midnight meeting with the leaders of the She-Kargo and M’Waukee delegations, their clanfolk had been given strict instructions not to succumb to any provocation from the rival camps.
In the midst of this commotion, Mr Snow stood firm. Seemingly oblivious of the jostling mass of bodies crowded around him, he radiated a deceptive calm like the eye of a hurricane.
Prime-Cut’s accusations were highly damaging but Mr Snow could not allow himself to be drawn into answering specific accusations. By remaining silent and allowing the torrent of charges to wash over him, he hoped to tempt Prime-Cut into revealing all his cards and – with luck – the R’Nato wordsmith might even end up as the accused instead of the accuser.
But it was hard to resist the cries of ‘Answer! Answer!’ from his own camp, and it was clear from the anguished expressions on all sides that many of his friends were in despair at his failure to defend himself.
Prime-Cut ran through a devastating list of questions to which Mr Snow had no answer. Had the sand-burrower not descended from the skies? Did the clan not harbour him in their midst and treat him as one of their own – to the point of even giving him a bedmate? Did they not release him? Had he not returned the following year on a new mission for his masters? Had Mr Snow not brought him to the trading post where he had stolen aboard a wheel-boat to join his two accomplices in Ne-Issan?
And once there, had they not wreaked bloody havoc at a place called the Heron Pool – slaughtering the true friends of the Plainfolk? The Iron Masters who furnished them with weapons and the necessities of existence? But even that was not enough! These ingrates had murdered Domain-Lord Yama-Shita, Captain of all the wheel-boats and master of the Great River! The visionary who over the past years had sought to deepen the links and friendship between Mute and Iron Master.
It was a long time since Mr Snow had heard such sycophantic rubbish but it was clear that Prime-Cut’s share of the audience were swallowing it whole. And they were cheering him on!
The calumny reached its climax. The M’Calls had betrayed their brothers, but that was only to be expected. Such treachery was in the blood of the She-Kargo. No longer able to maintain their superiority by force of arms, they were now seeking to bolster their position by secret deals with the sand-burrowers!
Again there was uproar, each side trying to howl the other down. It was a serious charge and it confirmed Mr Snow’s reading of the situation. His knowledge of what had happened in Ne-Issan was limited to what Cadillac had told Carnegie-Hall. But at Mr Snow’s request, Carnegie-Hall – when addressing the wordsmiths in the bull-ring – had not mentioned the battle at the Heron Pool or the death of Lord Yama-Shita.
Prime-Cut could have only gotten this information from the Iron Masters. The D’Troit and their allies the C’Natti were acting as mouthpieces for the Yama-Shita, but how deep did their involvement go – and how long had they been getting their act together? Long enough to put the She-Kargo on the spot. The degree of coordination between the D’Troit and She-Kargo and the inflated size of their delegations was proof of that. The Iron Masters intended to take their revenge here, at the trading post. Tomorrow. And they were using Prime-Cut to set the stage with his accusations.
It was time to begin the fight-back. He had to defend himself, his clan and the good name of the She-Kargo. And he had to do so publicly in a way that was effective but did not provoke an immediate and violent response. The battle, if there was to be one, had to be on a ground of his own choosing.
By putting him in the dock and trying to make scapegoats out of the M’Calls, Prime-Cut seemed to be trying to isolate the clan from the rest of the Plainfolk. Having achieved that, it would not be too difficult – in view of the enormity of their crimes – to persuade the gathering to hand the M’Call delegation over as a sacrificial offering to appease the Iron Masters. But it hadn’t worked. The vociferous support he had received from the other She-Kargo wordsmiths was proof that the M’Calls had not been abandoned. Which was, Mr Snow realized, just what Prime-Cut intended. The blow, when struck, would be aimed at the entire She-Kargo faction. The hand of the D’Troit would be on the knife but they would be acting for the dead-faces. And by this unparalleled act of treachery they hoped to fulfil their long-held ambition to become the paramount bloodline. It was ironic. The D’Troit had become the running dogs of the Iron Masters and yet it was the M’Calls who were accused of betraying the Plainfolk.
But it was not over yet …
The focus of Mr Snow’s attention turn outwards as the noise subsided. Prime-Cut stood in front of him, trembling as he cranked up the required level of indignation. ‘How do you answer?!’
Mr Snow chuckled then raised his voice to address the assembled wordsmiths. ‘How do I answer?’ He turned full circle, arms out-stretched. ‘My brothers under the sun, you have heard what passes as the truth fall from the lips of the D’Troit. You have seen their spokesman circle me like a hungry jackal around an ageing bull. Why? That is the question you must ask yourselves – and which I attempt to answer!
‘Why does he choose this moment to accuse me of treachery? Why does he attack the honour of the She-Kargo at a time when the Plainfolk have come together in peace and fellowship? Are his words as pure and clear as a mountain stream or do they mask some dark ambition of the D’Troit which they have yet to reveal?’
‘Heyy-yaahhh …’ The She-Kargo and M’Waukee wordsmiths and their supporters massed beyond the bull-ring voiced a sombre chorus of approval.
‘And you must also ask yourself how he knows these things. Who else is aware of the events of which he speaks?’
The question, aimed at those around him, met with no response.
‘Reflect on what he has told us. He speaks of Mutes who are not Mutes, of secret journeys through the clouds and across the seas to the Eastern Lands! Of battles between Mute and Iron Masters in which the noble lords of Ne-Issan perished in their hundreds! Of wheel-boats sunk by red-eyed nightbirds!
‘Are these inventions of a fevered mind? Dreams inspired by envy of his betters? If they are not, how does he know – in such detail – what took place far beyond the Great River, beyond the Running Red Buffalo Hills?! He does not speak, like you or I who only a short while ago listened to our brother Carnegie but as someone with foreknowledge of these events! He has never met The Chosen yet he speaks of their great battle at the Heron Pool and the death of Domain-Lord Yama-Shita as if he had been there!
‘How can he know of such things! There can only be one answer! These words through whi
ch he seeks to bring disgrace upon me and the She-Kargo were put into his mouth by the dead-faces – an alien race that would make slaves of us all!’
‘Heyy-YAHHH!’ This time it was a full-throated cheer. And it came from all sides of the ring.
Mr Snow raised his voice. ‘Well, they will not make slaves of the She-Kargo! The weapons they provide are not given to us. They are exchanged for goods we gather through sweat and blood and our most priceless possession – our Clan-brothers and sisters! Think back to when this all began. Have you forgotten how they killed those who refused their offerings?! And yet this man stands before us and says we must show gratitude? For what?! We trade with the dead-faces not by choice but by necessity! But there is one thing we will never trade – our freedom!’
This ringing declaration was greeted by a tumultuous cheer.
Mr Snow pointed to Prime-Cut. ‘He charges me with treachery! He tries to tell you that The Chosen are agents of the Federation because they were born to the bloodline of the She-Kargo! What will his hatred and envy lead him to do next?! Deny the power of Talisman?
‘The Chosen do not belong to the Clan M’Call or the She-Kargo or the D’Troit! They are of the Plainfolk! The first of the Lost Ones to return from the Eastern Lands – as it was prophesied – to herald the coming of the Thrice-Gifted One! Under his banner we shall become a mighty nation! We shall crush the dark cities and drive the dead-faces back into the sea!
‘This should be a time of rejoicing, not anger! Are we not all brothers under the sun?’
The ground shook as ten thousand voices chanted their response. ‘Heyy-YAHHH! Heyy-YAHHH! HEYY-YAAHHH!!’
Mr Snow pointed to Prime-Cut. ‘Then beware of those who seek to divide us, for it is they who are the real enemy!’
The wordsmiths leapt to their feet to avoid being trampled down by the excited crowd pressing in around them. Those from the D’Troit camp looked sullen and frustrated but everyone else, including many of the C’Natti were cheering and raising their fists in a gesture of solidarity.
Death-Bringer Page 13
