by James Axler
“Business?” Tag asked. “It may not have reached the Lakes yet, but soon enough everyone is going to know that you’ve been trading punches with Toulalan and his convoy. If we nightcreep Toulalan or any of his people in camp, that’s as bad as an open fight, worse actually.”
“Tag, you’re going to be downright respectful of camp law, and if you see Toulalan, or even Six, you’re going to be polite. Hell, buy them a spruce beer on me and tell them what noble opponents they’ve been.”
Tag started to smile. “And if they’re really going out on the water?”
“If you’re right, and it’s who we think it is, Toulalan and his people won’t be his only passengers, and the convoy won’t be the only cargo.”
Tag’s smile turned shrewd. “You want to put some cargo on the same boat with Toulalan?”
“I do.”
“A bomb is risky, Mace. All we have is black powder. It’s hard to fuse long term, and we have to expect to see our cargo inspected. Besides, if you sink them, we lose everything.”
“I didn’t say sink, Tag.”
Everyone once in a while Tag had to remind himself that he wasn’t smarter than Mace Henning, just better educated and well read. It galled Tag to admit he had no idea what Mace was planning. “What do you have in mind?”
Mace seemed quite pleased with himself. “Oh, a little disruption. A little something to slow them down, until we find out where Toulalan is really headed.”
Tag gave up. “What do you want me to do?”
“Pick your men. Say, eight, besides Red and the twins. Pick veterans, and don’t just pick them for the coins around their necks. Pick men who can keep their head in the trading camp. Men who will stay steady even if Vinny smiles at them across the gaudy-house bar and waves a scalp or Jimmy Pickering’s change at them.”
“So…not Shorty?” Tag inquired.
Mace snorted. “No, not Shorty.”
“What’s this cargo you want me to place, Mace?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about what we’ve seen since we come south. I’m thinking you’re going to need them spent ammo cylinders from Nolan’s recoilless. I’d say maybe, oh, eight of them.”
“Yes?”
“Then I think you’re going to need maybe four buckets of blood. Just tell the men to line up and contribute.”
Tag mulled this strange set of instructions over. “And…”
“And when you get to Tobermory—” Mace’s grin was as ugly as Tag had ever seen it “—trade for some ice.”
Chapter Nine
Ryan was back in the LAV. Krysty was behind the wheel of the big rig and she was taking to the semi like a duck to water. Seriah stood in the turret next to Ryan. The LAVs needed the least attention of any of the vehicles in the convoy, but the little wrench loved spending time around them when she had any to spare. She also seemed to like hanging around anyplace where Jak happened to be, and Jak was driving.
The convoy found itself inside the Bruce trading camp long before they got to the gates of Tobermory. The land around the trading camp was a camp itself. It was high summer. People from all corners of the Lakes and even farther afield were getting in their last bit of trading before they scrambled home to dig in and beat the freeze. Tents and lean-tos filled every available inch of open space. Looking upward, many of the larger trees sported temporary tree houses. Every eye turned to the convoy as it passed. Even in the Deathlands the Val-d’Or convoy would be something to see. Ryan stood in the commander’s hatch of the LAV and knew that somewhere Trader was smiling.
The convoy stopped at the gate.
A twenty-foot-tall wooden palisade of thick tree trunks surrounded Tobermory trading camp proper. The gates were open. A guard tower crouched on either side of the gate, and a battered Browning .50-caliber machine blaster in each put anything approaching the gate in a cross fire. Gun teams manned each weapon. The men were wore their hair in black braids and wore homespun shirts, breechclouts, leggings and moccasins. The heavy machine blasters eyed the approaching road like the chilling eyes of death. The men behind them tried to look mean.
The sight of Ryan standing in the turret of the LAV with a 25 mm autocannon beneath him was clearly giving the gate guards pause. One guard reached up and began yanking on a bell rope. The bell clanked more than rang, but the effect was immediate. In the blink of an eye braided and buck-skinned sec men appeared on the walls of the palisade bearing blasters of every description. Toulalan stepped out of his camper wag and climbed up the ladder to the roof. Cyrielle joined him.
A whitehair appeared on the wall. Despite his advanced age, he was a towering figure of a man. He wore his hair in a single, grizzled braid that hung over his left shoulder. Though the late-afternoon was hot and humid, he wore a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Toulalan called up to the wall. “Jon Hard-knife! Great sachem!”
The old man’s voice was deep and carried. “I am Jon Hard-knife!”
“I am Yoann Toulalan, son of Baron Luc Toulalan! Baron of ville Val-d’Or across the Ottawa!”
“I have heard of the great Baron Luc Toulalan! I see his son has become a great leader, as well!”
“I wish to enter your camp to trade and then embark upon the water!”
Jon Hard-knife’s hand extended from beneath his blanket. He pointed a stick hung with fetishes at the wags in the convoy. “All here obey camp law! All here are under my protection and the protection of the First Nations! Why do you come with so many men, and so much iron and fire? Many here will not accept it.”
“I’m at war with Baron Mace Henning! Only in strength can I traverse Ontario.”
“This is known to me.” Jon Hard-knife shook his head. “You know camp law. Take your war away from here, and off the Bruce. The First Nations will not abide it.”
Toulalan turned and nodded at Ryan. Toulalan had briefed them. Ryan spoke quietly down the commander’s hatch. “J.B.?”
The turret whined. Ryan pivoted on the balls of his feet gracefully to stay facing forward as the turret turned to face back. The turret turned its back to the gate and the barrel of the 25 mm weapon lowered to its deepest declination. Every member of the convoy simultaneously lowered whatever blaster they had shouldered or were stationed behind.
Toulalan spread both hands. “My people will all dismount, all except for the drivers. They’ll drive to the docks and then put every wag in your custody until we embark. I’ll put myself and my sister beneath your knife while this takes place.”
Toulalan took out a long belt of shell beads. Most were white, but lines of purplish ones made a pattern through the belt. It had been a while but Ryan knew wampum when he saw it.
“Stephane Toulalan, the first baron of Val-d’Or, married a woman of the First Nations!” Toulalan held the wampum belt high. “It was she who first recorded the history of Val-d’Or since skydark in the old way! It has recorded the days of my people ever since! This belt speaks my truth!”
Jon Hard-knife lowered his stick. “Many years has it been since the French have come to the Bruce. You are welcome here. Drive your wags to the docks, and keep them.”
A First Nations warrior jumped into the back of the lead wag and the convoy rumbled through the gates. Very little of predark Tobermory remained. Most predark construction, even if it was well preserved, couldn’t withstand the hard freeze without electricity. Nearly all of the original buildings had been stripped and torn down to their foundations to be replaced by heavy timber houses and cabins. The Bruce trading camp was booming. Booths and open tent warehouses filled every inch of open space.
People were everywhere and everywhere people were trading. Bales of dried and smoked fish were piled chin-high. Piles of skins and bolts of wool, hemp and cotton were everywhere. In one tent a man was hawking homemade blasters while in the one next to it a
woman was selling predark ones. A blacksmith and his two apprentices next to them had set up shop to repair both. Ryan saw barrels of oil and blankets covered with ivory harvested from the narwhals of Hudson Bay. Bearskins, both grizz and polar, competed for attention. Piles of scrap metal and predark salvage lay everywhere. Tinkers abounded, specializing in mending or hybridizing almost anything predark. Painted women stood in front of gaudy brothel tents pedaling their wares.
Most of the shelters in the ville proper were obviously temporary, and Ryan suspected the population of the camp contracted severely in winter. Like mayflies spending their lives in a single day, Canada hummed in the ephemeral warmth. Sowing, reaping, raiding and trading all had to be done before the long cold came.
The convoy rumbled through the trading camp and came to the docks. Boats of every description filled the wooden piers, and the beach around it was a sea of canoes, kayaks and rowboats. Ryan stared out across the main channel. Its dark waters was dappled pink, red and gold by the low sun and sheeting Northern Lights. The convoy came to a halt on the concrete pier that had once serviced major lake-going vessels. Ryan clambered down and joined Toulalan on the dock. Their First Nations guide gave them the quick low-down.
“Camp is worm free, but you can’t be too careful. Don’t sleep on the ground. If you sleep in your wags, button up. You sleep in camp, buy a hammock if you don’t got one. No stealing. We catch you stealing, you’re banished. No fighting. If you brawl, you’re banished. Your trades are your business. If you have a dispute, you come to us. If you don’t want it mediated, you take it outside, and you take it all the way south till you’re all the off the Bruce and the 6 ends.”
Toulalan gave a short bow. “Be assured, we will observe all camp laws and protocols.”
Jon Hard-knife turned and walked away without another word.
Toulalan clapped his hands happily. “Well, Ryan, mon ami! I’m going to take gifts to Jon Hard-knife and discuss the situation on the Lakes. I will also ask him about hiring guides for the journey ahead. We’ll be spending the night here. I suspect most of my people will seek diversions and amusements. Were I you, I would avail myself of the opportunity to trade. I intend to beat the cold, but should we lose the race, you’ll want winter gear.”
It wasn’t bad advice.
Ryan and his crew took some trade goods out of the LAV and then went shopping.
Most exchanges in the camp were barter of goods or services. The trading camp accepted ville jack but at a pretty steep exchange rate. Their own jack was a simple wooden token with “1” for First Nations carved and then branded upon it. It seemed like pretty easy jack to counterfeit, but rumor had it doing so was a death sentence and war with the entire First Nations Federation.
Ryan and his people had taken a great deal of disposable wealth out of the Borden Diefenbunker. Predark steel was always at a premium, and Ryan had taken the bayonets that came with the Diefenbunker blasters they had taken for trading. With them the one-eyed man acquired a Russkie-style ushanka and muff that nearly matched Krysty’s bearskin coat. Jak, J.B. and Mildred got hooded capote jackets. Mildred found Doc a surtout that was a blanket-cut version of the frock coat he normally wore and could wear over it. Krysty found Ryan his winter gear—a buffalo robe that had been cut while the animal had still been wearing his thick, shaggy, dark brown winter coat. Everyone acquired gloves, fur overboots and skin leggings with the fur on the inside.
Beyond that Ryan and his people didn’t need much.
A handful of shells at the seamstress stall got Doc’s long-serving frock coat once again patched and mended to a semblance of its former glory, and a bullet hole in J.B.’s fedora had been skillfully mended. Jak got his blades professionally sharpened by a bald, blind man pedaling a stone wheel. The sharpener nodded appreciatively as he ran his hands over Jak’s knives. Sparks flew from the wheel as the man turned the edges of Jak’s fighters and throwers shaving sharp. “Nice blades,” he said.
“Thanks.” Jak made his arsenal of steel disappear. Sometimes Ryan wondered how it was that Jak didn’t clank when he walked.
Ryan had watched the man’s work and let him put a new edge on his panga and slaughtering knife. A chorus of whoops and cheers suddenly erupted out of a tent down the lane. “What’s that?” Ryan asked.
The cutlerist looked up and exposed his few remaining teeth in a smile. “Throwin’ contest.”
Krysty whirled instinctively. “Jak…”
Jak was already walking toward the action. Ryan paid the craftsman the agreed two .22 rounds for his services, then he and Krysty strode after Jak. The open tent was crowded with spectators and stank of sweat, spruce beer and maple-sap hooch. A thin-as-a-blade First Nations warrior stood shirtless in the middle of the tent while onlookers pounded him on the back. Someone shoved a stoop of spruce beer into his hand and foam ran down his chest and belly as he drank deeply in victory. A stocky ville man stomped out of the arena and dropped a pair of end-heavy, diamond-pointed throwers onto a blanket loaded with blades, jack and loot. He had obviously lost, and he cursed and was roundly cursed as he passed by onlookers who had bet on him and lost.
Jak stood in front of a six-foot First Nations woman who towered over him. A man’s plaid shirt barely restrained her enormous breasts. It was pretty clear she wasn’t wearing anything else underneath, and she was flashing perilous amounts of long thigh. She wasn’t a beauty, but she was long, tall and gaudy hot with attitude as she stood straddling the blanket loaded with jack and loot. She tossed her braids and talked to Jak like he was a small child. “Costs to get in, kid.”
Jak stiffened. Ryan almost stepped forward. If you wanted to start a fight with Jak Lauren, and that wasn’t hard at all, a good way to cut to the chase was to call the young man “kid.” The woman noted Jak’s body language and grinned as she ran a tongue over her teeth. “Kid?” she rubbed in. “Costs even more to lose.”
The man on the throwing field called out, “You got another sucker for me, Maddie?”
“Don’t know, Tommy!” Maddie called back. “Even for a white guy, this kid’s awfully pale.” She looked Jak up and down from head to toe. “But for a little punk, he’s awfully pretty!”
Ryan stepped forward as Jak reached under his jacket. The albino teen produced one of the P-226s they had taken from the Diefenbunker armory and tossed it on the blanket. “SIG-Sauer, 9 mm, loaded mag. In.”
Several spectators gasped. A handblaster in such gleaming condition represented a small fortune. “Jak…” Krysty cautioned. “Those are for trade, not gambling.”
Jak didn’t grin often, but he was grinning now. “Friendly contest.”
Maddie tossed back her head and laughed. It was like a bell ringing in the tent. “Tommy True-flight has another victim!”
The crowd roared.
Ryan leaned into Jak’s ear. “These people are just like the First People back in the Deathlands. They don’t give you a name unless you earned it. This guy’s name is True-flight. He doesn’t have wings.”
Jak just kept grinning. “Bet against me,” he suggested.
Maddie watched the exchange with a frown and put a bare foot on top of the SIG. “Blaster’s on the blanket! Bet’s on!”
The crowd roared again.
Tommy True-flight tossed back his beer and tossed the stoop back over his shoulder for one of his admirers to catch. “Come on, kid! Let’s see how handy you are with the steel!”
Jak stood unmoving. “Wager?”
Tommy gave Jak a pitying look. “What ya got?”
Jak turned to Ryan. “SIG.”
“Jak…”
Jak just stuck out his hand. Ryan sighed as he drew the spare, personal SIG he’d taken from the bunker and staked his friend. Jak tossed it on the blanket. “’Nother SIG.”
Tommy True-flight looked on the wea
pon sourly. Jak’s entry fee and his wager trumped all the jack on the blanket. “You come here and challenge me? Make a bet my blanket can’t cover and think you make your rep that way? Tell you what, kid. Me and you can take a ride down the Bruce. Just off the 6. Play for blood if you like.”
Several First Nations warriors wearing the red sashes of camp sec men stepped forward, blasters in hand to intercede.
The tent grew very quiet.
“Nah. Take the blanket.” Jak looked up from the blanket of Tommy’s winnings and grinned at Maddie. “And her. One hour.”
The crowd roared.
Maddie looked at Jak in open speculation,
Tommy True-flight looked none too pleased.
An enormously fat man in homespun overalls who smelled suspiciously like a pig farmer slammed Jak on the back. “You’re the man, kid!”
Jak’s red albino eyes went dead as he turned them on the pig farmer. “What you call me, Fatty?”
Fatty recoiled. “You…I mean…I said…you the man! You the man!”
True-flight gave Jak the stone face. “You’re on.”
The crowd roared once more.
Maddie didn’t seem totally displeased with the stakes.
Bets flew around the tent.
Tommy True-flight was heavily favored, but a vocal minority liked Jak’s style and they were putting their jack where their mouths were. Ryan pulled out his pocket full of wooden First Nations jack. “Five to one on Jak!”
Krysty held her jack between her hands and shook it overhead so that it clicked and rattled. “Ten to one!”
Fatty raised a leather purse and swung it around overhead with renewed enthusiasm for his hero. “Ten to one on the man!”
The bets were covered instantly.
Tommy True-flight stepped up and used his height to look down his nose at Jak. “Coming up on noon. I want a beer, my woman and a nap in my hammock. Let’s make this quick. Three throws. Most hits in the bull’s-eye wins. If it’s close or a tie, second, sudden death throw-off. Good?”
