Steve drew the quarterstaff out of its leather sling and ran his hands along it, caressing the scarred wood. It felt good. A tingle of excitement ran up his arms as if, in holding it, he had released a store of hidden energy in the shaft. He thanked Night-Fever, using the elliptical syntax that characterised Mute fire-speech; the language of formal encounters. ‘My tongue cannot speak the words that fill my heart. You honour me with a great gift.’
Night-Fever raised her eyes to meet his. ‘It is you that honour me, Cloud-Warrior. After the earth-thunder I searched for your body among the stones. This was all I could find to mark your passing. I gave it to our clan-sister Clearwater. When she left us she gave it back to me to guard until she or you returned. I kept it when I could no longer remember why. Yesterday, when Mr Snow summoned you from the fire, I understood. His words swept away the dark mists that cloud my mind.’
Steve laid the quarterstaff down between them in the hope that it would bring Night-Fever’s hazy memory into focus. ‘Did Clearwater speak to you of me? Did she leave a message?’
The struggle to remember brought tears to her eyes. She wiped them away and shook her head. ‘The words have gone. I was to give you the staff.’
Steve responded by bowing his head. ‘Thank you for bringing it to me. May the great Sky-Mother watch over you.’
It was one of the polite ways to say goodbye, but Night-Fever stayed put. She bent forward until her nose was almost touching the ground. ‘Let me walk in your shadow, Cloud-Warrior. If you have need of anything let my hands and body provide it.’
‘My needs are few,’ replied Steve, anxious not to upset her.
Night-Fever met his eyes again, this time with a faint, mocking smile. ‘I ask only to serve you. I do not seek the reward of your bed-favours.’
Uncertain whether she was referring to his previous rejection of her, Steve said, ‘I am not of your people, Night-Fever. Only when I have done that which Talisman has sent me to do will I be of the Plainfolk. Until then, the pleasures you speak of are not mine to enjoy. If, knowing this, you still wish to walk in my shadow during the day then so be it. Let’s give it a whirl.’
Night-Fever seized his hands and kissed them rapturously. Steve shooed her away and went in search of Jodi.
After being paraded in triumph in front of the assembled clan, the renegades had been dispersed throughout the settlement. Each breaker was made the responsibility of a small group of Mutes who fed him and made sure he, or she, was securely guarded at all times. They were kept barefoot, usually tethered to a post, and isolated from each other. This prevented any concerted plan of escape and, as a further disincentive, each breaker was clamped into heavy wooden leg restraints. Medicine-Hat and Jodi were no longer allowed to tend to the wounded. It was clear that the M’Calls had no intention of allowing them to be a conduit for whispered messages. Mr Snow, already the clan’s medicine-man, promptly identified those in need of treatment and began applying his mashed concoctions to the wounds that still remained to be healed. Having satisfied himself that Jodi was being as well looked after as the circumstances allowed, Steve proceeded to keep his distance. In their different ways they were both prisoners, and there was nothing he could do to change the situation.
For the first few days, after his unexpected elevation to the role of potential folk hero, Steve found it difficult to relax but, by the end of the first week it was as if he had never been away. Having already given proof of his courage by biting the arrow, Steve asked Mr Snow if he could be allowed to dress as a Mute. The question was referred to Rolling-Stone and the council of elders. They, in turn, consulted Blue-Thunder. The new paramount warrior agreed to allow Steve to run with the Bears. He would not, however, be considered a fully-fledged warrior until he had chewed bone.
Steve called upon Night-Fever and her two blood-sisters to help provide him with a set of ‘walking skins’. His request for aid met with an enthusiastic response and by the end of the second week he had acquired a complete outfit, including a stone-decorated helmet and body-plates and a head-to-toe paint job. The last time Steve’s hair had been cut had been prior to his appearance before the Board of Assessors some four and a half months back. While at Rio Lobo it had been expertly ‘conditioned’ to look as if it had been clumsily trimmed with a knife. As a result, the characteristic crew-cut shape had almost completely disappeared. Steve had been given back the strips of blue, solar cell fabric he had been wearing on arrival at Pueblo and he now asked Night-Fever to plait these back into his hair.
Mr Snow stopped by to survey the She-Wolves’ handiwork.
‘What do you think?’ asked Steve as the final touches were completed.
Mr Snow answered with an admiring nod. ‘You could fool me…’
Steve surveyed his patterned arms. ‘You sure this stuff’ll come off?’
‘It was your idea. Would you be worried if it didn’t?’
‘I guess I could learn to live with it,’ replied Steve diplomatically.
Mr Snow chuckled. ‘Well, now’s your big chance.’ He gave him a friendly slap on the arm. ‘Listen, since Cadillac is away, why don’t you take over his hut? You don’t want me breathing down your neck all the time.’
Steve eyed him, wondering what lay behind this remark. ‘Will he mind?’
Mr Snow shrugged. ‘It’s where you slept before. It should help make you feel at home.’
The hut was erected a short distance from Mr Snow’s. The flexible side poles were driven into the ground between the eight sections of the base frame then bent over and tied into the smoke ring with tough strands of woven grass. The cover, made of stitched panels of buffalo hide, was then slipped over the top, pulled taut and fastened around the base. Entry was through a door flap that could be sealed against bad weather. The floor was usually covered with straw mats and a Mute’s meagre belongings, usually contained in skin bags or matting rolls, were packed around the inside edge to form a draughtproof seal.
The smoke ring, as its name implied, provided ventilation for the small amount of smoke emanating from the fire-stone, a coiled clay bowl containing a cake of animal fat with a wick made from twisted strands of wild flax to which small pieces of kindling could be added. The fire-stone was solely to provide a source of illumination and a small amount of heat; cooking was a communal activity conducted in the open air and supervised by the female clan-elders. Mutes were remarkably adept at lighting fires by the rod and bow method and every adult carried a small supply of dry tinder. If a torrential downpour made a fire impractical, the clan contended itself with dried or uncooked food.
Even if Night Fever’s appearance been more appetising, Steve would still not have wanted her to move into his hut. And he would not have wanted Clearwater to take up residence either. After dark was the only time he could count on being alone and undisturbed.
On the first night in his new quarters, while the rest of the settlement slumbered peacefully, he removed one of the two pieces of wood that made up the handle of his knife, to expose the micro-circuitry inside. With the aid of the tiny stylus provided he keyed in a message for the back-up group to relay to Grand Central. The system could store up to five thousand words even though transmissions were rarely of such lengths. As each letter was keyed in, the words appeared in small black letters on a bronze-grey strip that made up the thirty-character liquid crystal display.
Once the message was complete, the entire text could be scrolled across the window at normal reading speed. It could also be stopped at any point to make insertions or deletions. By pressing another miniature key, the message could be automatically encoded then transmitted by means of yet another single-stroke command. A day/ date timer allowed the transceiver to be switched on and off at pre-set intervals to send, receive, and store messages – rather like a telephone answering machine. By reversing the procedure, incoming messages that had been automatically recorded and transferred to memory could be retrieved, decoded and read off the display whenever it was safe to do so. The
normal range, depending on the terrain, was thirty to fifty miles; this could be doubled with the aid of a filament aerial stored on a tiny spool inside the knife handle.
Steve’s first text consisted of a brief account of his reinstatement as a semi-permanent house-guest of the clan M’Call and the news that Cadillac and Clearwater had departed the settlement sometime in November. He was careful not tell Karlstrom where, or why, they had gone, or the type of transportation they’d used to get there. He had enough problems without handing the Family another stick to beat him with. He limited himself to reporting their absence and the date they were expected to reappear adding that, while no explanation had been offered, he believed that they had probably been despatched as emissaries to the other Plainfolk clans in the hope of creating a joint force to resist the wagon-trains. Since Karlstrom had expressed concern at the prospect that just such a move might already be underway, Steve knew his report was unlikely to be questioned.
On the following night, Steve found Karlstrom’s reply stored in the transceiver’s memory. Steve was to stay with the clan until Cadillac and Clearwater returned. He was to make no move against Mr Snow. Operation SQUAREDANCE would be put on hold until further notice. In the meantime, wagon-trains and Trail-Blazer teams would not mount fire-sweeps in the area now occupied by the M’Calls.
In a second transmission, Steve reported the capture of the renegades and their probable fate. Karlstrom responded by asking him to monitor events as closely as he could, stressing it was vital that he passed on every scrap of information he could gather about the Iron Masters – something he had intended to do anyway in order to satisfy his own curiosity.
Steve’s first outings were on local hunting trips then, when he had demonstrated a reasonable level of prowess, he was invited to go further afield in the hunt for buffalo and on patrols of the clan’s turf – the limits of which were indicated by decorated marker poles.
It was now the first quarter of the Mute Year. The months of March, April, and May were known as the Time of the New Earth. As the days went by Steve noticed a marked increase in his powers of endurance. He had been physically toughened by the back-breaking work in the A-Levels but he was surprised to discover that he was now much better able to keep up with the accompanying posse of Bears, matching their relentless loping stride on all but the longest runs. It was as if, in assuming the guise of a Mute, he had tapped into a secret source of power hidden within his body.
In spite of his progress, his status remained that of an honoured guest and he was treated with all the polite formality that term implies. He might consider himself to be almost the equal of a M’Call warrior but he had not yet chewed bone – and he had not been accorded the privilege of handling a Mute crossbow.
Coming back one day with a hunting party, Steve found himself passing the area where Jodi was tethered. He broke away from the posse of Bears and went over to her. It was the first time he had seen her since opting to dress as a Mute. For some reason it had not felt at all strange and he had grown so accustomed to it he had completely forgotten the dramatic change in his appearance. ‘Hi, how’s it going?’
It took Jodi several seconds to recognise him and even then she wasn’t sure. ‘Brickman…?’
‘Right first time.’ Steve squatted down beside her. ‘Thought I’d stop by to see if you needed anything.’
Jodi drew away from him instinctively then ran her eyes over him, taking in every detail from his beribboned rat-tail plaits to his mocca-sined feet. ‘You are one weird sonofabitch, Brickman. What the fuck’s going’ on?’
Steve shrugged. ‘A lot of things you won’t ever know about.’ He saw the expression on her face. A mixture of distaste, dismay and utter disbelief. ‘Trust me.’
Jodi’s mouth tightened. ‘I’m not sure I want to.’
‘Don’t be such an asshole. We’re from the same outfit –’
‘We were. Right now, I’m not sure where you’re coming from.’
Steve ignored the interruption. ‘We’re both from Big Blue, Jodi. We’re the same kind of people.’
‘I wouldn’t have guessed from lookin’ at you. You must be out of your tiny mind.’
‘Listen! All I’m trying to say “don’t go by appearances”. I owe you one. You saved my life. And as a result of doing so you ended up in this jam. I intend to do my level best to see you get out of it in one piece.’
Jodi eyed him with doleful resignation and shook her head. ‘There’s no way out, Brickman. Once these lumps sell us down the river that’s it. Terminada.’
‘You don’t know that. None of us do. Maybe I can fix up some kind of a deal, y’know? Find some way to keep you off the boat.’
‘Maybe… and then what? Stay here with these shit-kickers?’ She laughed wryly. ‘If you really want to do me a favour, come back some night, cut me loose, give me a blade and show me the way out.’
‘I can’t do that. And don’t try it. On foot and on your own you haven’t a hope.’
‘Then kill me.’ Her eyes met his. ‘I mean it.’
‘I know,’ said Steve. ‘But I can’t do that either.’
Jodi bared her teeth. ‘You must have slipped through Big Blue when they weren’t looking. You haven’t got the guts to be a Tracker and you ain’t mean enough to be a Mute!’
‘Listen –’
‘Get lost, Brickman! You’re no fuggin use to anybody!’
Harsh words. Steve swallowed his reply and rose with a gesture of regret. As he walked away he wondered what she would have said if he had been able to tell her about the AMEXICO connection, the way Roz had been used to apply pressure on him, or his feelings for Clearwater. It was pointless to speculate on what her response might have been. He could say nothing to anyone. He had to remain silent and take it on the chin. In the circumstances, her reaction was perfectly understandable but it still riled him. It didn’t matter. His anger would pass. He still intended to save her from the Iron Masters if he could.
As the month of May began, so did the clan’s preparation for the journey to meet the Iron Masters. The warrior’s long knives were finely honed and burnished until they shone like mirrors; crossbows were cleaned and oiled, the wooden stocks rubbed until they gleamed. The shaped leather body armour and helmets were refurbished, cracked stones and bones were replaced along with fresh arrays of feathers and other, more gruesome relics attesting to a warrior’s prowess in mortal combat. Turf marker poles, with their clusters of carved and coloured wooden plaques were brightened up and adorned with ceremonial motifs.
The captured renegades also figured in these preparations. They were taken singly, under close guard, to the stream running past the settlement and told to strip and wash. Their patched fatigues and undergarments were laundered and repaired, they were even given extra helpings of food, and each day they were groomed and exercised like prize show cattle.
Hunting trips and turf patrols continued alongside these assiduous preparations and Steve – who had avoided all contact with the captive breakers since his run-in with Jodi – joined the posses whenever he was allowed to do so.
Four days before the renegades were due to begin their journey to meet the wheel-boats, Steve joined a posse of sixty Bears on an extended patrol of the southern section of the M’Call’s turf. On the second day, one of the flank scouts found the butchered carcass of a fast-foot. The head, ribcage and entrails of the deer had been buried, but the grave had been too shallow and had not been secured with rocks. As a result, it had been dug up by a passing family of coyotes. Mutes did not bury carcasses of animals killed on hunting trips. They were gutted and carried back to the settlement on poles. For it to have been hidden in this way was a sure sign of intruders.
A careful search of the area turned up further clues. A broad leaf, crushed underfoot, bore a tell-tale pattern of dried blood – the bar tread sole of a Tracker boot – left by someone who had helped slaughter the deer. In a nearby cluster of rocks, a fire had been lit under an overhang where the fla
mes would not be directly visible from the surrounding terrain. The ashes had been carefully dispersed and the site swept clean of footprints but the rock cleft bore traces of fresh soot and the Mutes, with their keen sense of smell, could detect the lingering odour in the larger pieces of charred wood. This fire had been alight the day before.
Observing the way the Bears prowled around looking for clues and the excited way they evaluated each discovery, Steve decided they got as much pleasure from the deductive process as from the subsequent chase and kill. Blue-Thunder, the leader of the posse, showed Steve a misshapen, hollow-point round that had been dug out of the fast-foot’s skull. ‘Your people…’
Steve frowned. ‘This far north already?’ Wagon-trains normally emerged from the Fort Worth depot at the beginning of April but the first month was spent on re-supply runs to way-stations. It was too soon for them to appear – and besides, Karlstrom had said that the Trail-Blazers units would be diverted elsewhere.
Blue-Thunder shook his head. ‘Not sand-burrowers. Red-skins.’
The Mute name for renegades – who called themselves breakers. The Federation saw them as criminals, they saw themselves in a more heroic light, rebels who had beaten the system. The Mutes made no value-judgement, the red-skins were just another of the many life-forms inhabiting the overground.
‘Are you going after them?’
‘You bet. The dead-faces make good trade with us.’
‘Dead-faces…?’
‘Iron Masters. They take our clan-brothers and sisters and give us sharp iron. But one red-skin is worth twenty Plainfolk. Better to trade them than send our people down the river.’
‘What happens to them?’ asked Steve.
First Family Page 29
