First Family

by Patrick Tilley

  Steve glimpsed a flurry of activity on the fore-deck of the nearest flank-boat. A group of Iron Masters – samurai and reds – appeared at the head of the walkway and descended in single file. In their midst were three bare-foot individuals whose arms were tightly bound behind their backs. They were clad only in red baggy trousers. A placard, bearing several of the strange word-signs, hung around their necks and down over their hairless, yellow-tinted chests. They walked with their heads bowed and instead of the usual masks, their faces were covered with a piece of straw matting, with holes cut out for the eyes and nostrils.

  Defaulters, thought Steve. So the Iron Masters had their lawbreakers too.

  More M’Calls joined those already on the beach and within minutes their numbers were swelled by She-Kargo Mutes from other clans. The leading samurai approached Mr Snow. Everybody bowed.

  ‘We will now demonstrate potential of new weapon.’ He indicated a second samurai. ‘Now you give rifle.’

  Mr Snow bowed from the waist and handed it over to the second samurai who responded in a similar manner. Steve, Blue-Thunder and those closest to them watched carefully as the samurai marksman loaded the rifle. One of his red-stripes held open a small wooden casket. In it was a row of slots containing the ribbon detonators, and four rings of holes, each containing ten bullets. With deft fingers, the samurai inserted the reel of paper ribbon containing the beads of powder, advanced the first section under the hammer and tore off the excess. Then breaking the rifle open, he fitted ten rounds into the holes in the cylinder. Compared to the steelpoint rounds made by the Federation they looked enormous. A total waste of energy and metal. A clear case of overkill.

  While this was going on, the three luckless dinks destined to be on the receiving end of this demonstration were marched northwards up the beach. Three stout posts had been planted one behind the other in the shingle, the first about one hundred yards from where Steve stood alongside the samurai with the rifle, the last a considerable distance away. The first defaulter was placed to the right of the first post, his head coming more or less level with the top. The execution party went on down the beach with the other ‘targets’. As each victim was placed in position, the placard round his neck was reversed, presenting a blank white square for the rifleman to aim at. The red-stripes escorting each man then withdrew to the water’s edge. Groups of Mutes, responding to waves from the chief Iron Master, ran along the grassy fringe of the beach and stood opposite each of the execution sites.

  The stage was set. Steve could only make a guesstimate of the range but, by comparison with the first post, the second appeared to be some two hundred and fifty yards away, the third around five hundred. The guy standing alongside was little more than a dot on the landscape. Without an optical sight the samurai would need assistance from someone like Talisman to have a hope of hitting him.

  The chief samurai barked out an order. The marskman raised the rifle, pulled it hard into his shoulder, took aim and fired. There was a loud bang. A tongue of flame leapt briefly out of the barrel followed by a cloud of white smoke. The noise made by the gun was followed almost immediately by a sharp explosive crack as the bullet smashed into the post by the side of the first victim’s head, sending a shower of cream-coloured wood splinters into the air. The M’Calls standing nearby saw the dead-face raise his head and square his shoulders. The second shot pierced the straw mask, slamming him backwards as it blew his skull apart.

  ‘Heyyy-yahhh,’ murmured the watching Mutes.

  The rifleman adjusted the back sight, took aim, blew a hole through the second post then felled the victim with a chest shot, the heavy bullet passing through the centre of the placard. The small crowd responded with another cry of approbation.

  Steve turned to Mr Snow. ‘I take back what I said. It’s got real knock-down capability but it’s not the answer. Too much noise and smoke. It’ll give away your position every time you fire.’

  ‘True. But first your people have to get into range.’

  ‘I wouldn’t get too excited. Let’s see how well he does with the next one.’

  Taking careful aim, the rifleman fired at the third post. The red-stripes standing opposite, by the water’s edge, signalled a hit. The samurai eased the rifle off his shoulder, breathed deeply then cradled it again, drew a bead on the third dead-face and squeezed the trigger. Ba-boommm!

  The man didn’t go down.

  There was a moment’s silence then there was a curious breathy cry from the watching Iron Masters. ‘Hhhawwww!’

  Lowering the butt of the rifle to the ground, the marksman turned to the chief samurai and bowed his head. His shoulders drooped in mortification as his superior launched into a high-speed burst of abuse. When it was over, the marksman bowed lower still, passed the rifle to a waiting red-stripe, handed over his two swords to another, bowed again, then ran off down the beach. Reaching the third post, he positioned himself to the left, opposite the last defaulter.

  Taking possession of the rifle, the chief assured himself that everything was in order, took aim and fired. The first warm-up shot split the post, the second took out the defaulter, the third blew a hole in the unfortunate samurai.

  ‘Heyyy-yahhh…’

  The samurai offered the rifle to Mr Snow, acknowledged his deep bow and swaggered away with his red-stripes, leaving the other, lesser Iron Masters to coach the M’Calls in the loading and firing of the weapon.

  ‘Do you want to try it?’ asked Mr Snow.

  ‘Later.’

  They walked along the beach to inspect the splintered posts and the inert bodies that lay beside them. To Steve, the demonstration was both sobering and highly instructive. Despite his dismissive evaluation, the primitive rifle packed a heavyweight punch and, in the right hands, could be fired with great accuracy. It still had, in his opinion, many limitations but its introduction in any appreciable numbers would totally upset the present tactical advantage enjoyed by Trackers in overground operations against the Plainfolk.

  The Iron Masters had performed as impressively as the rifle. The disciplined way in which the individuals concerned had observed their own rigid codes of behaviour confirmed Mr Snow’s earlier remarks about their cruelty and ruthlessness. As in the Federation, ‘operational failure’ was not tolerated, especially when the circumstances involved a loss of what the Iron Masters called ‘face’.

  He caught Mr Snow’s eye. ‘Amazing people. Did you see how those guys just stood there, chin up, waiting for the hit? Didn’t move a muscle. That takes real dedication.’

  Mr Snow answered with a grim smile. ‘When you think of the alternatives, I’d say that standing still and getting shot at was about the best these poor paisanos could have hoped for.’

  From time to time, during the afternoon, and throughout the following day, Steve wandered down to the shore and hung around expectantly. He waited in vain. By sunset, when the boats again withdrew to anchor off-shore, Clearwater and Cadillac had still not appeared.

  He went in search of Mr Snow and found him divesting himself of some of his finery. ‘Can’t bear these jamborees,’ he grumbled.

  Steve took in the happy bustle of activity going on around them. ‘What an odd thing to say. You’re not a man of violence and I know, from what you’ve said, that its consequences sicken you. When you think of what is happening here, people from every clan coming together as one great big happy family – apart from a few little upsets here and there – the thing I ask myself is – “Why can’t it be like this all the time?”’

  ‘A very reasonable question,’ grumped Mr Snow. ‘Things have certainly been very quiet so far. Don’t worry. It’ll hot up soon. It’s bound to.’

  ‘But why? Why can’t you take this opportunity to get together and iron out your differences? Instead of being constantly at each others’ throats why don’t you join forces and fight the Federation? If all the summoners came together and –’

  Mr Snow waved his suggestions aside. ‘Yes, yes, yes, we know all that. Loo
k – nobody’s perfect, least of all us. You’ve decided to cast us in the role of the hard-pressed but noble savage – I suppose because of Clearwater, and the fact that we didn’t turn you into dried meat twists. Dangerous, romantic notions, Brickman. There are mysteries, and there is magic, but this is hard, cruel world. It’s true that for a brief moment every year the Plainfolk gather to “Walk upon the Water” And yes, for a while it works, in spite of the bad blood between the She-Kargo and the D’Troit. But the sad truth is that four or five days of fellowship is about as much as most of us can stand. I mean – can you imagine what it would be like always having to be nice to such a bunch of shitheads? Mo-Town! Their clans would be wandering all over our turf, taking the meat from our knives. We wouldn’t have a place to call our own! Next thing, they’d be chasing our womenfolk and, if that didn’t start a fight, everyone would just lie around getting fat and making babies. Pretty soon you wouldn’t be able to move for people! You call that living? We need the action, the excitement, the danger to get the, uhh –,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘what d’you call it…?’

  ‘Adrenalin –’

  ‘Right. To get the adrenalin going. Surely someone with your background can understand that?’

  ‘Yes, sure, but what about the Talis –?’

  Mr Snow cut him short again. ‘Look – don’t start beating me over the head with the Talisman Prophecy! I was the one that told you about it – remember? “A nation shall be forged from the fires of war, and the Plainfolk shall be like a sword in the hands of Talisman their Saviour.”’

  ‘Do you believe it?’

  ‘Of course I do! It’s a great idea. I can’t think of anything I’d like more,’ said Mr Snow with less than total conviction.

  ‘Okay, if it’s possible, why can’t it happen now?’

  ‘Because we have to change first!’ cried Mr Snow. He banged his fists against his chest then threw his hands in the air. ‘And for that to happen we need Talisman. He’s the only one who can work miracles!’

  ‘What’s a miracle?’

  Mr Snow loosed a long-suffering sigh. ‘A miracle is a divinely-inspired event that transcends the known physical laws thought to govern the universe –’ He broke off. ‘But then you don’t know about “divine” either. You don’t accept any of that stuff.’

  ‘You mean like Mo-Town, the Sky Voices and Talisman? That’s not quite true. I’ve escaped death so many times I’m beginning to think that perhaps some power is watching over me.’ He saw the look of cynical disbelief. ‘I mean that.’

  ‘Wonders never cease.’

  ‘Okay, you’ve told me you don’t like the D’Troit but you still haven’t really explained why the Plainfolk is so divided. Night-Fever told me that even the She-Kargo clans fight each other.’

  ‘It’s a long story, Brickman. And it all happened a long, long time ago. If we’re both round this winter, stop by the hut one night. We’ll share a mat and a pipe and I’ll tell you about it.’

  ‘Why not now?’ insisted Steve.

  ‘I’ve got other things on my mind.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Rifles…’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  Mr Snow gestured wearily. ‘The clan elders don’t think we should take them.’ He proceeded to give Steve an account of the debate – at times heated – that had been taking place between the senior members of the M’Call delegation who formed the trade council. It was they who were the final arbiters on the various deals struck with the Iron Masters. They also attempted to agree on standard rates of exchange with the trade councils from the other clans – no easy task when each sought to out-bargain the others.

  The most vociferous opposition had come from those who saw acceptance of the rifle as a further erosion of the Plainfolk tradition of bravery. Mr Snow saw the merit in this argument but believed that change was inevitable. The Old Ways must go. If not, the Plainfolk would perish. The traditionalists had replied that if the Old Ways were abandoned, if valour became worthless, then the great tree that was the Plainfolk would wither and die from shame. Clan-brother would be parted from clan-sister like yellowing leaves before the wind, scattered across the face of the earth and ground into dust. If they did not adhere to the Great Truths, argued the die-hards, the essential values by which a man measured himself and by which their society was defined, then they would deserve to be swept into oblivion.

  The trade council was also reluctant to accept the new weapons for a more practical reason. To do so would further increase their dependence on the Iron Masters. The bolts that came with the crossbows were, to a large extent, recoverable, the stock remaining more or less constant. But this would not be the case with the new ‘long sharp iron’. Once it had passed through the barrel, the ‘iron finger’ could not be used again. Only the Iron Masters were able to fill it with sky-fire and supply the ribbons containing the beads of flame. If the rifle was allowed to become an essential part of the Plainfolk’s armoury they would be forever in the grip of the Iron Masters, forced to trade whatever the price. With the numbers of red-skins falling rapidly, it would mean sending more and more clan-brothers and sisters down river. Having suffered heavy losses last year against The Lady from Louisiana, this was something the M’Calls were reluctant to do. It was an almost insoluble dilemma, for if the Plainfolk did not acquire more powerful weapons, they would be faced with even more disastrous losses when the iron snakes returned in greater numbers.

  ‘So how do things stand now?’ asked Steve.

  ‘They’re still arguing. I left them to it. I went through all this nonsense twelve years ago when Yama-Shita turned up with the first crossbows. Everyone predicted that the sky would fall in but, as you can see, we’re still here.’

  ‘This may come as a surprise but I understand how they feel. Only warriors who have chewed bone are allowed to use crossbows in combat – and then only against sand-burrowers. And you have to be physically strong just to be able to arm the damn thing. But with a rifle… all it takes is one finger. A child of seven or eight could be taught how to use one – to kill grown men. You’ve seen the range it has. If he was a good shot, you wouldn’t see him and you’d never know what hit you.’

  ‘Exactly. That’s how the Old Time ended. Those who unleashed the War of a Thousand Suns had never drawn blood or had their courage tested in the face of death, had never conquered the smell of fear or scented victory. Buried beneath the earth, in a phantom world created by the High Craft, they lost touch with the Truth. Scornful of living creatures, ignorant of the wonders of the natural world and untouched by its beauty, they fell prey to false dreams of power, loving nothing but the giant iron birds of death whose lairs they shared. It was the weakling fingers of these white worms that turned the sky to ashes and plunged the world into the Great Ice-Dark.’

  ‘And you think it might happen again…’

  ‘Some fear we have already taken the first steps down the same path.’ Mr Snow shrugged. ‘But how else can we resist the sand-burrowers and their iron snakes?’

  ‘You’re a summoner. Why can’t you use magic?’

  Mr Snow smiled ruefully. ‘When you pull the trigger of a loaded rifle, you can be pretty sure what’s going to happen next. Magic, on the other hand, is… unpredictable.’

  ‘But you’re a Storm-Bringer. Clearwater told me you hold the powers of the Seventh Ring and that only Talisman was stronger. That makes you a top gun.’

  ‘I don’t hold the powers, Brickman. I’m only the channel for them. The power is Talisman’s. He releases it through me. As a channel I can, to a certain degree, direct them – as a river bed directs the flow of rushing water. But to do this the banks of the river must be strong, otherwise they will burst when there is a flood. A summoner faces the same problem. His mind and body must be strong in order to direct the earth forces. But each time they pass through him he is weakened, worn away – as the banks of the river are worn away.’

  ‘And so… if the power that is unleas
hed is too strong for him to contain, he dies…’

  ‘In a nutshell, yes.’

  ‘Which is why you would like the rifles.’

  Mr Snow spread his palms. ‘I can only do so much. The clan has to learn to stand on its own feet instead of always looking to me to get them out of a jam. Let’s face it, I may be a wiz when it comes to magic, but I’m not going to be around for ever.’

  ‘None of us are,’ replied Steve. ‘But what about Cadillac and Clearwater – aren’t they going to be able to replace you?’

  ‘That was the plan, yes.’

  ‘What d’you mean – “was the plan”? Aren’t they on Yama-Shita’s boat?’

  ‘That’s what I’m hoping. But so far, I haven’t been able to find out. You’ve seen how things work. These dinks handle all transactions in a very formal way. None of us is allowed to address Yama-Shita directly–’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t speak Basic,’ interjected Steve.

  ‘Perhaps… anyway, whatever the reason, you can only speak to samurai number one, he passes the message on in gobbledy-gook to Golden Nose and the answer comes back through his number two samurai. I asked twice but… no joy.’

  ‘He must have said something.’

  ‘Yes. He said: “It is not yet time to speak of such things”.’

  ‘What was the original arrangement?’

  ‘About their return? There wasn’t one. When the wheel-boats came last year, Yama-Shita let us know of his interest in arrowheads and cloud-warriors and promised that any clan able to deliver one of each in working order would receive a shipment of new, powerful sharp iron. Of course, at that time only a few of us, who’d been on trips to the south, had ever seen one of these things in the air. Having heard that the iron snakes were coming our way, and knowing what they’d done to the Southern Mutes, it seemed like a good deal. The idea was to hand the craft and the pilot over at the next trade-off.’

  ‘You mean here, now…’

  ‘Yes. But that meant Cadillac would have to stay out east until this time next year – or maybe the year after. We couldn’t afford to wait that long.’