First Family

by Patrick Tilley

  In his last briefing, Karlstrom had indicated the area the Iron Masters were thought to occupy, a section of the north-east coast running from Connecticut down to Virginia and including the Allegheny mountain ranges. But that was all. Karlstrom had not supplied any further details apart from suggesting that the Fire-Pits of Beth-Lem were probably located in the vicinity of Pittsburgh, a NavRef point in the pre-holocaust state of Pennsylvania. This sole reference to the Iron Masters had come at the end of the session which Karlstrom then brought to a close, going straight into the ‘goodbye and good luck’ routine without giving Steve an opportunity to ask any questions.

  Steve was aware that it was standard Federation policy to disseminate information only on a strict ‘need-to-know’ basis but he was puzzled by Karlstrom’s reticence on the subject of the Iron Masters. He could understand why their existence had been kept secret from ordinary Trackers but he had returned knowing about them. Not only that, he was a member of AMEXICO about to embark on a delicate and dangerous overground assignment.

  No matter. His latent hostility towards the First Family rose to the surface and swept aside any lingering doubts; gave him a renewed sense of purpose. What they did not know, or had declined to tell him, he would find out for himself. He would make the trip down the great river as a Mute journey-man. It would provide him with an opportunity to see the ominously-named Fire-Pits of Beth-Lem and the lands that bordered the Eastern Sea. He would go because of his desire to be reunited with Clearwater and his promise to rescue her, and because of Cadillac who would have to be brought back in spite of his expressed wish to remain in the east. If Mr Snow died, Cadillac had to be there to take his place but there was more to it than that. The fruits of his work for the Iron Masters had to be utterly destroyed. A race with their craft skills and martial character could not be allowed to challenge the aerial supremacy of the Federation. And they could certainly not be allowed to develop flying machines with the help of someone calling himself ‘Steve Brickman’. The First Family might not know exactly what the Iron Masters were up to but the full story was bound to emerge sooner or later. When it did, Steve knew he would not be able to escape the accusation of having started the ball rolling but he could limit the damage to his future prospects by making sure he got full credit for having stopped it dead in its tracks.

  All of which was easier said than done. He was about to embark on a journey into the unknown. All he had going for him was his incredible luck and – maybe – Talisman. Despite having silently vowed to give some credence to the idea of an invisible benefactor, Steve did not intent to leave everything to chance. He would take his combat knife and the bladed quarterstaff Clearwater had left in the care of Night-Fever. The bucket-jawed Mute might have forgotten the message that went with it but Clearwater had spoken to him through the staff. It was more than a token of affection and his reasons for taking it were far from sentimental. Behind the act of giving lay a deeper purpose that had become crystal clear when he had taken the staff in his hands to fight the back-up squad by the lake. It was then he had felt the wooden shaft come alive, pulse with a strange power that had flowed into his body, giving him an almost superhuman speed and strength. He had made a half-hearted effort to convince himself he was imagining it all but deep down he knew it was for real; a tangible manifestation of Mute magic. She, whose power had twice saved him from death at the hands of Motor-Head, was watching over him even now.

  Mr Snow had brusquely dismissed as impossible his suggestion about concealing weapons on the wheel-boat. It was certainly true his quarterstaff could not have been carried aboard during loading. The journey-men had been the only Mutes allowed up the walkways but before they could do so they had been obliged to strip naked, wash in the lake, then don an abbreviated loincloth made of white cotton that covered their genitals but otherwise left them as bareassed as the day they were born.

  As Steve had, at the time, not been one of them, he had been obliged to set down his loads on the beach but, when the boats withdrew each evening, he had questioned the loaders about what and who they had seen. From these conversations he was able to assemble a partial picture of the wheel-boat’s interior. It was not as detailed as he would have liked but at least he would be able to get his bearings when he went aboard. Not with the other journey-men in the morning but that very night, while the wheel-boats were moored out in the bay.

  He had also managed to discover that the Mutes from the clan M’Call would be travelling on the left flank-boat – the one coloured predominantly black and silver. The captured renegades were to be divided between the boat carrying, amongst others, the M’Call contingent and the other flank-boat which was painted black and gold. Yama-Shita’s red and gold vessel, the most ornate of the three, carried no human cargo.

  Steve’s plan was to swim out under cover of darkness, board the black and silver wheel-boat and hide his knife and quarterstaff in the safest place he could find. He had absolutely no idea how long the journey would take or what would happen on their arrival at the other end. That bridge would have to be crossed when he came to it. Burning with impatience, he reconnoitred a circuitous route down to the shore, marked it with stones, and willed the hours to pass quickly.

  Throughout the afternoon, groups of white-stripes brought sets of heavy iron chains down from the two flank-boats and carried them up to the lines where red-stripes waited to shackle the captured renegades. Each breaker had his wrists manacled together by a chain running through a loop in an iron belt fastened around his waist. The chains allowed the arms to be raised head high but only one at a time. A heavy anklet was clamped around one leg but they were otherwise left free. Even so, escape was impossible. Anyone trying to run away would quickly become exhausted and if they were foolish enough to jump overboard while at sea they would sink like a stone.

  When Mo-Town had drawn her dark cloak across the sky, Steve strapped the sheathed knife to his left forearm, shouldered the quarterstaff and headed westwards away from the lines without telling Mr Snow, or anyone else, what he intended to do. Picking his way along the stone markers, he reached the shore some three quarters of a mile north of the trading post. He undressed quickly, placed his folded garments under a pile of stones and slipped into the water. His pioneering swim across the lake had given him more confidence but had not entirely dispelled his fears of encountering some dreadful slimy creature.

  The three wheel-boats, now moored out in the bay, stood out clearly against the surrounding blackness. The arched galleries running along the front, sides and rear of the upper decks were hung with lanterns in which pots of oil burned with a yellow flame. Other, bigger lanterns lit the fore and aft decks and the ships’ external illumination was completed by a row of lanterns that hung out over the water on booms fixed to the wooden parapet running around the roof of the superstructure. Steve had seen these on previous nights but had failed to appreciate that their purpose went beyond mere decoration. Now, as he approached the boat with slow, silent strokes, he saw they illuminated a wide strip of water around each boat making it virtually impossible for a swimmer to reach the hull without being seen by the patrolling sentries.

  The only solution was to dive under the water and remain submerged until he reached the side. The thought made Steve uneasy. Even though he had swum halfway across the lake in pursuit of Lundkwist and successfully covered an equal distance now, he could not bring himself to plunge below the dark surface for fear of what he might encounter. There had to be another way.

  Withdrawing to a safe distance from the pool of light, Steve ran his eye along the ship. There was a patch of darkness under the square-cut bow but there was a guard stationed on the deck immediately above and there seemed to be no way to climb aboard except up the heavy anchor chain. The stern looked more promising, the huge wooden planks that formed the blades of the paddle broke up the light cast by the aft deck lanterns. If he were to slip through the rear blades he could climb round the inside of the wheel onto the deck. The smoke he
had seen coming from the funnels had given him a clue to the boat’s motive power. The pistons – huge beams of wood reinforced with metal straps – which drove the paddle wheels round had to be linked to a source of steam pressure. This was probably located somewhere within the lower levels of the hull. Steve wasn’t sure how everything was connected up but the point where the forward end of the pistons passed below the line of the deck was covered by a sloping housing. This, he decided, would be where he could effect an entry.

  So far, he had noted a dozen guards posted around the ship, some guarding doorways, others patrolling in pairs. There were bound to be others inside. Steve considered how best to proceed once he was safely on board. The visitors’ masks provided a wonderful means of disguise but their incomprehensible language made an effective impersonation virtually impossible. And there was always the chance that the Iron Masters might remove their masks once they were inside the ship amongst their own kind. Given those two factors, overpowering one of the guards and taking his place was too risky. Not that his present disguise – that of a semi-naked Mute – made things any easier. He would have to rely on the element of surprise, as with his swim out to the island. Safely ensconced on their boats and surrounded by water, the Iron Masters had little reason to fear an intrusion by their non-aquatic trading partners. The real clamp-down would come tomorrow when the Mute journey-men and renegades came aboard. From then on, the guards would be on maximum alert to prevent the escape of any of their reluctant passengers; they would not be expecting anyone to come aboard a day early and of his own free will.

  Taking care to disturb the water as little as possible, Steve circled the boat to check the galleries on the starboard side then came in under the stern.

  Back in the lines, where the M’Calls were encamped, Mr Snow walked back and forth with an uncharacteristic nervousness, watched by Rolling-Stone, the impassive chief clan elder, and Mack-Truck, a member of the trade council. All three were decked out in their ceremonial finery. Steve’s suspicions about Mr Snow had not been entirely without foundation. While he had not concealed anything of substance, the wordsmith had not passed on the totality of Yama-Shita’s reply concerning Cadillac and Clearwater. The chief Iron Master had indicated his wish to make a further pronouncement on the subject and had invited Mr Snow and two companions to a private audience on board his ship; an honour never previously accorded to any member of the Plainfolk.

  Mr Snow had said nothing to Brickman about the invitation for all kinds of reasons. Protocol demanded that Rolling-Stone be one of the two who would accompany him and he had chosen Mack-Truck in preference to Blue-Thunder. The paramount warrior, although a worthy representative of the clan, was not the greatest brain around and lacked the necessary social graces the occasion might demand. Mr Snow would have preferred to take Brickman because of his acute intelligence but he was too emotionally involved in the situation. If he spoke out of turn, things might get difficult. And that wasn’t the only problem. The cloud-warrior’s status was still that of an honorary Bear. To have taken him would have been a serious affront to Blue-Thunder and would have diminished his standing in the eyes of the clan. Hence the choice of Mack-Truck.

  Even so, Mr Snow had been wondering what explanation to give Brickman when the promised rowboat arrived to take them out to Yama-Shita’s vessel. He was already apprehensive about what would happen when they got there; his nervousness was compounded by the thought of what Brickman might do when he found out what was going on – and that he hadn’t been invited. The last thing he wanted was for the cloud-warrior to gate-crash the party.

  The mental energy expended on Brickman was completely wasted. When he saw Mr Snow decking himself out in his ribbon and bones he did not ask why and, by the time the runner arrived to announce that the rowboat had been sighted, Brickman had vanished into the night. No one in the M’Call camp had any idea where he was. Knowing Brickman, the news gave Mr Snow something else to worry about. He borrowed the pipe that was being passed around a nearby group of Bears, took a few puffs to calm his nerves, then led his companions to the shore below the trading post.

  Steve, now perched inside one of the giant paddle wheels, saw the rowboat leave Yama-Shita’s vessel and head towards the beach. Lanterns hung from the ends of cross-beams supported by two posts that had been fixed to the side-rails fore and aft. The boat was crewed by its usual complement of whites, four oarsmen and a helmsman but the ornate red and gold cabin in which Yama-Shita travelled was not mounted on the deck. In its place stood an impassive masked samurai, legs splayed, arms folded. Behind him, in similar postures, were his two ‘red-stripes’, both now holding slim, twelve-foot long poles topped with pennants bearing the symbol of their house. The boat passed within fifty yards of where Steve lay concealed. He followed it with his eyes as it slid across the wind-rippled water, its lanterns creating a soft-edged oasis of yellow light in the all-enveloping dark.

  From where he now sat, at water-level, Steve could just make out the vertical line of the tall trading post, silhouetted against the orange glow coming from the fires of the more distant Mute encampment. The actual lines and the enclosed bull-ring were hidden by a rise in the ground. He saw tiny figures step out of the darkness to meet the row-boat then, after a short interval, it began its return journey. Steve was conscious of wasting valuable time but his curiosity was aroused and nothing was going to budge him until he saw who was in the boat. The samurai now sat cross-legged facing his three seated passengers, one in front, two side-by-side behind. Behind them, stood the two reds, their pennants fluttering proudly in the wind.

  At a distance of fifty yards, in the warm fuzzy glow of the lanterns, it was almost impossible to discern the features of those on board but there was no doubt about the identity of the white-bearded figure who faced the samurai. The crafty old coot. So that was why he had gotten dressed up. What was he up to?

  Steve was filled with a sudden urge to swim across and find some way to eavesdrop on their conversation but commonsense finally prevailed. If he was caught, armed to the teeth, on the big wheel’s territory it might sour what were clearly private negotiations and put Mr Snow and his friends in mortal danger – not to mention himself. The fate of Mr Snow’s two companions was of little concern but he could not risk losing the wordsmith at this stage of the game. There was still too much to play for. Steve waited until the rowboat reached its destination, watched Mr Snow mount the steps and vanish with his samurai escort, then he turned his attention back to the problem of finding a way into the wheel-boat without being detected.

  The samurai led Mr Snow and the two clan-elders through a door in the rear of the galleried superstructure. They found themselves in a large area covered entirely in moist, sweet-smelling wood. The deep beams, which held up the planked ceiling were supported by huge square wooden pillars set into a latticed floor.

  Mr Snow, who had never been inside any man-made structure bigger than a Mute hut, found the wheel-boat’s size and complexity rather frightening. And to judge from their expressions, so did his companions. To be within such a colossal construction awakened fearful folk-memories of another time when their ancestors had been trapped in flaming labyrinths of wood and stone, crushed under falling beams and cut to ribbons by jagged shards of frozen water – the Mute way of describing glass, itself a word that had been lost from the language.

  Six big round tubs stood in a line, four of them filled with steaming hot water. Three attendants, stripped to the waist, stood waiting by each of the filled tubs. At their feet were several wooden buckets of cold water; a supply of rough-textured white cloths lay folded on a shelf running along the wall behind. Mr Snow stared at the attendants in shocked surprise. It was not the sight of their small breasts that was the source of consternation but their faces. They were unmasked. He was looking on the true face of the Iron Masters; slant-eyed, flat-featured individuals without, as far as he could see, the slightest trace of body hair.

  Mr Snow exchanged a puzzled look
with Rolling-Stone and Mack-Truck. They were equally surprised and also a little worried at what these four simmering cauldrons might portend. ‘What are they going to do?’ whispered Rolling-Stone, ‘Boil us alive?’

  Mr Snow turned to the samurai, half-expecting to find himself looking into another flat, slant-eyed face. He was disappointed. The samurai, who had already handed his helmet to one of the reds, kept his features hidden. He stretched out his arms to allow the second red to divest him of his body armour and undershirt then, when his yellowish torso was bared, he pointed to the three Mutes then gestured to the steaming tubs. ‘You please to do the same.’

  Mr Snow and his companions bowed as he addressed them. ‘Hai!’ said Mr Snow, venturing to use the only word in the Iron Masters tongue whose meaning he had grasped. What he did not know was that, in the dead-faces’ homeland, the use of the samurai’s language by foreigners was absolutely forbidden under pain of death. Had Mr Snow not been summoned by Yama-Shita, that brief pleasantry would have resulted in the instant removal of his head.

  Straightening up, Mr Snow saw that one female from each trio of attendants had removed her baggy pants and was now standing waist-deep in the hot tub wearing only a white cotton headscarf. The next move was clear even to a Mute. Their apparel, with its collection of bones, feathers and pebbles was laid out neatly then they were invited to mount the steps and immerse themselves in the hot water.