“He saved my life.” He paused. “There was a fight in a tavern. I was fourteen. I was on the losing side. But when Praxo waded in, he was only sixteen but already twice my size, the odds changed. We’ve been friends ever since. At first he was dominant, of course; he was older, more street tough, stronger. But with time—”
“You hesitate. What haven’t you said? Go back. This ‘tavern.’ Was it really a tavern?”
Suddenly he feared her, her sharp mind, her probing words.
“Praxo told me what you had to do to survive. There is no shame—”
“It was a brothel.” The words came in a rush, but softly, so the others could not hear. “One man refused to pay me. He— I was thrown out into the street, for I did not have the bit of silver that was the barman’s usual fee. The man was waiting, with his friends. They grabbed me. Five or six of them. They were farmers, I think, strong as oxen. They got me in a ruined house. I …”
“They took it in turns, I suppose.”
“They were crushing me. I could not breathe. They would have killed me, I think, before they finished. But Praxo had seen me, saw the men pull me into the house.”
“He saved you.”
“I think he just felt like a fight. They were drunk and foolish, and, though strong, they were farmers, not warriors. He pulled them off me, broke the arm of one of them, the rest ran off. One against five or six, and he won.
“I was barely conscious. He sat me up against a wall until I could breathe properly.” He remembered the ache in his bruised chest, the burning pain of his ripped rectum, the foul taste of semen. These were memories he had put in a sealed pot and buried in the dark undersoil of his mind. How had this woman dragged them out of him so quickly?
She was staring at him as she walked, studying his face as he scrutinized his periplus, squeezing meaning out of it. “You shouldn’t be ashamed. You couldn’t help any of it. You were a victim.”
“No.” He hated the word, and anger flashed. “Not a victim.”
“All right. But that’s not all. Is it? What else happened? Go back again. Praxo sat you against the wall. You were recovering. What then?”
“He was laughing. Full of fire. He’d just won a fight that he would talk about for years. The men had brought some mead, and he took that and he drank it. And he said I should pay him for saving me. Years later, you know, he spoke of that night. He apologized, he said we would never speak of it again, that no man would know, and that …”
“How did you pay him? … Ah. With your only coin.”
“He doesn’t lie with boys, not Praxo. Not to his taste. But that night, he was full of himself, he said the fight had made him hard. I used my mouth. He closed his eyes, and shouted the names of women he had lain with.”
“So that’s it,” she breathed. “And yet you stayed with him?”
“He was ashamed, I think. Well, he was once he’d slept off the drink. He said I could go with him. I didn’t have to go back to the brothel. I could stay beside him, learn to fight. I think he meant this as a gesture of pity; he thought I wouldn’t last. But I learned fast, and bulked up, and we were soon an effective team. Then we rowed our first ship together.”
“And that’s the hold he has over you.”
“No. He has no hold! I told you, as we grew older, and it became clear I was the smart one—”
She was whispering now, into his ear, intense. “I know how it feels, Qirum, believe me. I was used by Hatti soldiers. I remember their faces, every one. I remember their filth. I learned their names when I could. When I return to Hattusa in my pomp I will seek them out, and their families.” She smiled. “You, though. You are the victim who kept his rapist close, aren’t you?” And she walked ahead of him, cutting off the conversation.
Qirum strode on, angry, humiliated, as he had not felt for many years. Up ahead he heard Praxo’s voice, telling some joke to the men, his booming laughter, his gusty singing resuming once more.
15
The Year of the Fire Mountain:
Late Spring
The elders of Etxelur gathered for their convocation: the process of selecting the new Annid of Annids in succession to Kuma. It was almost a month before midsummer and the Giving, when the new appointment would be announced to the world and celebrated.
They had come to the central mound of the great earthwork called the Door to the Mothers’ House. The Door, a very ancient complex of earthworks, was the navel of Northland history. In this age a ring of lodges had been built atop the central mound, one for each of the great Houses of Northland. And today, in the space encircled by the lodges, the House leaders, the Annids themselves, and the Jackdaws, Beavers, Voles, Swallows and the rest, with the priests mediating and counseling, were arguing in the open air, in tight, bickering groups, or sitting on pallets stuffed with dried reeds. In among the Annids were representatives of Districts far from Great Etxelur itself, the Markets to east and west, austere librarians from the Archive, engineers and craftsmen from the Manufactory, even a few cheerful-looking innkeeper types from the Scambles.
The leaders of the Houses wore their ceremonial robes, and fur, feathers, polished leather gleamed. They looked like a flock of birds, Milaqa thought idly. Big fat exotic birds. As one of a loose band of advisers and supporters, she sat on the grassy sward with Teel and Riban and others outside the central circle. She had been here for three days already, the proceedings had gone on all day, it was midafternoon, and it was insufferably tedious.
At least the setting was magnificent. The sun, still high in a clear southern sky, bathed the face of the Wall with light, the sweeping surface with its galleries and ledges, the climbing nets and ladders dangling from the roof, the huge scaffolding structures of the Beavers. It looked like something natural, she thought idly, like a great hive, rather than something made by people.
But the talking went on and on. The core of the confrontation seemed to be between Bren, leader of the Jackdaw traders, and a group of Annids. His principal opponent was a severe older Annid, a woman called Noli. Bren was pushing his own candidate for the office of Annid of Annids, a young, slightly confused-looking woman called Raka. The debate was passionately argued, but it was all very formal. The participants always spoke to each other via a neutral speaker, one of the priests, they used an archaic form of the Northland tongue, and every word they spoke was transcribed on a linen roll by a Wolf scribe. In his late thirties, Jackdaw Bren’s face was handsome, but it was oddly too symmetrical—too perfect—and it was stern, Milaqa thought, with deep-grooved lines around his mouth and on his forehead. He was the sort of man it was impossible to believe had ever been a child. Somehow it didn’t surprise Milaqa to find out that Raka, his candidate, was actually Bren’s niece.
Milaqa glanced at the sky, where gulls wheeled so high they were almost out of sight, and she smelled the sea on a soft breeze from the north. She imagined she wasn’t stuck in this dull session of talk, talk, talk but swimming in the cold sea, or flying up in the air as free as the gulls …
An elbow poked her ribs. She jolted upright.
The elbow had been Riban’s. Her cousin, a young acolyte in the House of the Wolves, was grinning at her. He was taller than she was, even sitting cross-legged on the grass; he had a dark, open face whose good humor was not ruined by his mouthful of wooden teeth. “You were snoring.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were about to. Mind you, you wouldn’t be the only one. Half these fat old fools have spent the whole day dozing away, dreaming of their evening feast.”
Milaqa snorted a laugh.
There was a rustle around her, of swallow feathers and stitched vole hide, as the elders reacted.
“Hush, you two. You’re showing the family up.” Teel sat with them on the grass, but bolt upright, almost like a hare, Milaqa thought, a bald fat hare, totally intent on what the elders were saying.
At long last the day’s sessions ended. Bren and his opponent bowed to each other, and to the Wolf speaker. The scribe sc
attered sand over her parchments to dry them, and stowed away her ink and her bone pens. Servants emerged from the lodges bearing plates of snacks, eel and oyster and clam and snail, and flagons of water, juice and tea, no doubt some of it laced with the mead that was so popular throughout Northland, even if it did come from the despised farmers. The elders, gobbling food and drink, loosened heavy robes that must have been ferociously hot at the peak of the day, and they stretched and walked.
Milaqa and Riban stood easily, but they had to help Teel up. “My leg is fast asleep,” he complained. He walked in a little circle, pressing his foot to the ground.
“Your leg is as bored as I am,” said Milaqa, and Riban guffawed.
“Oh, how can you be bored? By the mothers’ tears, the tension out there is agonizing. Can’t you feel it? Bren is taking on the Annids—he’s trying to force his own candidate on them as next Annid of Annids, even though she’s from outside the House of the Owl, which is rare enough but not unprecedented. He’s locked horns with Noli for nearly a whole day now. Like two rutting stags! And you have to remember this isn’t just a domestic battle being played out, for many of the great Houses have allies in the world beyond. If it’s drama you want, never mind the hunt, never mind the spear-chucking at the Giving—this is where the excitement is, with the whole future of Northland itself at stake.”
But Milaqa could only yawn. “I suppose it’s a matter of taste.”
He glared at her. “You do disappoint me sometimes, Milaqa. You should listen. Think. Make connections …”
A serving girl came by, no more than twelve years old, barefoot but wearing a tunic adorned with jackdaw feathers. She bore a tray of treats, and Riban picked off goodies. “Look, why don’t you just leave me the tray?” He smiled, showing his wooden priest’s teeth. The girl blushed, gave him the tray, and hurried off.
Teel disdained the treats. Milaqa, though, pecked like a bird. “Mmm, burned sheep.”
“Lamb, actually.” Riban chewed a mouthful of meat. “Flash-roasted and flavored with something—pepper certainly—and another spice?”
Milaqa picked up a slab of bread, thinly cut, lightly toasted, and smeared with a bit of honeycomb. When she bit into it the honey dribbled down her chin. “I didn’t know I was so hungry.”
“You’re not,” Teel said sourly. “You shouldn’t be eating that rubbish. It’s unnatural. And all part of the wily traders’ long-term game to seduce us into the farming business. No!” He strode over to another servant, and grabbed a handful of raw eel flesh. “This is good enough for me. Good old-fashioned Northland catch.” He crammed it in his mouth and began chewing assiduously.
Still eating, they walked to the mound’s south-facing crest. The great grassed ridges of the Mothers’ Door swept around this central mound, their surfaces carefully restored, and water glimmered in the channels between the ridges, shadowed by the afternoon sun. Further out Northland itself stretched away, a blanket of land and water overlaid by misty air, with the smoke of early fires rising from the green domes of houses. The world hummed with the sounds of springtime, even from this elevated remove, the buzzing of bees, the singing of birds, the laughter of children.
Riban, staring down into the shadowed trench below, stopped chewing and pointed. “Look down there.”
A party of men walked the track around one of the Door’s circular channels, looking around curiously, at the earthworks, up at the Wall. One man seemed to be staring straight up at Milaqa. She thought she saw the dull glow of bronze: armor or weapons.
“Greeks,” Riban said simply.
“What Greeks?” Milaqa asked. “There are lots of kinds of Greeks, with different tongues. I’ve met some of them.”
“The Mycenaeans are the toughest, but they are just the strongest dogs of a squabbling pack.”
Teel said, “Maybe you haven’t heard. Mycenae has collapsed. The oldest and grandest of those warrior kingdoms—gone, like a bad dream.”
“Hmm,” Riban said. “Well, they’re all hungry dogs, in this time of drought and famine on the Continent.”
Milaqa looked at Riban, interested. She’d grown up alongside him, another of her gang of distant cousins. A couple of years older than her, he’d always seemed curious about everything, and obsessed by gossip and intrigue; even as a boy he would hang around with priests or Annids rather than play. “You’re going to make a funny sort of priest, Riban. You’re much too interested in this world rather than any other. And the way you flashed those teeth of yours at the girl to get her tray off her—”
“Well, there are lots of rooms in our holy House,” Riban said easily. “One sect studies the teachings of Jurgi, who is supposed to have been priest at the time of Ana—or possibly he was her father, her lover or her son; the legends vary. He said you find the gods through other people, rather than in smoke-filled dreamers’ huts. That’s the side of the work I’m interested in.”
“But you’re still to be a genuine priest?”
He grinned. “Oh, yes. I had to let them pull out my teeth to get this far.”
Teel said now, “You’re right to speak of hungry dogs. That’s why this particular convocation is so important. We’ve always had trouble with the farmers. The problem is there are so many of them, in their dense little communities, all the way across the Continent. We’ve found ways to keep them at bay. They’ve always needed the tin we mine in Albia, for their bronze. And as they’ve grown hungry with the famine we’ve started to buy them off with potatoes and maize, or their products. We encourage the farmers in Albia and Gaira to grow this stuff, and then sell it on to the empires further east. Yes, it’s hypocritical—we turn one lot of farmers against another—but it works. But now, as the famine in the east worsens, this delicate web of trade and intrigue and manipulation is coming under pressure again. There are strong disagreements about how best to deal with all this. Between the Houses, and I dare say within them. Bren believes we should take a much more aggressive stance toward the farmers—make closely binding deals with them.”
Milaqa was shocked. “My mother would never have agreed to that.”
But Teel just looked at her. You should listen. Think. Make connections …
What connections? Well, her mother was no longer here. Was the opposition she would have raised to Bren’s schemes the reason why she was not here? And now here was Bren forcing his own candidate on the Annids. Webs of suspicion formed in her mind. She plucked at Teel’s sleeve and drew him away from Riban, who strolled off with his plate of treats. She whispered, “Was it Bren?”
“Hush.”
“No, listen—that Jackdaw, Bren. It all fits. As a trader he had access to the Hatti and their special iron. If he wanted to push through this treaty with the Hatti he had a motive to remove my mother, to force this convocation—to create a gap to have his own niece installed as Annid of Annids. He killed my mother—”
“Or some puppet did, more like,” Teel murmured sadly. “I’ve come to suspect this myself as the convocation has unfolded, and Bren has made his intentions clear. I wanted you to work it out for yourself. It’s why I’ve been trying to get you to pay attention to the discussions, child! But it’s one thing to suspect, another thing to prove it.
“I’ll tell you what we do know. That Bren’s certainly got his iron from the Hatti, for only they make the stuff strong enough for it to be used in weaponry—and some of them have long wanted a closer relationship with us, so maybe they have some hand in this. Milaqa, listen to me. There’s a party of senior Hatti traders and diplomats, coming from the east for the Giving. Isn’t Voro supposed to be going with the party to meet them?”
“So what?”
“You must go with that party of Jackdaws. Meet the Hatti. We talked about that before. You must follow the thread. Voro is your way to do that.”
“They won’t say anything in front of me.”
“You can translate. Offer your services. Interpreters are invisible; they’ll speak as if you aren’t there, you’ll
be surprised. Look—this is your chance.”
It made sense. Yet she hesitated, as she had since her mother’s interment, to become entangled in her uncle’s webs of deceit and intrigue.
The sun was dipping, the mist thickening over the great damp quilt of Northland. On the mound behind them a din of raucous laughter rose up as the assembled leaders of Northland started on the evening’s mead.
16
The Trojan party, traveling ever deeper into the great country of Gaira, followed the valley until the river dissolved into its feeder tributaries. Then they climbed a long rise and emerged from the forest, to find themselves on an island of higher ground in a landscape coated by thick oak woodland. They had come several days’ walk from the beach where they had landed. Smoke rose here and there, but otherwise there was no sign of people.
Praxo approached Qirum and Kilushepa. “Vertix says we’re near the watershed. There’s a community of farmers a bit further on. We can trade for food and shelter. They know folk who will guide us to the big river that will lead us north and west to the land of the Bardi. And then—well, then we can start looking for a seagoing ship.”
Qirum nodded. He would not meet Praxo’s eyes. He had found it impossible to speak to the man since his conversation with Kilushepa some days earlier.
Praxo waited for a response. When none came, he just laughed and walked away.
Vertix led them down to lower land and back into dense forest, where they followed a track so narrow and winding it might have been made by deer. The men pushed along, grumbling.
As the day approached its end, at last they broke through into a clearing. Perhaps a hundred paces across, it was walled off by tall oaks with knots of hazel at their feet, and the open ground was studded by saplings. A handful of houses sat here—Qirum counted four, five, six, with frames of oak trunks covered by a thatch of leaves and reeds. Half the clearing seemed to be given over to a crop, wheat growing sparsely. In a pen of woven wicker a few scrawny sheep grazed apathetically. The rest of the clearing looked to Qirum like a hunters’ camp, with joints of a recently killed deer hanging dripping from a frame, a skin stretched out to dry, and heaps of spears, arrows, bows, amid the usual middens. A big open-air hearth crackled, smoke rising, with a huge pot suspended over it on a trestle. In one doorway a woman sat with her child on her lap, watching, uninterested.
Bronze Summer : The Northland Trilogy (9781101615416) Page 9
