Pattern (Scavenger Trilogy Book 2)

by K. J. Parker

  ‘Two men out for four days is bad enough,’ Poldarn said. ‘We can’t spare any more than that, not with all the work we’ve got on. Do you want to drive the trap, or would you rather ride and lead the horses?’

  Boarci thought for a moment. ‘I’ll ride,’ he said. ‘The springs on that trap are shot. I’d rather stay behind than get shaken to death.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Poldarn said. ‘All right, we’ll be as quick as we can. But remember, we’re going to have to walk back, so expect us when you see us.’

  Packing didn’t take long and, once assembled, their luggage proved to be light, the food bag in particular. They left quickly, without fuss, as if they were just going as far as the top of the yard.

  ‘Don’t know about you,’ Boarci said, as they laboured up the mountain, ‘but I’m getting sick to the teeth of this trip. Maybe they’ve got the ford open again.’

  ‘Or maybe not,’ Poldarn replied. ‘And in any case, this way’s quicker than skirting the edge. I want to get there and get back as soon as possible, if it’s all the same to you.’

  Boarci laughed. ‘You didn’t have to come at all,’ he said. ‘I’m perfectly capable of delivering a few horses. Or you could’ve sent Raffen with me, or one of the others.’

  ‘You know perfectly well why I’m here. For your sake as much as mine. You ask for trouble so much, one of these days somebody’s going to oblige you.’

  Boarci laughed.

  They made good time, as it happened, reaching Ciartanstead an hour before noon the next day. It felt strange to see the place again; now it looked remarkably foreign, so that Poldarn had trouble remembering that he’d built the house with his own hands. Eyvind had made changes; not great ones, but enough to set his mark there. The cider house was gone, and where it had stood there was a handsome new long barn, built mostly of stone and roofed with turf. ‘Someone’s been thinking sensibly about the next time the mountain blows its top,’ Boarci said. ‘That Eyvind’s brighter than you’d give him credit for. We could do something like that back home; there’s plenty of good building stone in the lower combes.’

  Poldarn agreed; the same thought had occurred to him more than once, but he hadn’t dared suggest it, because it would be too different, and probably an abomination – coming from him, at least. ‘That’s new,’ he said, pointing to a long cultivated strip that started just below the north wall of the house. ‘Something else we should have thought of. I can’t remember – what was there before?’

  ‘The smithy,’ Boarci replied. ‘Fancy you forgetting that.’

  ‘Of course.’ Poldarn looked round, but there was no sign of anybody. ‘Where have they all got to?’ he said aloud. ‘This time of day, there ought to be loads of people about the place.’

  Boarci nodded. ‘My guess is,’ he said, ‘they’re out the other side of the house. Eyvind’s building a smoke-house, or he was a few days ago when I was last here. I guess they’re raising the frames or something.’

  Boarci was right. The whole household – the old Bollesknap outfit, and most of the former Haldersness and Ciartanstead houses – were there, pulling on ropes and lifting timbers, with nobody giving orders or directing the work. For an outsider, it was an amazing sight to see. As soon as they’d finished the stage they were working on, they stopped and turned to stare at Poldarn and Boarci. That was unnerving, to say the least.

  After what felt like a very long time, Eyvind emerged from the crowd and walked slowly towards them. He looked different too; more solid, somehow, slower and more assertive in his movements, as if every step had to be taken seriously. Poldarn noticed a new, fresh scar on his right arm, and wondered how he’d come by it.

  ‘You,’ he said, and Poldarn realised he was talking to Boarci. ‘You must be out of your mind coming here.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Boarci replied, grinning. ‘We’ve found your horses, look. And your trap, the one your men broke and left for dead. We’ve even put the wheel back on for you.’

  But Eyvind just stood looking at him, clearly trying to choose between various courses of action. The decision must have been a difficult one, to judge by the unease in his face.

  ‘Boarci found the trap on the mountain,’ Poldarn said, with the uncomfortable feeling that nobody was listening to him. ‘We brought it straight back. You can have it, we don’t want anything for finding it or doing the wheel.’

  Eyvind wrestled with his decision silently for a while longer, then made a small gesture with his head. At once, a dozen or so men surged forward. One of them grabbed the reins of the trap; two more stood either side of Boarci’s horse, while a third took hold of its bridle. A fourth pulled Boarci’s spear out of its bucket on the saddle and levelled it in a vaguely menacing manner.

  ‘Take him to the barn and bar the door,’ Eyvind said. ‘We’ll have to decide what to do with him later.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Poldarn said urgently. ‘What the hell is all this about?’

  Eyvind scowled at him. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘maybe you don’t know, at that. Anyhow, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Your man, this one, came sneaking over here a few days back and stole a barrel of salt beef. One of my men saw him at it, but he was long gone by the time he could raise the alarm. He’s going to have to pay for that.’

  Poldarn felt cold. His own stupid fault, he told himself, for assuming that they’d got away with it just because Eyvind hadn’t come storming over the hill with weapons. ‘I did know about it,’ he said, ‘after the event. Boarci told me.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Eyvind replied sharply. ‘I’m choosing to see it as your man acting off his own hook, so I won’t have to take action against the rest of you. Count yourself very lucky,’ he added. ‘And I won’t be so forbearing again.’

  Poldarn could feel the blood pounding in his arms and hands. Any moment now, he knew, something could happen that would set off the instincts he knew lay buried deep inside him; someone would try to grab hold of him or pull him down off the cart, and he’d strike out before he had time to stop himself. He didn’t know much about the man who’d lived in his body before Poldarn had inherited it, that day he’d woken up in the mud beside the Bohec; but he’d come to know a little about how he reacted to perceived danger. He was afraid of himself, far more than he was afraid of Eyvind or his people.

  Distracted as Poldarn was, he didn’t actually see what happened, only the aftermath. Afterwards, in his mind’s eye and in recurring dreams, he figured out that it must have started when someone tried to pull Boarci down off his horse. Boarci must have pulled his axe out from inside his coat – he generally carried it concealed, even among friends – and struck out, catching the man in the forehead, just above the bridge of the nose. Immediately, the man who’d confiscated Boarci’s spear tried to stab him with it, but apparently Boarci had anticipated that and dodged sideways, trying to slip off the horse and run. Unfortunately he couldn’t have seen the man who stepped up on his blind side, intending to force him to surrender by prodding him with a four-tine hay-fork. The outcome was that Boarci slid onto the fork; two of the tines passed through his neck on either side of the spine, killing him instantly. By the time Poldarn realised that something was happening it was nearly all over; the man with the fork was staggering backwards, carrying Boarci’s substantial weight on the fork handle, like a youngster showing off by trying to pitch a stook that was far too heavy for him. After a moment of agonised stillness he let go of the handle and Boarci flopped out of the saddle onto the ground, knocking another man off his feet and landing on top of him.

  Everybody held perfectly still; it was as though they were unable to accept what they’d just seen – two men killed in a matter of seconds by their own kind. It was the same sort of bewildered horror Poldarn had noticed when the mountain had first erupted, the sort of reaction you’d expect if some malignant and terrifying supernatural creature had suddenly appeared in the middle of the farmyard, without warning.

  Quite calm inside, Poldarn we
ighed up the options available to him. The men who were supposed to be marking him were looking the other way; it’d be easy for him, with his proven abilities in this field, to get past them, take a weapon away from one of them, and kill three or four men before anybody could be ready to oppose him; there was a good chance, better than evens, that he’d be able to get to Eyvind, and he knew he was Eyvind’s match with weapons any day of the week. He could kill him, or use him as a hostage, to be sure of getting clear. Or he could go the other way, make for the man with the hay-fork and kill him – that’d be easier, there were fewer people in the way and they were all in a state of profound shock, no real opposition at all. After he’d killed the man with the fork he could take a hostage – really, any of them would do just as well as Eyvind, nobody would be expendable – and get out just as easily, if not more so. Either way, he’d need a horse (but he could demand that, with a hostage, and be sure of getting what he asked for) and a good head start if he wanted to reach Poldarn’s Forge in time to organise some vestige of a defence. That would be difficult but – given how well he’d come to know the road across the mountain – by no means impossible. As to whether he should try and fight his pursuers at the Forge or tell his people to get up the mountain and hide there (no chance of them outrunning Eyvind’s people, with only one horse), Poldarn wasn’t able to reach a quick decision. It was all reasonable enough up to that point, but thereafter it could turn out very badly.

  On the other hand, he didn’t have to kill anybody at all. It was good to have that option to fall back on, it made a pleasant change. He realised that he didn’t really want to kill anyone, or at least not now, under such adverse conditions. If he didn’t (leaving aside issues of retribution for the time being) he couldn’t guarantee his own temporary safety with a hostage, but he wouldn’t be setting up a far more dangerous situation further down the line. He asked himself: Is it likely that if I sit still and do nothing, they’ll kill me or do me any harm? On balance he concluded no, the crowd wasn’t in that sort of mood; if anything, they were less likely to harm him now than they had been before Boarci was killed. On the other hand, he couldn’t just slip away – the men marking him were too close and too well placed for him to be able to get by them without violence; and his own condition was such that if he had to fight to get past them, he couldn’t be sure of being able to use only limited, non-lethal force.

  So, what should he be looking to do? All things considered, the best odds lay with staying exactly where he was and waiting to see what they’d do next. His first priority, after all, was getting out of there and home in one piece. Killing the pitchfork man would be pointless, since the fellow was just some unfortunate clown who’d happened to get in the way. Killing Eyvind was definitely something Poldarn would like to do at some stage, but not enough to warrant taking unnecessary risks with his own life or the lives of the eleven people at Poldarn’s Forge. Finally, on basic and fundamental principles, he wasn’t willing to commit himself to a course of action without being at least fairly sure that he could predict what Eyvind was likely to do next; quite simply, he didn’t have the faintest idea what the accepted protocol was in a case like this, assuming that there was one. To embark on any course, especially a drastic and irrevocable one, in the absence of such elementary data would be thoroughly irresponsible. Furthermore, there was a chance, albeit a remote one, that Eyvind might misjudge his response and commit a tactical error that could be exploited at some point in the future. With everything except instinctive anger pointing towards a policy of cautious observation, Poldarn resolved to stay where he was and do nothing.

  No sooner had he arrived at this conclusion than Eyvind turned round and faced him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean for that to happen.’

  Poldarn took a deep breath before answering. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t suppose you did.’

  They’d pulled Boarci’s body clear of the man he’d knocked down. Poldarn stood up on the box of the trap, and they made way for him. He went over and looked down at Boarci’s face, with its wide-open eyes and slightly parted lips. One more stunt like this, he thought, but it was only fair to say that he didn’t think Boarci had intended it to turn out like this. He felt like a small boy whose friend has thrown a stone and broken a slat in the fence, and then run off and left him to face the anger of the grown-ups.

  ‘The other man,’ he said. ‘I suppose he’s dead, too.’

  Someone nodded, and Poldarn threaded his way through the crowd to look at him. He recognised the face, with its incongruous bloody mark gouged out of the forehead: it was Scild, one of the Haldersness field hands who’d chosen to stay home; formerly one of his own, until he’d chosen to forfeit the obligation.

  When he’d seen enough he turned round to face Eyvind. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘What happens now? I’m afraid I don’t know the right procedure.’

  Eyvind looked like he wasn’t too sure of it himself, but he wasn’t going to admit anything of the kind in front of his household. ‘There’s got to be some sort of settlement, obviously,’ he said. ‘Normally, I think the thing to do would be to set off your man against mine – we can forget about the theft, obviously, since that was Boarci’s business, not something between our houses.’ He paused there, clearly hoping Poldarn would agree; but Poldarn kept quiet and said nothing. ‘On the other hand,’ Eyvind went on, ‘it’s arguable that my man provoked the whole thing by trying to lay hands on your man; your man overreacted, I think we can agree on that, but I’m prepared to accept the extra blame, in the circumstances.’

  Poldarn stayed quiet, and dipped his head slightly to mark his agreement. Eyvind swallowed, and went on: ‘In which case, I’d be agreeable to waiving any claim for Scild and offering a full settlement on Boarci – which is generous, I’d say, since he was an offcomer, not a regular household man – with all other issues stayed. Does that sound reasonable to you?’

  ‘I think so,’ Poldarn said. ‘As I told you, I’m not familiar with the way these things are handled, so I’m having to rely on you to do what’s right. But I think I can take your word for it.’

  ‘Good.’ Eyvind didn’t seem overjoyed at the rather grudging praise; chances were that he felt he’d been more than generous in the circumstances, and was annoyed that Poldarn hadn’t acknowledged the fact. ‘In that case, how would you like to fix the amount of the settlement? We can do it here and now, or if you prefer we can find someone to arbitrate. I don’t mind.’

  ‘Let’s get it over and done with,’ Poldarn replied. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  Eyvind frowned, thinking on his feet. ‘What about this?’ he said. ‘First, you can have the trap and the horses. On top of that, I’d suggest five barrels of salt beef and five barrels of oats, say a dozen blankets, and twenty yards of the ordinary wool cloth. And for good measure I’ll throw in the dead man’s personal things, all the stuff that was confiscated when we moved in here. Will that do, do you think?’

  Poldarn made a show of giving it careful thought, as though he was doing long division in his head. ‘I won’t argue with that,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what the going rate is, obviously, but I’m sure you aren’t going to try and cheat me or anything like that. Mostly I’d like to get things settled as quickly and quietly as possible, so we can put all this behind us. I’d just like to remind you that I didn’t start this quarrel, not intentionally at any rate, and I really don’t want to see it continue, let alone get worse. Losing a man means a great deal more to our house than to yours, obviously; we’re so much smaller than you are, and Boarci was our hunter – he was pretty much feeding us single-handedly, until the first crops came in. On that basis, the beef and the oats should tide us over, if we’re careful, so yes, it’s a fair deal. I’ll be glad to accept it, on the understanding that it puts everything square between us.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I want too,’ Eyvind said, obviously relieved. ‘It’s very bad that something like this had to happen, but it’s good that we’re
able to deal with it in a reasonable manner, like sensible people.’

  It took a fair amount of ingenuity and patience to get the beef barrels loaded onto the trap, and even more to rig up frames so that the horses could carry the oats and the rest of the stuff. But they managed it somehow, and found a way to fasten the horses’ leading rein to the bed of the trap. ‘Take it slowly and you should be all right,’ the man who’d done the fixing told him. ‘And they’re good steady horses, shouldn’t give you any trouble on the way back.’

  The last horse in the string carried Boarci’s body, slung over the saddle like a carpet or other saleable merchandise. As for his few possessions, Poldarn stowed them in between the barrels in the trap; all except Boarci’s axe, the rather scruffy one Poldarn had made for him before they left Ciartanstead; Poldarn tucked it through his belt and drew his coat round it to conceal it.

  His journey home was quick and uneventful, and he arrived at Poldarn’s Forge in mid-afternoon. They were surprised to see him back so soon. They were even more surprised to see the horses and the trap. They asked where Boarci was.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Poldarn replied, easing himself off the trap box. He was painfully stiff after several days driving a trap with defective suspension, and the last thing he wanted to do was talk to anybody or explain anything. Clearly, though, he had no choice. ‘He was killed by one of Eyvind’s people.’ (He didn’t say who, or that the killer had been a Haldersness man. Best to keep it simple, for now.)

  The household received the news in stunned silence, pretty much as Poldarn had expected. By now it was pretty apparent that killings – homicide, murder, whatever you chose to call it – simply didn’t happen here. It was as if he’d told them that the sky had opened and Boarci had been lifted up into the courts of heaven on the back of a snow-white eagle. ‘It was partly his fault,’ he went on. ‘Apparently, someone saw him taking that barrel; they started to grab hold of him, he lashed out with his axe and stoved somebody’s head in; then he tried to get away and fell on a hay-fork somebody happened to be holding. It was more of an accident, really.’