Deep Water (19 page)

“Enough, Father,” Asa’s voice came. “He understands.”

She handed Baluch a horn of water and a basin. He grabbed at it and swilled his mouth over and over again.

“Hmmph,” the chieftain grunted. “Very well. We will start the search for the child at first light.”

He turned and walked away and only then was Bramble aware that they were in a corner of the large hall, where the shuttered
windows showed a faint purple twilight. Outside, the wind whistled around the building and the walls radiated cold. The hall
was packed with people, men, women and children, most of them moving uneasily, talking to each other, avoiding the central
fire where a woman Asa’s age sat rocking back and forth, her hands to her face, another woman patting her on the back.

Baluch had used up the water in the horn and his mouth felt almost normal, although puckered and sour. He stared into the
grimy water in the basin. Bramble felt his despair and heard a faint dark music, deep notes sonorously played — a dirge. She
knew it was from Baluch’s mind, but he seemed unaware of it.

When a hand landed on his shoulder he didn’t look up, as though he knew who it was. “I know where she is,” he whispered.

The hand lifted and Acton came into view, looking about thirteen, perhaps less. “Where?”

Baluch gestured with the hand which held the drinking horn. “A cave, under a ridge. I can’t describe it well enough, but I
could find it.”

“Mmm,” Acton said.

Baluch raised his head. “I
could.
Your grandfather thinks I’m lying, but I’m not!”

“Shh,” Acton cautioned him. “If he hears you say it again you
will
lose a hand. The gods talk only to the chieftain.”

“But my mother had the Sight —”

“Athel was a woman, and under his control. No threat to him at all.”

“But
I’m
not a threat. Everyone knows you’ll be the next chieftain —”

“So,” Acton said, ignoring him, suddenly cheerful, “maybe it isn’t the gods.
Maybe
it’s a friendly spirit.”

“Uh, he won’t believe that.”

“No. But if we bring her back alive he’ll pretend to believe it. Come on.”

The music in Baluch’s mind died away, changed to something warmer, deep notes still but with hope at the center of them. He
followed Acton dumbly, out the back of the hall to a small chamber where Asa and a couple of women waited, holding candles.

“You’ll get lost yourselves,” one of them muttered, casting a dark look at Baluch.

Acton grinned at her, and kissed her cheek. “I know these hills like my own hands, Gret. Don’t you trust me?”

She smiled despite herself. “I don’t trust the weather. It smells like a blizzard to me.”

Acton nodded, solemn, his gold hair glinting in the light of the candles.

“That’s why we have to go now. A blizzard will be the death of her.” As one, the women shivered and made a sign with their
little fingers, clearly a ward against evil chance.

“Harald should —”

Acton cut her off firmly. “My grandfather is right. To go out now, not knowing where Friede is, would be foolhardy. More would
be lost. But to go out knowing where she is, that is different.”

“The gods —”

“Not the gods,” Baluch said hastily. “A friendly spirit, that’s all. Only the chieftain speaks with the gods.”

Asa nodded approval. “Yes,” she said. “A friendly spirit. Good. Go find her. But . . .” her voice faltered a little and she
put out a hand to smooth Acton’s hair. “Don’t take stupid chances. One life is not worth two.”

He smiled at her, but was clearly preparing to ignore her advice. His eyes sparkled with pleasure at the thought of the risks
he was about to take. Bramble couldn’t help but understand that. She had felt the same often enough herself, before a chase.

The women helped them into heavy winter clothing: shaggy sheepskin coats and leggings, felt hats with earflaps and long neck
pieces to wrap around their throats, gloves. They took a pack with candles, tinderbox, dried apple, water, bread and another
coat for the girl when they found her.

“She won’t need boots,” Baluch said dreamily. “We’ll have to carry her back.”

They went out into the sharp wind. It was almost full night, the sky a scudding mass of clouds flickering across a sickle
moon. There was a thin layer of snow across the ground. Acton led until they were in the lee of the last outbuilding. Already
Baluch’s nose was red and sore. His ears were aching. The buffeting of the wind, which would merely have been uncomfortable
to Bramble, was painful to him because of the insistent whuff and whine. It was as though his ears were more sensitive to
the noise than to the cold. His inner music died under the clamor.

“Well?” Acton asked. “Which way?”

Baluch stilled, his head down. Bramble noted that the toes of his boots were scuffed like a little boy’s, and was filled with
a sudden maternal affection for him. This was, of course, the Baluch who had founded Baluchston. The one who had struck a
deal with the Lake for a town and a ferry. The first ferryman. She had never quite understood why the Lake had made that agreement,
but from inside Baluch’s mind it made some sense. This boy would understand the Lake. So why was he best friends with Acton
the warlord?

Bramble could feel the presence of the gods around Baluch, but the pressure on her own mind was light. All their attention
was concentrated on him.

Then Baluch’s head came up, and he pointed. “Up the northern flank,” he said. “Over the sheep stream, beyond Barleyvale, and
farther up.”

Acton nodded. “You follow me,” he said, “until we’re there.”

Baluch bit his lip as though not liking the instruction, but followed closely in Acton’s footsteps. Bramble realized that
Acton was taking the force of the wind, sheltering Baluch and making it easier for him. That made sense. Baluch was smaller,
slighter — more likely to founder in the wind and cold. He was the one who could take them to the girl. It was a good tactical
decision. Or perhaps it was simply a boy sheltering his best friend from a harsh wind. She didn’t know which. The fact that
she couldn’t tell from Acton’s manner annoyed her. What was to decide? He was Acton, warlord and murderer. So he had a friend.
Even the worst of men may have friends.

But not, part of her mind suggested, friends like Baluch.

There was no room for further thought in the next two hours. The buffeting of the wind and cold took thought away, even though
Bramble withdrew her senses as far as she could from Baluch’s. She had wandered winter forests, been caught out in a snowstorm
or two, but the temperate south had nothing like this, not even in the dead of winter. There was nothing in this harsh land
to protect them except the occasional ridge or clump of rocks. They crossed thin, half-frozen streams, careful to keep their
boots dry, and started on a steep upward slope.

The footing was treacherous: loose scree that shifted and tripped them time and again. Without the gloves, Baluch’s hands
would have been slashed and scored. Acton fell less often. From time to time he would put a hand back to help Baluch over
a rough patch, or to pull him to his feet after a fall.

They had wrapped their scarves over their faces, leaving only their eyes visible, but even so Bramble could see that Acton
was enjoying himself. At first it made her cross. She was
not
enjoying having to endure Baluch’s struggle through wind and freezing cold, climbing a shagging mountain in the middle of
the night. Then she thought, but I might, if I were really doing it. Not enjoy the physical discomfort, but the wildness of
it, the sense of being on the edge of things, the knife’s edge between joy and despair, success and failure. I might enjoy
that.

They came to a sharp defile between two ridges, where they were protected from the wind. It felt almost warm by comparison
and they pulled back their wraps so they could talk. Despite the shelter, they had to shout over the sound of the wind wuthering
outside the defile.

“How far now?” Acton asked.

Baluch considered, again looking at his boots as the gods concentrated upon him.

“We have to climb the next ridge and then go around the rocks to the cave. Not far, but hard.”

“How in the name of Swith the Strong did she get up here anyway?”

Baluch shrugged. “You know what Friede’s like. It was a nice day this morning. She probably wanted to explore.”

Acton shook his head, with some admiration. “More like a boy than a girl!”

Baluch grinned. “Asa’s son should know how strong women can be.”

Acton made a face but underneath it was pride for his mother. “Strong enough to tan our hides if we don’t bring Friede back
safe.”

Baluch nodded, serious again. They wrapped themselves and started off, reluctantly leaving the shelter of the defile to climb
the ridge before them.

“You go first, here,” Acton said. Baluch looked quickly at him, as though surprised, but went willingly enough up the uneven
slope.

The ridge was so steep that they had to go on all fours, grabbing at harsh rocks that cut through their gloves, and sending
stones skittering down the slope beneath them. It was soon clear that Acton had the worst of it, as he had to avoid the rocks
that slid from beneath Baluch’s boots. The way broadened at one point so they could climb side-by-side and when it narrowed
again, Baluch motioned for Acton to go first. Acton shook his head. Baluch pushed him, gesturing, Go on! Acton studied him
for a moment, then shrugged and began to climb. They couldn’t talk; the wind made speech impossible. It felt as though the
wind wanted to pluck them off the ridge and cast them down onto the rocks below. Perhaps it did. Perhaps the howling was wind
spirits, not just air streaming through gaps in the rocks.

Bramble forced her mind away from that disquieting thought and wasn’t sure if it were hers or Baluch’s. His breath was coming
faster as they climbed and his legs ached and burned, but only from the knees up. Below that he was numb with cold. The clouds
finally covered the moon when they were halfway up and the rest of the ascent was in the pitch dark, fumbling for handholds
and footholds, grasping unseen outcrops, not knowing how securely they were anchored in what was now more cliff than ridge.

Baluch’s attention narrowed to the feel of his hands, the rock beneath his feet. Occasionally he flinched as a rock dislodged
by Acton’s feet bounced past him. One stone the size of a fist thudded into his shoulder and made him lose his grip. His heart
beat wildly as he lunged for another handhold, scrabbling until he was grasping the rock face securely. Bramble felt him begin
to quiver deep inside, but he dragged in a great, gulping breath, the cold needling his lungs, and began to climb again, ignoring
the quivering and the beating heart. Not long after, they reached a ledge and Acton squatted with his back to the cliff. Baluch
joined him, both of them taking long breaths. Acton was tired, too.

Then Baluch stood and pointed, not up, but along the ledge. He edged toward a large whitish boulder which blocked it. Bramble
was puzzled, at first, that she could see it. The night had been so dark before. Where was the light coming from? Then she
realized that it was snowing and what she saw was the snow on the top of the rock, reflecting what little light there was.
It had been snowing for a while, it seemed by the amount of snow on ledge and rock, but Baluch had been so concentrated on
the next handhold, the next step, that he hadn’t noticed, and so she hadn’t noticed either.

There was a gap between the boulder and the rock face, and they edged between it, Acton having more trouble than Baluch. Beyond,
the rock face the ledge curved around and ended in a cave mouth, darker by far than the surrounding rock. It was quieter in
the lee of the boulder. Baluch went up to the cave mouth and unwrapped the neck piece from his mouth. It was stiff with snow
and ice. He cleared his throat.

“Friede?” he called. “Friede?”

“Shhh!” a whisper came furiously from the dark cave. “Shhh! You’ll wake her!”

Scrabbling noises were followed by a head appearing from the cave. Bramble could barely see, even though Baluch was standing
close. It could have been any age child, boy or girl, from the voice and the hat, but Acton had that expression on his face
that Bramble had seen so often from others when she herself had been young; the one that meant “this girl doesn’t act as she
should.” Despite the fact that Friede was responsible for them having to make that horrible climb, she found herself liking
her.

“Wake who?” Baluch said.

“Shh! The bear.”

Both boys took an involuntary step backward and Friede made a reproving noise. “It’s all right, she’s in the winter sleep.
But she’ll wake up if you make too much noise.”

“You’re in trouble,” Acton said. “What’s worse, you got Baluch in trouble.”

Friede emerged fully from the cave and stood awkwardly on the ledge. Astonished, Bramble saw that she was lame, with a crutch
under her left arm. She was small; perhaps seven or eight.

“How did you get up here in the first place?” Baluch asked, exasperated.

“I fell from up there,” Friede said, gesturing toward the top of the cliff. “It’s not a bad walk if you take the long way
around. And then I couldn’t get down. Obviously.” She seemed irritated rather than scared or upset, and Bramble adjusted her
estimate of Friede’s age upward, but she wasn’t sure how far.

“So you just found a bear’s cave?” Acton said. Bramble couldn’t make out his face but his voice was amused.

“It was warm,” Friede said dismissively.

“It may have to be warm,” Acton said. “We’ll have to stay in it tonight, all of us.”

Immediately, Bramble felt the pressure of the gods grow greater around Baluch, and he shook his head.

“No, we have to go now, before the snow gets too deep. This blizzard is setting in for a long visit. Days, maybe weeks. We
won’t get home if we don’t make a move right now.”

Friede stared at him curiously.

Acton grinned. “The gods are leading him, girl. They must like you.”