‘The Mayor runs things in Crease. Well, the Mayor and Papa Ring run things, and it’s been that way ever since there was two planks nailed together in that place, and all that time
neither one’s been too friendly with the other. Sounds like they’re getting no friendlier.’
‘The Mayor can help us find Cantliss?’ asked Lamb.
Sweet’s shrug went higher yet. Any further and it’d knock his hat off. ‘The Mayor can always help you. If you can help the Mayor.’ And he gave his horse his heels and
trotted back towards the Fellowship.
Oh God, the Dust
‘
W
ake up.’
‘No.’ Temple strove to pull his miserable scrap of blanket over his face. ‘Please, God, no.’
‘You owe me one hundred and fifty-three marks,’ said Shy, looking down. Every morning the same. If you could even call it morning. In the Company of the Gracious Hand, unless there
was booty in the offing, few would stir until the sun was well up, and the notary stirred last of all. In the Fellowship they did things differently. Above Shy the brighter stars still twinkled,
the sky about them only a shade lighter than pitch.
‘Where did the debt begin?’ he croaked, trying to clear yesterday’s dust from his throat.
‘One hundred and fifty-six.’
‘What?’ Nine days of back-breaking, lung-shredding, buttock-skinning labour and he had shaved a mere three marks from the bill. Say what you will about Nicomo Cosca, the old bastard
had been a handsome payer.
‘Buckhorm docked you three for that cow you lost yesterday.’
‘I am no better than a slave,’ Temple murmured bitterly.
‘You’re worse. A slave I could sell.’ Shy poked him with her foot and he struggled grumbling up, pulled his oversized boots onto feet dewy from sticking out beyond the bottom
of his undersized blanket, shrugged his fourth-hand coat over his one sweat-stiffened shirt and limped for the cook’s wagon, clutching at his saddle-bludgeoned backside. He badly wanted to
weep but refused to give Shy the satisfaction. Not that anything satisfied her.
He stood, sore and miserable, choking down cold water and half-raw meat that had been buried under the fire the previous night. Around him men readied themselves for the day’s labours and
spoke in hushed tones, words smoking on the dawn chill, of the gold that awaited them at trail’s end, eyes wide with wonder as if, instead of yellow metal, it was the secret of existence they
hoped to find written in the rocks of those unmapped places.
‘You’re riding drag again,’ said Shy.
Many of Temple’s previous professions had involved dirty, dangerous, desperate work but none had approached, for its excruciating mixture of tedium, discomfort, and minute wages, the task
of riding drag behind a Fellowship.
‘Again?’ His shoulders slumped as if he had been told he would be spending the morning in hell. Which he more or less had been.
‘No, I’m joking. Your legal skills are in high demand. Hedges wants you to petition the King of the Union on his behalf, Lestek’s decided to form a new country and needs advice
on the constitution and Crying Rock’s asked for another codicil to her will.’
They stood there in the almost-darkness, the wind cutting across the emptiness and finding out the hole near his armpit.
‘I’m riding drag.’
‘Yes.’
Temple was tempted to beg, but this time his pride held out. Perhaps at lunch he would beg. Instead he took up the mass of decayed leather that served him for saddle and pillow both and limped
for his mule. It watched him approach, eyes inflamed with hatred.
He had made every effort to cast the mule as a partner in this unfortunate business but the beast could not be persuaded to see it that way. He was its arch-enemy and it took every opportunity
to bite or buck him, and had on one occasion most memorably pissed on his ill-fitting boots while he was trying to mount. By the time he had finally saddled and turned the stubborn animal towards
the back of the column, the lead wagons were already rolling, their grinding wheels already sending up dust.
Oh God, the dust.
Concerned about Ghosts after Temple’s encounter, Dab Sweet had led the Fellowship into a dry expanse of parched grass and sun-bleached bramble, where you only had to look at the desiccated
ground to stir up dust. The further back in the column you were, the closer companions you and dust became, and Temple had spent six days at the very back. Much of the time it blotted out the sun
and entombed him in a perpetual soupy gloom, landscape expunged, wagons vanished, often the cattle just ahead made insubstantial phantoms. Every part of him was dried out by wind and impregnated by
dirt. And if the dust did not choke you the stink of the animals would finish the job.
He could have achieved the same effect by rubbing his arse with wire wool for fourteen hours while eating a mixture of sand and cow-shit.
No doubt he should have been revelling in his luck and thanking God that he was alive, yet he found it hard to be grateful for this purgatory of dust. Gratitude and resentment are brothers
eternal, after all. Time and again he considered how he might escape, slip from beneath his smothering debt and be free, but there was no way out, let alone an easy one. Surrounded by hundreds of
miles of open country and he was imprisoned as surely as if he had been in a cage. He complained bitterly to everyone who would listen, which was no one. Leef was the nearest rider, and the boy was
self-evidently in the throes of an adolescent infatuation with Shy, had cast her somewhere between lover and mother, and exhibited almost comical extremes of jealousy whenever she talked or laughed
with another man, which, alas for him, was often. Still, he need not have worried. Temple had no romantic designs on the ringleader of his tormentors.
Though he had to concede there was something oddly interesting about that swift, strong, certain way she had, always on the move, first to work and last to rest, standing when others sat,
fiddling with her hat, or her belt, or her knife, or the buttons on her shirt. He did occasionally catch himself wondering whether she was as hard all over as her shoulder had been under his hand.
As her side had been pressed up against his. Would she kiss as fiercely as she haggled . . . ?
When Sweet finally brought them to a miserable trickle of a stream, it was the best they could do to stop a stampede from cattle and people both. The animals wedged in and clambered over each
other, churning the bitter water brown. Buckhorm’s children frolicked and splashed. Ashjid thanked God for His bounty while his idiot nodded and chuckled and filled the drinking barrels.
Iosiv Lestek dabbed his pale face and quoted pastoral poetry at length. Temple found a spot upstream and flopped down on his back in the mossy grass, smiling wide as the damp soaked gently through
his clothes. His standard for a pleasurable sensation had decidedly lowered over the past few weeks. In fact he was greatly enjoying the sun’s warmth on his face, until it was suddenly
blotted out.
‘My daughter getting her money’s worth out of you?’ Lamb stood over him. Luline Buckhorm had cut her childrens’ hair that morning and the Northman had reluctantly allowed
himself to be put at the back of the queue. He looked bigger, and harder, and even more scarred with his grey hair and beard clipped short.
‘I daresay she’ll turn a profit if she has to sell me for meat.’
‘I wouldn’t put it past her,’ said Lamb, offering a canteen.
‘She’s a hard woman,’ said Temple as he took it.
‘Not all through. Saved you, didn’t she?’
‘She did,’ he was forced to admit, though he wondered whether death would have been kinder.
‘Reckon she’s just soft enough, then, don’t you?’
Temple swilled water around his mouth. ‘She certainly seems angry about something.’
‘She’s been often disappointed.’
‘Sad to say I doubt I’ll be reversing that trend. I’ve always been a deeply disappointing man.’
‘I know that feeling.’ Lamb scratched slowly at his shortened beard. ‘But there’s always tomorrow. Doing better next time. That’s what life is.’
‘Is that why you two are out here?’ asked Temple, handing back the canteen. ‘For a fresh beginning?’
Lamb’s eyes twitched towards him. ‘Didn’t Shy tell you?’
‘When she talks to me it’s mostly about our debt and how slowly I’m clearing it.’
‘I hear that ain’t moving too quick.’
‘Every mark feels like a year off my life.’
Lamb squatted beside the stream. ‘Shy has a brother and a sister. They were . . . taken.’ He held the canteen under the water, bubbles popping. ‘Bandits stole ’em, and
burned our farm, and killed a friend of ours. They stole maybe twenty children all told and took them up the river towards Crease. We’re following on.’
‘What happens when you find them?’
He pushed the cork back into the canteen, hard enough that the scarred knuckles of his big right hand turned white. ‘Whatever needs to. I made a promise to their mother to keep those
children safe. I broken a lot of promises in my time. This one I mean to keep.’ He took a long breath. ‘And what brought you floating down the river? I’ve always been a poor judge
of men, but you don’t look the type to carve a new life from the wilderness.’
‘I was running away. One way and another I’ve made quite a habit of it.’
‘Done a fair bit myself. I find the trouble is, though, wherever you run to . . . there y’are.’ He offered out his hand to pull Temple up, and Temple reached to take it, and
stopped.
‘You have nine fingers.’
Suddenly Lamb was frowning at him, and he didn’t look like such a slow and friendly old fellow any more. ‘You a missing-finger enthusiast?’
‘No, but . . . I may have met one. He said he’d been sent to the Far
Country to find a nine-fingered man.’
‘I probably ain’t the only man in the Far Country missing a finger.’
Temple felt the need to pick his words carefully. ‘I have a feeling you’re the sort of man that sort of man might be looking for. He had a metal eye.’
No flash of recognition. ‘A man with a missing eye after a man with a missing finger. There’s a song in there somewhere, I reckon. He give a name?’
‘Caul Shivers.’
Lamb’s scarred face twisted as though he’d bitten into something sour. ‘By the dead. The past just won’t stay where you put it.’
‘You do know him, then?’
‘I did. Long time back. But you know what they say – old milk turns sour but old scores just get sweeter.’
‘Talking of scores.’ A second shadow fell across him and Temple squinted around. Shy stood over him again, hands on her hips. ‘One hundred and fifty-two marks. And eight
bits.’
‘Oh God! Why didn’t you just leave me in the river?’
‘It’s a question I ask myself every morning.’ That pointed boot of hers poked at his back. ‘Now up you get. Majud wants a Bill of Ownership drawn up on a set of
horses.’
‘Really?’ he asked, hope flickering in his breast.
‘No.’
‘I’m riding drag again.’
Shy only grinned, and turned, and walked way.
‘Just soft enough, did you say?’ Temple muttered.
Lamb stood, wiping his hands dry on the seat of his trousers. ‘There’s always tomorrow.’
Sweet’s Crossing
‘
D
id I exaggerate?’ asked Sweet.
‘For once,’ said Corlin, ‘no.’
‘It surely is a big one,’ muttered Lamb.
‘No doubt,’ added Shy. She wasn’t a woman easily impressed, but the Imperial bridge at Sictus was some sight, specially for those who’d scarcely seen a thing you could
call a building in weeks. It crossed the wide, slow river in five soaring spans, so high above the water you could hardly fathom the monstrous scale of it. The sculptures on its pitted pedestals
were wind-worn to melted lumps, its stonework sprouted with pink-flowered weeds and ivy and even whole spreading trees, and all along its length and in clusters at both ends it was infested with
itinerant humanity. Even so diminished by time it was a thing of majesty and awe, more like some wonder of the landscape than a structure man’s ambition could ever have contemplated, let
alone his hands assembled.
‘Been standing more’n a thousand years,’ said Sweet.
Shy snorted. ‘Almost as long as you been sitting that saddle.’
‘And in all that time I’ve changed my trousers but twice.’
Lamb shook his head. ‘Ain’t something I can endorse.’
‘Changing ’em so rarely?’ asked Shy.
‘Changing ’em at all.’
‘This’ll be our last chance to trade before Crease,’ said Sweet. ‘ ’Less we have the good luck to run into a friendly party.’
‘Good luck’s never a thing to count on,’ said Lamb.
‘Specially not in the Far Country. So make sure and buy what you need, and make sure you don’t buy what you don’t.’ Sweet nodded at a polished chest of drawers left
abandoned beside the way, fine joints all sprung open from the rain, in which a colony of huge ants appeared to have taken up residence. They’d been passing all kinds of weighty possessions
over the past few miles, scattered like driftwood after a flood. Things folk had thought they couldn’t live without when they and civilisation parted. Fine furniture looked a deal less
appealing when you had to carry it. ‘Never own a thing you couldn’t swim a river with, old Corley Ball used to tell me.’
‘What happened to him?’ asked Shy.
‘Drowned, as I understand.’
‘Men rarely live by their own lessons,’ murmured Lamb, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
‘No, they don’t,’ snapped Shy, giving him a look. ‘Let’s get on down there, hope to make a start on the other side before nightfall.’ And she turned and waved
the signal to the Fellowship to move on.
‘Ain’t long before she takes charge, is it?’ she heard Sweet mutter.
‘Not if you’re lucky,’ said Lamb.
Folk had swarmed to the bridge like flies to a midden, sucked in from across the wild and windy country to trade and drink, fight and fuck, laugh and cry and do whatever else folk did when they
found themselves with company after weeks or months or even years without. There were trappers and hunters and adventurers, all with their own wild clothes and hair but the same wild smell and that
quite ripe. There were peaceable Ghosts set on selling furs or begging up scraps or tottering about drunk as shit on their profits. There were hopeful folk on their way to the gold-fields seeking
to strike it rich and bitter folk on the way back looking to forget their failures, and merchants and gamblers and whores aiming to build their fortunes on the backs of both sets and each other.
All as boisterous as if the world was ending tomorrow, crowded at smoky fires among the furs staked out to dry and the furs being pressed for the long trip back where they’d make some rich
fool in Adua a hat to burn their neighbours up with jealousy.