He summoned
servants, bathed and shaved, then dined as he selected a new outfit from those
shown him; soft sandals, loose trousers and short, wraparound jacket with a
sort of cummerbund. He left the Garand and its bandolier behind the curtains
where he’d hidden it the night before, but tucked the Browning inside his
waistband.
Since no one
had informed him of any schedule of activities, the American decided to explore
the palace. He passed unhindered through beautiful galleries, elegant reception
halls, huge storerooms and glittering armories. What sentries and domestics he
met bowed to their ruler’s guest and treated him with all respect. He came to
pass a door near the main armory and heard a quick
wwhhht-chunk,
repeated
a second later. Curious, he opened the door and stepped inside to find the Snow
Leopardess engaged in practice with her knives.
She stood
twelve paces from a swinging target dummy, a case of blades on a stand next to
her. She turned at his entry. The sight of her made his day.
“Good morning,
Van Duyn. No, don’t go; wait until I throw a final brace and we’ll talk.”
He didn’t need
to be invited twice, and she returned her attention to her exercise. He had
difficulty seeing the motion as she released her left-hand knife with an upward
snap, letting fly with the right one overhand. The blades drove home side by
side at the bull’s-eye.
“Superb,” Van
Duyn said.
She accepted
his praise as her due. “I try not to throw more than fifteen paces in combat,
but I’m always accurate under that. I don’t recall the last time I missed, in
fact.”
“Combat? Surely
Your Rad—you don’t actually go into battle?”
She grimaced.
“Reacher usually doesn’t let me, but once or twice I got away for a go at
bandits and border raiders. In fact, I tried like hell to go to the High Ranges
with him, but he said no, and that was that.”
Like her brother,
she wore hunt clothes. Van Duyn was to discover that the two preferred them
whenever possible. She reached into a cabinet and drew out her knife belt,
buckling it at her hips and settling the weapons precisely, then strapping the
tie-downs at each thigh. She offered to show him around a bit more and he
accepted at once.
As they walked,
they spoke of this and that, though her interests lay primarily in politics and
war. He found her less aloof and more open than at their first meeting, not
quite so guarded. The American saw that she shared some measure of her
brother’s physical aptitudes and disliked the fripperies of Court, as Reacher
did.
As they came to
the bottom of a sweeping flight of stairs bordered by a walnut banister studded
with silver nails, they rounded a corner and Van Duyn received one of the great
shocks of his life. He cried aloud and threw himself backward, groping at his
pistol, eyes goggling in horror at the monstrous creature blocking their path.
The Snow
Leopardess laughed. “Don’t be alarmed at the sight of Kisst-Haa. Hideous as he
is, the old dear, he’s a brave and faithful guardian, and leader of our
reptile-men.”
The being
scrutinized the American for a moment, then made a deep bow, rumbling softly.
The man stared back in slack-jawed amazement. Tall as she was, Katya was
dwarfed by the reptile-man, who stood close to seven feet and seemed to
resemble a sort of simian tyrannosaurus. His face, if that’s what one would
call it, held strange intelligence in yellow beacon-eyes, offsetting the
enormous fangs jutting from his jaws. His shoulders were wide to facilitate
movements of arms and handlike claws. His movements were brisk. His body was
covered with a thick, green-scaled hide, and while he wore no clothing—nor
needed any—his great tail was encased in articulated caudal armor from which
spikes and razor flanges projected. At Kisst-Haa’s back was slung an immense
broadsword nearly as tall as he. So colossal was it that the pommel knob set to
balance the weight of its ponderous blade was the size of a cannonball.
Considering the titanic girth of the reptile-man’s wrists and arms, Van Duyn
was willing to bet that he’d have no difficulty working the greatsword like a
hickory switch. All things being equal, Van Duyn agreed with Andre: the reptile
was the match of the brutal ogre-guards in the Court at Earthfast.
Katya led him
closer; her touch was light, but he felt a shock, as if a spark had crackled
between them. Kisst-Haa demonstrated his familiarity with the human custom of
shaking hands. The American’s large hand was lost in the other’s grasp.
Kisst-Haa carefully exerted only infinitesimal pressure, but the man knew that
he could have crushed puny flesh and bone to paste, effortlessly.
When amenities
were finished, the scholar stepped back as Katya slipped her elbow through
Kisst-Haa’s tree-bough arm and laid her fair head against him. “He is my
confidant and one true friend since childhood.”
She disengaged
herself and Kisst-Haa bowed to her, boomed briefly in his own sibilant tongue, bowed
to Van Duyn and set off again on his nameless errand.
The Princess
and the American took up their interrupted tour once more, and after some time
Van Duyn said, “Surely a Princess must have more friends than one. Are you
truly so desolate for acquaintances?”
“Not for
acquaintances, certainly, but for friends. I dislike the sort who come to Court
in greatest numbers; they tend to be idlers and fops, and those toward whom I
feel admiration, the officers and warriors of the Realm, hold Reacher too much
in awe to do anything but bow and stammer in place of conversation. For truth,
the coming of your fellowship—even that scarlet-haired spell spinner—is welcome
surcease from my bland life.”
He presumed
that she was exaggerating, but didn’t say as much. “Katya, I can’t lay claim to
courtly manners, but I’d consider it an honor to do what I may to alleviate
your, er, tedium.”
“Splendid! But
if I hadn’t seen you use that flash-roar weapon of yours I’d fear that I’d
another amorous coxcomb on my hands. Very well—Edward, is it not?—Edward then,
you’ll sit at my side at dinner and while those ninnies prattle about the
proper length of tippets, you can regale me with details of military practices
and state intrigues in your land.”
Van Duyn
shrugged mentally. It was a beginning.
The north
country sloped gradually up through fertile river valleys into rising hills.
Springbuck had expected at least to guest at inns or local officials’ Keeps
until they were at the steppes, but Reacher asked almost shyly if he would mind
camping outdoors, explaining that this was something he rarely got to do at
Freegate. The Prince acquiesced and spent chilly nights bunched in his cloak by
a fire listening to howling predators. Yet Reacher curled up without cover and
slept blissfully.
Riding swiftly
and, as far as Springbuck could tell, without being recognized by the few
people they saw, they breasted a low mountain range within four days of their
departure from the palace. Spread before them, limitless and somehow inviting,
were the grassy steppes, the High Ranges, subcontinent in their own right. To
their left they could see a small outpost ringed by a palisade of thick logs
laboriously brought up from the south. The last permanent concentration of
humanity on their trip, a trading station, was where Reacher left his mount in
the care of the local justiciary. This was the perimeter of Freegate’s purview;
a merestone stood by the outpost’s north gate. On the side facing Freegate was
carved a galloping horse, to let the traveler know he was entering the ranges
of the Horseblooded.
“But why not
ride the whole way?” the Prince asked. “You rode in Freegate to preserve
dignity, rather than walk alongside us afoot. And aren’t the Wild Riders going
to think less of you?”
The King made
an unusually long answer. “I ride in the low country; that’s a matter of Face.
In the high country I am Howlebeau; none of us would rely on an animal for
transport.”
“But you said
you’ll take part in some sort of contest or match when we arrive at the meeting
grounds. Why tire yourself trying to keep up with Fireheel?”
Reacher
grinned. “Fireheel’s a fine horse. I think we’ll run well together, he and I.”
Springbuck’s
wonder increased when they set out, the justiciary and his deputies seeing them
off at the mere-stone, because the King fell into a steady lope, matching that
of the gray. The horse, though visibly irked at the man-creature pacing him,
was in high spirits at his first excursion on the High Ranges. He tossed his
head, petitioning for a gallop through the ocean of grass.
They moved
along all through the long day and for two days thereafter, seeing no other
human beings on the treeless steppes. They frequently spied tremendous grazing
herds of horses, antelope and bison blanketing the land for miles, and saw packs
of wild dogs and out-sized wolves. All avoided them. Their campfires were
pungent, since they had to use dried animal droppings for fuel. Springbuck
suspected that the King permitted the fires only out of courtesy and would
rather have done without. He couldn’t see how Reacher navigated on the
featureless plain, whether by sun and stars or some instinct, and didn’t ask.
Reacher would
occasionally dash away from their course to return with some type of small game
for their meal. The rest of the time he forged along mutely, heels never
touching the ground, nose high to test the wind, to all appearances as happy as
he could be. The two generally held quiet conversation for a short time at
night before retiring. Yet the Prince began to feel closer to Reacher as the
steppes began to expand in his mind, their boundlessness stretching to fill the
world and crowd more populated countries into insignificance. He found this
feeling untroublesome, his companionship with Reacher unlabored.
At midmorning
of the fourth day on the steppes they came on a sprawling tent camp, a
temporary city, with miles of scattered clusters around clan banners. As they
entered the camp they instantly collected a trail of small children and dogs,
who in turn were joined by their elders, who raised an even greater commotion
than the youngsters. Reacher was plainly a favorite here. Springbuck was never
sure how he’d found this bivouac, whether by prearrangement, smell or some
hidden signs.
On their way
down systematically aligned streets, they passed practice fields, animal
pens—the whole camp reeked of them—communal water barrels, trading areas and
cooking fires.
Of course,
there were many mounted men, some sitting horses close in size to Fireheel, but
most on small shaggy mounts bred of the fierce tarpans roaming the steppes.
Fireheel filled the air with high whistles of challenge until Springbuck curbed
him sharply.
The
Horseblooded, as they called themselves after their close attachment to their
animals, were for the most part a ruddy, stocky sort with straight, strawlike
blond or red hair, usually caught up in the back like a tail to emulate their
beloved horses. There was an air of formidability about them, yet they were
friendly and open, delighting in Reacher’s arrival as that of some special
hero. The men wore fleece vests, breeches of wool or silk and many bracelets
and armlets. Most wore some form of riding boots or pants bound tightly with
thongs, and all carried a variety of weapons. Springbuck noticed one in
particular, a big fellow on a white gelding fully of a size with Fireheel. He
wore sword and dagger at one hip and a mace of flanges thrust through his belt
at the other. Three long darts and an atlatl were tucked into one high boot and
a horsehair quirt hung from his wrist, which surprised the Prince, since he’d
been told by Reacher that the Horseblooded eschewed quirts or spurs. The man’s
saddle supported a bow and quiver of arrows, a gaily decorated shield and a
braided rope, and he carried two javelins in his right hand. He didn’t laugh or
applaud Reacher, but watched him carefully with no liking in his expression.
At what was
approximately the center of camp, they came to the largest tent of all, nearly
big enough for a traveling circus. Their rate of progress was hampered by the
exulting, spontaneous parade of honor to the point where it was impossible for
even Reacher to obtain entrance to the tent. He was now pressed up against the
nervous Fireheel by the throng, exchanging continuous handclasps. A roll of
drums and winding of horns smote their ears and the crowd fell back, as
children and dogs alike were hushed to silence.
“The Hetman
comes,” Reacher said.
The curtains of
the Hetman’s tent were drawn aside by well-armed guards in cloaks of
fur-bordered silk. He came out, a man of authoritative bulk with a thick,
flowing beard like many of the men there, but darker than most. He was aging,
but little gray had touched him yet and he had an enormous belly which, with
his imposing height, made him seem to grow as he approached. His cloak and vest
were of fine white furs and he was ornamented with many trinkets and pieces of
jewelry, including a necklace of coins. But he wore a weighty scimitar in a
back sheath, its grip at his left shoulder; tucked through his wide girdle were
a hatchet, garrote and a large poniard. In one legging was a brace of throwing
knives.
He and the King
of Freegate faced one another for a silent moment, then lunged at each other
like angry bears, with mighty hugs. Reacher was whisked from his feet and
whirled around as if weightless. Springbuck, who’d been fingering his sword
hilt nervously, now clapped his hand to it and went for his parrying dagger,
convinced that the combat vaguely mentioned by the King had been joined and
certain that he, too, was about to be assaulted.
Then he
realized that the King was laughing, as were the Hetman and those on the
sidelines. Again he was grateful that his war mask hid his expression.