Where the hell are the people, though? There ought to be fifty or sixty in this band, from the buildings. Women grinding acorns, cooking, weaving baskets, out in the land about gathering fresh spring greens; men toolmaking, hunting, working on hides; both sexes teaching older kids by demonstration; younger children running about at simple chores or play. There isn't even any smoke, goddammit. Locals never let all their fires go out-it was taboo, and just too much of a pain in the ass to relight, when all you had was a hand-drill. They couldn't all have gone up into the Sierras already, it wasn't quite the season, and even then some of the older folks would remain at the winter base to look after their stuff.
"Doesn't look right," he said, and handed the binoculars to the guide.
Tidtaway was worried, too; he simply took the binoculars and used them, without any of the usual fulsome wondering admiration. Among his people, if you praised something highly the owner had to give it to you. He still had trouble really believing that Nantucketers didn't operate that way.
"Nobody," he said after a moment.
"War?" Giernas asked. Not likely, but…
Tidtaway made a gesture of negation, tossing his head, then remembered to shake it in the manner of Western civilization.
"War, kill one man one time, steal one woman one time out alone. Not whole bunch. Nobody here." His face screwed up in bewilderment.
You look just how I feel, Giernas thought. A suspicion moved below the surface of his mind. No. Not here.
"Sue, you come with me," he said. "Eddie-" he unhooked the binocular case and handed it over. "You're in charge here; keep watch. One shot for come running with fangs out and hair
•h on fire, two for danger and stay put, three for run like hell. Perks, heel! Saule, Ausra, stay."
The three of them set out at a steady loping wolf-trot, slowing a little as they came down into the valley flat. Giernas kept his eyes moving; there was nothing except the usual bugs and birds, small animals; once a startled cougar standing on a rock that took one look at them and fled. The wind was steady at his back as they approached the Indian settlement.
Perks had been loping not far ahead with his usual casual alertness, panting a bit as the day grew hotter. Now he reeled in his tongue, slowed, stopped, and stood stiff-legged, growling slightly, the thick ruff of fur around his shoulders and neck bristling. Giernas stopped himself, flinging up a hand, conscious of more sweat running down his face and flanks than a mere couple of miles' run on a spring day should have brought.
"I'm going in alone," he said slowly. Sue cut off her protest at the chopping gesture he made. "Tidtaway, wait here. Same signals."
The ranger walked forward, rifle in his hands-although he had a sickening suspicion that there was nothing ahead that a bullet could protect him from. Even against the wind, the oily-sweet stink of corruption warned him at ten or twenty yards out, and the buzzing of innumerable flies. He swallowed, clenched teeth, made himself move forward at a cautious walk. The first body lay in the shadow of one of the great oaks, feet pointing at one hut and head at another. Small scavengers had been at it, and the flesh seethed with maggots, but from the dress-skirt of raven feathers, wand with a ruff of eagle feathers, necklace of bear claws centered on the skull of a falcon- this had been a shaman. He looked back along the trail; you could still see that the man had dragged himself along until he collapsed.
Probably trying everything he could to save his people, Giernas thought with a deep sadness underlaid with anger. He slung the rifle over his back and moved through the settlement, careful to touch nothing. Many of the bodies were fresher than the dead shaman; he pushed his head into one hut, then another, forcing himself not to gag, looking closely.
"Jesus," he said softly, then spat to clear his mouth of the cold gummy saliva of nausea. He raised his rifle, fired, reloaded, fired again.
Then he found an empty basket, tore it into strips, built a little tipi of dry branches, then crouched over it with the fire-maker from his belt pouch, winding its spring and checking that the flint was fresh and unworn. When he thumbed the release catch the mechanism whirred and a torrent of sparks flashed into the pan with its dried tinder. He blew softly on it, then tipped it into the basket shreds and blew again, glad of a mindless familiar task that let him distance himself from what lay about. When the fire was well set he put the ends of thick branches in it, then used more to move-scrape would have been a better term-all the remains outdoors into the huts. Then he set those on fire and stripped himself naked; everything went into the blaze that was not wood or metal, even the precious ammunition pouch and the sheaths of his weapons, even the leather sling of the rifle.
He might easily have missed the last sign as he left, skin roughened with fear. But his eyes had been trained to watch for patterns all his life since the Event, and those skills unmercifully honed as the expedition traveled west across the continent. He stopped, went to one knee, peered incredulously. The mark was old, in the shadow of a clump of knee-high bunchgrass, and nearly obliterated by the wind; a single footstep would have wiped out all trace of it. But there was no doubt of what it was. No other animal left that mark, the arched shape of a horse's hoof. His fingers brushed over it lightly. A shod hoof at that, he could see the marks of the nails. The expedition's horses weren't shod-carrying that many blanks would have cut too far into their useful loads, so they'd just been careful. This-
Sue and Tidtaway watched him wide-eyed as he approached, naked save for the rifle and blades he carried in both hands.
"Stand back!" he called, from twenty feet away, then thought of the flies. Unlikely that they could come upwind, but… "Get back-get back a mile, then wait for me. Do it! Now!"
Neither hesitated. Giernas turned and ran for the river, found a spot where water curled clean over rocks and sand, checked carefully that no victim had crawled this way in the grip of fever, then washed himself and his tools again and again, gripped Perks by his ruff and forced the dog through the same despite whinings and squirmings and the occasional growl.
I hope this works, he thought desperately. God, I wish I knew more about smallpox.
All he knew for sure was that if it hit people who hadn't been vaccinated, most of them would die. That was what the books said, and he'd seen far more proof than he ever wanted.
CHAPTER SIX
September, 10 A.E.-Babylon, Kingdom of Kar-Duniash
September, 10 A.E.-O'Rourke's Ford, east of Troy
October, 10 A.E.-Westhaven, Alba
King Kashtiliash-Great King of Babylon, King of the Four Quarters of the Earth, King of the Universe, viceregent of the great god Marduk, overlord of Assyria by right of conquest and of Elam by treaty of vassalage, and ally of the Republic of Nantucket in this the Year 10-slept with a Python revolver beneath his pillow.
His hand clenched on the smooth checkered wood and metal of the butt as he woke. The gesture was instinctive, although for most of his twenty-seven years it had been the hilt of a dagger he grasped on waking. It was no less necessary this last year since his father died and he took the throne; more so, if anything.
The royal bedchamber was large and dim, and thick brick walls and cunningly contrived vents in floor and ceiling kept it cool even in the summers of the Land Between the Rivers. That slight breeze sent a ripple through the rich hangings on the walls amid a scent of musk and incense, as well as a welcome breath across sweat-slick skin. For a moment his sleep-dazzled eyes thought that that was what had awoken him. An animal alertness brought him fully alert. A shout would bring guards with sword and rifle… but if an intruder had come this far, it might well be that the guards had been corrupted. He did not think so, but he did not intend to risk his life on the question, either. And Ku-Aya was gone from her place beside him… His thumb drew back the hammer of the weapon, softly, slowly, still beneath the muffling pillow, all to mute the distinctive click.