"That is good," Isketerol said. The sulfur will be very useful. It is not necessary that William know that my spies in Nantucket found out about the manganese, and the mines of it in my own Black Mountains. "Of course, in return for such kingly gifts, I will give royal gifts in return, for my honor's sake." What hypocrites we Kings must be. "What is it that my brother needs?"
"Quicksilver, as much as you can spare," Odikweos said. "If you have the mines working again."
"Better than ever," Isketerol lied smoothly. After all, William does not need to know where it comes from, so long as I can deliver it.
"And more raw cotton."
"The harvest has been excellent-"
CHAPTER FIVE
March, 11 A.E.-Feather River Valley, California
March, 11 A.E.-High Sierras, California
The healer bowed deeply before Alantethol of Tartessos, commander of the Hidden Fort of the West-in what the Eagle People called California. He inclined his head slightly in turn; she was a woman, true, but all healers were, and they were close to the Lady of Tartessos-uncomfortably close to the Crone, as well, the bright and shadow sides of the Divine.
"Will more of the ship's crew die?" he said, shuddering slightly within.
They had found it in the river downstream halfway to the sea, aground on a mudbank; only by the favor of Arucuttag had the crew brought it that far, with so many dead or dying. Only by a for-once-merciful jest of the Jester had the ones who lived included the captain, with his knowledge of modern navigation and this secret place.
"I am not sure, my great lord," she said, frowning. "Twenty-one at least will surely live. Of the other eight, they are still very weak-and badly scarred. Perhaps none will die, perhaps half. The healer"-her tone was contemptuous; the ship's medico was not one of the queen's true pupils, merely one who'd had a few brief lessons-"did not recognize the sickness quickly, and she was not skilled in the understanding of inoculation."
Alantethol inclined his head again, in thanks for the truthfulness not hidden behind honied lies. Best be respectful, if she was in turn. And this healer had been a pupil of the King's wife, Rosita, who had learned her art on Nantucket itself.
The commander ground his teeth at the thought. The Islanders had humiliated him-taken his ships; in that skirmish on the African coast, somehow turned his trap on him…
That had been before the war broke out openly, in the spring of the year past; the King had to pay ransom and then publicly upbraid him, dismiss him, lest the conflict come too soon. In private he'd been more merciful, especially when he learned that Alantethol had kept the secret of this outpost. The cover story had held-if the captains told them it was Australia, how could the men know otherwise? Only a few of the captives knew English, anyway, and speakers of Tartessian were even rarer on Nantucket, too rare even for detailed interrogation of the officers.
Hence his appointment here. What better command to give to one who must disappear from public view than one so secret not a dozen people in the kingdom knew of it, save those sent here for life? It put him out of the way, yes-this latest ship had left the homeland only a month after the fall planting- but it was a post of honor.
Nantucket was all things hateful and vile, a land on whom he wished every revenge. Yet also the source of all power, of knowledge beyond price. The King himself owed his rise to his stay there and his alliance with the Nantucketer renegade Walker. Alantethol himself had learned En-gil-its, and read among the books copied from the King's treasure-store, the Art of War and Celestial Navigation, things of deep wisdom. Wisdom that had made the son of a fishing-boat captain a great lord, one of the New Men of the King.
The Tartessian noble stroked his gold-bound tuft of chin-beard. "So, you have this sickness of the small pockmarks under control?"
"Yes, lord," she said, bowing again. "It was very lucky that the queen's book contained that knowledge and that the cows here have the little sickness which guards against the greater, or many more of us would have died. I beg the noble commander that word be sent to the homeland as quickly as may be-"
She paused to look around. Here was nobody to overhear, not even a barbarian slave ignorant of their tongue. The commander's office was on the third story of his residence, that he might have solitude to ponder. As befitted his rank it was lined with plastered walls, with bearskins on the floor and Shang silk on the walls, and much raw gold beaten into sheets. The workers came to clean and polish only under guard.
"… that this be done in the City and its tributaries as well, lest this new pestilence spread to our land."
Alantethol considered whether he should reveal more, then nodded abruptly. "That has already been accomplished, by
King Isketerol's wisdom," he said, bowing with hands to forehead at his overlord's name.
The healer hastily followed suit; this was a new custom since Isketerol took the throne.
"The sickness of the small pockmarks has been reported in Babylon; this ship of ours called at Meluhha on its way here, as part of keeping this base secret."
Meluhha, where traders came from all the eastern lands and men mingled. As a sheep defecates, promiscuously, everywhere, he thought. Undoubtedly that was where they had contracted the disease.
"Best to take no chances with the Jester's jests," he went on, in tribute to the King's wisdom.
They both made genuflection to a small eidolon of the Lady's favorite son where it sat grinning in a niche. It was solid-cast in gold, and nearly knee high to a man. That was an extravagance possible only here, where gold was like the dirt of the streams. Alantethol took a pinch of pine resin and threw it into a small brazier at the feet of the statue so that aromatic blue smoke coiled upward to please the God.
"But among the naked savages beyond our rule, the tiny daemons of this illness will spread like fire in dry summer grass," the healer said. "It will reap them as the very knife of the Crone; their flesh will seethe in Her Cauldron like a rich stew."
"This is not altogether bad," Alantethol said, pondering. "Earth must be fed," he added piously.
The savages who infested these lands-otherwise so much like home that even glancing out the window gave him a pang of longing-were not numerous by the standards of the lands of the Middle Sea, or even those of the yellow-haired barbarians of the far northern lands. They could not be, living as they did by the chase and gathering wild plants. But these were lands of amazing wealth in more than gold; well watered by many rivers, swarming with game and fish and flocks of birds, able to support a denser peopling than he would have believed possible without farming. And the Tartessians here were very few, even counting subject-allies brought from the homeland to bolster them.
And I do so count them, he thought. This far from home, differences that had loomed large in his youth became as nothing, and all Iberians were kindred. Still…
"We do need some of the free savages," he said. "There are not enough of us to do all the needful work, even with the slaves we've taken. Hmmm."
He sent a small prayer to the Lady of Tartessos, and another to Her brother Arucuttag of the Sea, who watched over Tartessians abroad beyond the salt waters. Hungry One, I will give you a strong warrior from among our captives, if you will show me a way… yes!
"Let word be sent to the tribes around us," he said. "Tell them that we will give this treatment of the cow… but only if they cease stinting the tribute they pay for our protection." Protection from us, he thought; but that was the usual way. "This can be turned to much good use in subduing the savages, this pestilence of the small pockmarks."