Pattern

Elja nodded. 'Just not too close to the house, if you don't mind. The last thing we want is a rookery, right next to the barn.'

First, of course, Poldarn had to find some trees to plant. It hadn't occurred to him to wonder where they were supposed to come from; should he have thought about it long before this, planted out a nursery with pine seeds and trained up a hundred or so saplings, so as to be ready? He'd have to ask someone about that, Raffen or Rook or one of the other old hands. As to where it ought to go, that was another awkward question. Normally he'd have been looking at the far end of the farm, where Eyvind's wood had been; but now that he'd diverted the flow of molten rock from the volcano, any future eruption could well send a fire-stream rushing down in that direction, and his unborn grandson wouldn't thank him for a stream of red-hot liquid stone running through the kitchen garden. That really only left the spur at the other end of the farm, and that'd be an awkward place to build a house, with Poldarn's Forge standing in the way between the new house and the fields. It was strange to think that a choice he made now could have such a profound effect in twenty years' time on someone who wasn't born yet. With that in mind he compromised, and surveyed a patch halfway between the house and the filled-in combe. It wasn't what he'd have chosen, but it would have to do. It wasn't as if he was spoiled for choice.

Colsceg had to be told, of course. Since they weren't entirely sure where he was, they resigned themselves to sending out a messenger who might not be back for some weeks. Raffen volunteered to go, but Poldarn didn't like the thought of being without his best worker for so long and in the end they chose one of the newcomers instead-a young man called Stolley.

('But I don't know the way,' Stolley protested, when they told him he'd just volunteered. 'I've never been west of Locksdale in my life.'

'You'll be all right,' Rook assured him. 'Just follow the trail over the mountain till you get to Ciartanstead and ask there. They'll tell you where Colsceg's gone. Be reasonable; if it wasn't something any bloody fool could do, do you think we'd be sending you?')

One morning, when Poldarn was busy in the forge making a pot-hook, one of the offcomer women-her name was Birta, and she was Geir's kid sister-came by with the water jug.

'That's good timing,' Poldarn said, and he took a long drink straight from the jug. 'Thanks.'

'That's all right,' Birta replied; as usual, she was slightly taken aback at being thanked. One of these days, Poldarn promised himself, I'll get out of the habit, and then maybe I won't get stare at quite so much. 'Oh, and there's a message for you,' she went on, 'from my brother. He said to tell you the Ciartanstead men came by and picked up the horse.'

Poldarn rested the jug on the anvil. 'Sorry?'

'The Ciartanstead men. They came by and picked up the horse.'

He frowned. He could ask again, and she could repeat her message, and maybe they could carry on having the same conversation all day. 'Where's Geir now?' he asked.

'In the trap-house, fixing the roof,' she replied. 'At least? he was a minute ago.'

Geir was still there. 'Yes,' he said, 'two men, I didn't catch their names. That's all right, isn't it?'

Poldarn looked up at the roof. There was a hole in the thatch. 'I'm not sure,' he said. 'What did they have to say for themselves?'

Geir shrugged. 'That they'd come to collect the horse, and you knew all about it, you'd fixed it up with Eyvind. Why, is something wrong?'

'It's probably nothing,' Poldarn replied. 'Chances are there's a perfectly good explanation, only nobody's bothered to tell me about it. That sort of thing happens a lot round here, you'll find that out for yourself.'

But nobody else knew anything about any horse, so Poldarn went back to Geir and asked him for more details.

'Well,' Geir told him, 'one of them was a big, thin man, something between forty and sixty, with a nose like the beak on an anvil. The other one was short and quite broad, with a little thin beard. Does that help at all?'

The thin man sounded like Carey, the Haldersness stockman. 'Nothing to worry about,' Poldarn said. 'But I just might run over there sometime and sort it all out.'

He thought about it some more, and went and saddled up a horse. He told the stable hands to tell Elja he'd be away for a day or so, but it was no big deal, just something that needed clearing up.

He needn't have bothered them with the message, because he met Elja coming out of the rat-house. 'Where are you off to?' she asked.

'Ciartanstead,' he replied, tightening the girth. 'There's some kind of silly mix-up about a horse, I thought I'd better go over there and put it straight before it gets out of hand.'

She nodded. 'Got any food for the journey?'

'Salt beef and a bottle of water,' he replied. 'I don't plan on being very long.'

'Good,' she said. 'It's not a good time to go swanning off on sociables.' Elja pushed aside the saddle-blanket. 'You're taking Boarci's axe with you,' she observed.

'I thought I might,' Poldarn said. 'Just in case there's still any bears left that he didn't bash on the head.'

'Well, have a safe trip,' she told him. 'See you in a day or so.'

On his way up and down the mountain, Poldarn put the missing horse out of his mind and thought about the future. Planting some trees; that was definitely something he was going to have to do. There was also the question of the Haldersness herd, which was presumably still somewhere out west, along with a dozen or so of the Haldersness men. The mountain hadn't played up at all since they'd moved into Poldarn's Forge, and fresh milk, meat, cheese and wool would come in very handy indeed; so would the herdsmen, if they could be induced to come and settle at the Forge. He could remember the names of two of them-Odey and Lothbrook-but nothing else about them at all. In their shoes, of course, he'd throw in his lot with Eyvind and use the herd to pay his membership dues; but of course he wasn't a bit like these people (his people) and what he'd do in any given situation wasn't a reliable guide. He couldn't see that Eyvind had any justifiable claim on the herd, simply because he'd stolen the house and the farm; if they saw it differently, however, he recognised that there was precious little he could do about it. The most sensible thing would be to agree a compromise with Eyvind and divide the herd between them-after all, he didn't have the manpower to look after the whole herd, even if he could get his hands on it. That would be the most practical, logical course of action. No question about it.

Poldarn slept badly out in the open, and woke up with a stiff neck. Halfway through the next morning it came on to rain, and he realised he'd come out without a proper coat. The horse blanket, draped round his shoulders and tucked in under his chin, made him feel happier for a while, until it soaked up so much water that its presence became a nuisance rather than a help. Half an hour before he reached Ciartanstead it stopped raining and the sun came out, filling his nose with the stench of drying blanket.

He remembered a small patch of dead ground not far from the house, with a tree he could tie the horse to. From there he walked slowly and carefully, making sure he kept just below the skyline. At some point in his career-at Deymeson, presumably-he'd learned how to make himself inconspicuous in a rural landscape. If anyone saw him as he approached the farm, he wasn't aware of it.

The closest cover was the cider house. Leaning against the wall was a stack of long poles; he crept in behind it and looked up the sky. Not far off noon; in which case, Carey would be fetching water from the spring. That meant crossing the yard, and there were bound to be people about. Fortunately, he appeared to have covered that part of the syllabus, too. He found a bucket, picked it up, and crossed the yard briskly and openly. Nobody ever takes any notice of a man with a bucket who looks like he's working.

Just for once, he'd got it pretty much right. Carey was at the spring, stooping down to fill his own bucket. Another part of the course must have dealt with sneaking up behind people without being heard, because the first Carey knew about Poldarn was the edge of Boarci's axe, pressed against the side of his neck.