After the last missile had been thrown there was a general round of cheering, mixed with shouts for more wine (and more cups). When these basic needs had been provided for by the impressively efficient table-servants, one of the men down at the far end of the table called out, 'Get on with it!' Everybody laughed and cheered, and two men appeared from the direction they'd brought the frames in from. They were clearly very serious men indeed; they were dressed in military uniforms, with gleaming black boots and white pipeclay belts, immaculate red tunics and breastplates whose metallic gleam hurt the eyes, especially after a drink or two. One of them was carrying a long stick like a broom handle, and the other a long knife with a curved thin blade.
The man with the knife stopped, right-wheeled, saluted him and said, 'By your leave, sir.' That caught him offguard, but he heard himself say, 'Carry on, sergeant,' so that was all right.
The sergeant turned to the man stretched in the frame and wiped a section of his midriff clean of fruit pulp and wine dregs. Then he pinched a fold of skin near the solar plexus and carefully inserted the point of the knife, working it in with the skill and concentration of a high-class surgeon. Once he'd made his incision he pushed the knife in an inch or so-he was taking care not to puncture any of the internal organs-and drew it down in a straight line, slitting the skin like a hunter paunching a hare. He tucked the knife into his belt without looking down, then pushed his two forefingers into the incision and gently drew the skin apart to reveal the intestines. His skill and delicacy of touch earned him a round of applause from the diners that actually drowned out the noises the man was making; it was hard to see how the sergeant could keep his mind on his work with such a terrible racket going on, but apparently he was used to it, because he didn't seem to be taking any notice. Retrieving his knife from his belt he hooked a strand of the man's stretched gut round his finger and sliced through it. Then he nodded his head and the other soldier handed him the stick, around which he started to wind the severed gut.
I'm not sure I care for this, he thought, though nobody else seems to mind; in fact, they're lapping it up, and this substantial gathering of important people can't all be wrong. But he wished, he felt an urgent need to remember, which of the two this one was, Monach or Poldarn; he wasn't sure why, but he had an idea it was extremely important, if not now then at some point in the future. But, for some reason, he couldn't see clearly what was going on. It was as though he was being carried further and further away, or his sight was fading, or perhaps this was what happened to your senses when you died; he was a long way from the scene by now, so that the noise was an indistinct blur, screaming and cheering scrambled together, and the people were just shapes melting into a mass of colour, and then nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
He sat up and opened his eyes. The sudden movement disturbed a pair of crows that had settled on the porch rail while he'd been dozing; they spread their wings and lifted up, cawing furiously while they found their balance in the air. Poldarn's hand reached out for a stone or a cup or something to throw, but he was out of luck. They took their time leaving, as if they knew they were safe. They sailed away towards the mountain, the tips of their long wings flicking gracefully down at the end of each stroke.
It's time, he thought. Sitting around here won't do anybody any good. It's time we were on our way.
The red glow over the mountain was dawn, and something else as well. He went into the house and woke up Raffen and Asburn with the toe of his boot.
'We're leaving,' he said.
Raffen turned over and scowled at him. 'Already?' he grumbled.
Poldarn nodded. 'The fire-stream's gained a lot of speed going down the lower slope; it'll reach Haldersness by noon tomorrow. We're going to have to take a pretty wide detour because of it, and we can't take the horses, let alone the trap, so we need to allow an extra half-day to get there; the sooner we start, the better.'
He left them to get ready and went across the yard to the barn. Everything they needed was there, ready where he'd left it; not very much of anything, since they'd have to carry it a long way over difficult ground. He checked it all over one last time, and as an afterthought he added Boarci's axe to his pile. If everything went right he wouldn't be needing a weapon-there was no reason why it should come to that-but there was always the risk of a bear, evicted from its territory by the latest eruptions on the mountain, or something of the sort. He hadn't cleaned the axe properly since the last time he'd used it, and it had acquired a coating of gritty, sticky red rust; but it hadn't exactly been a thing of beauty to begin with, so who gave a damn?
They got themselves up and ready as quickly as anyone could reasonably expect, but Poldarn's nervousness had made him irritable, and he wasn't very polite to any of them. By the time they moved out, nobody was talking to anybody else; the silence was grim and awkward and miserable, but they started at a good pace and kept it up all morning.
At noon they stopped for a brief rest, while Poldarn went on ahead to look at the fire-stream. Nobody had asked him how he'd known all that stuff he'd told them, about how it had picked up speed and had made a longer detour necessary. He had no idea himself-maybe he'd had a vision or the divine Poldarn had appeared to him in a dream-but when he got to the top of the ridge and looked down, he found it all exactly as he'd expected it to be. The fire-stream itself was much wider and longer than it had been, and it was moving at nearly twice its previous speed. A tributary stream had broken out from the main body as it rode over the little crest he'd noticed from Ciartanstead. It was comparatively minor and wouldn't have the legs to make it over the next crest, but crossing it was nevertheless out of the question; they'd have to skirt round it, and that meant going right down to the terraces at the foot of the mountain. They'd be able to go a little way on the flat, but then they'd come up against a rill in spate that was too fast and wide to ford. The only way round that was to go back up the mountain and get across it while it was still just a frothy white splash falling almost vertically off the rocks. That was going to be a long, tiresome climb; they'd have to rest for at least an hour afterwards; and from there to the old road it wouldn't exactly be a gentle stroll. All things considered, even with the early start they were going to have to keep up a stiff pace if they wanted to get to where they had to be before nightfall tomorrow.
'Come on,' he called out, as soon as he'd rejoined the main party, 'that's plenty long enough. We're going to have to get a move on.'
Elja, who'd taken off her shoes, gave him a scowl. 'We can't go any faster,' she said. 'I've got blisters on both heels as it is.'
'Then you should've worn your boots,' Poldarn snapped. 'The fire-stream's thrown us out more than I'd expected-we've got to go right down into the valley, then right up again. There's no time for dawdling.'
Elja didn't say anything as she pulled her shoes back on. They were just rawhide moccasins with thin wooden soles, quite unsuitable for scrambling over rocks. He should have checked she was wearing her boots before they'd left, but he'd assumed she'd have had more sense.
The next eight hours were uncomfortable and unpleasant. They were all doing their best to keep up, but little things kept going wrong: knapsack straps broke, Raffen slipped on some shale and turned his ankle over, they tried a short cut that ended up costing them an hour. When it was too dark to see, they stopped beside a little pool under a waterfall and refused to go any further. Poldarn gave in, with a very bad grace. They had something to eat-dry bread and an onion each and went to sleep without exchanging a word.