‘And for reward you kill and eat us!’ snapped Brash Phluster. ‘Those horses—’
‘Will not be sacrificed,’ uttered Tulgord Vise, in a low growl of lifted hackles. ‘That was settled and so it remains.’
Tiny Chanter laughed with a show of his tiny teeth and said to Tulgord, ‘When we done ate all the artists, peacock, it’s you or your horses. Take your pick.’ His brothers laughed too and their laughs were the same as Tiny’s, and at this moment the knights exchanged glances and then both looked to Steck Marynd who rode a few paces ahead, but the forester’s back stayed hunched and if his hairs prickled on his neck he made no sign.
Tiny’s threat remained, hanging like a raped woman’s blouse that none would look at, though Brash seemed pleased by it, evidently not yet thinking through Tiny’s words.
‘The Chief in the camp was past his hunting years, and wisdom made bleak his eyes, for when word came to him that a Fenn had made entrance, and that he brought with him a sledge on which lay a body, the Chief feared the worst. There was scant food, and the only medicines the shoulder-women still possessed – after such trying months – were those that eased hunger pangs. Yet he made welcome his round floor and soon all those still able to walk had gathered to meet the Fenn and to hear his words.’
Clearing his throat, Calap resumed. ‘The woman who had first greeted him, fair as the spring earth, could not but feel responsible for his presence – though she was bound to honour and so had had no choice – and so she walked close by him and stood upon his left as they waited for the Chief’s invitation to sit. Soft the strange whisperings within her, however, and these drew her yet closer, as if his need was hers, as if his straits simply awaited the strength of her own shoulders. She could not explain such feeling, and knew then that the spirits of her people had gathered close to this moment, beneath grey and lifeless skies, and the strokes upon her heart belonged to them.
‘It is fell and frightening when the spirits crowd the realm of mortals, for purposes remain ever hidden and all will is as walls of sand before the tide’s creep. So, fast beat her heart, quickening her breath, and when at last a child emerged from his grandfather’s hut and gestured, she reached out and took hold of the stranger’s hand – her own like a babe’s within it, and feeling too the hard calluses and seams of strength – and he in turn looked with hooded surprise down upon her, seeing for the very first time her youth, her wan beauty, and something like pain flinched in his heavy eyes—’
‘Why?’ Sellup asked. ‘What does he know?’
‘Unwelcome your chorus,’ muttered Apto Canavalian.
Calap rubbed his face, as if in sudden loss. Had he forgotten the next details? Did the Reaver now stand before him, Death at home in his camp?
‘Before the fire …’ said I in soft murmur.
Starting, Calap nodded. ‘Before the fire, and with the sledge left outside where the last of the dogs drew close to sniff and dip tails, the Fenn warrior made sit before the Chief. His weapons were left at the threshold, and in the heat he at last drew free of his wintry clothing, revealing a face in cast not much elder to the woman kneeling beside him. Blood and suffering are all-too-common masks among all people throughout every age. In dreams we see the hale and fortunate and imagine them some other place, yet one within reach, if only in aspiration. Closer to our lives, waking each day, we must face the scarred reality, and all too often we don our own matching masks, when bereft of privilege as most of us are.’ It seemed he faltered then, as if the substance of this last aside now struck him for the first time.
Statements find meaning only in the extremity of the witness, else all falls flat and devoid of emotion, and no amount of authorial exhortation can awaken sincerity among those crouch’d in strongholds of insensitivity. No poorer luck seeking to stir dead soil to life, no seed will take, no flower will grow. True indeed the dead poet’s young vision of masks of suffering and blood, but true as well – as he might have seen in his last days and nights – a growing plethora of masks of the insensate, the dead-inside, the fallow of soul, who are forever beyond reach.
Calap cleared his throat yet again. ‘The Chief was silent and patient. Tales will wait. First, meagre staples are shared, for to eat in company is to acknowledge the kinship of need and, indeed, of pleasure no matter how modest.’ And once more he hesitated, and we all walked silent and brittle of repose.
‘Too grim,’ announced Tiny. ‘Brash Phluster, weave us another song and be quick about it.’
Calap staggered and would have fallen if not for my arm.
Brash weaved as if punched and suddenly sickly was his pallor. Drawing deep, ragged breaths, he looked round wildly, as if seeking succour, but no eyes but mine would meet his and as he fixed his terror upon me I inclined my head and gave him the strength of my assurance.
Gulping, he tried out his singing voice. ‘Va la gla blah! Mmmmmmm. Himmyhimmyhimmy!’
Behind us the harashal vulture answered in kind, giving proof to the sordid rumour of the bird’s talent at mimicry.
‘Today,’ Brash began in a reedy, quavering voice, ‘I shall sing my own reworking of an ancient poem, a chapter of the famous epic by Fisher kel Tath, Anomandaris.’
Apto choked on something and the host ably pounded upon his back until the spasm passed.
One of the mules managed a sharp bite of Flea’s left shoulder and he bellowed in pain, lumbering clear. The other mule laughed as mules were in the habit of doing. The Chanters as one wheeled to glare at Mister Ambertroshin, who shook his head and said, ‘Flea slowed his steps, he did. The beasts are hungry, aye?’
Tulgord Vise turned at that. ‘You, driver,’ he barked, ‘from where do you hail?’
‘Me, sir? Why, Theft that’d be. A long way away, aye, no argument there, and varied the tale t’bring me here. A wife, you see, and plenty of Oponn’s infernal pushings. Should we run outta tales, why, I could spin us a night or two.’
‘Indeed,’ the Mortal Sword replied drily, one gauntleted hand settling on his sword’s shiny pommel, but this gesture was solitary as he once more faced forward in the saddle.
‘For your life?’ Arpo Relent asked, rather bitingly.
Mister Ambertroshin’s bushy brows lifted. ‘I’d sore your stomach something awful, good sir. Might well sicken and kill you at that. Besides, the Dantoc Calmpositis, being a powerful woman rumoured to be skilled in the sorcerous arts, why, she’d be most displeased at losing her servant, I dare say.’
The host gaped at that and then said, ‘Sorcerous? The Dantoc? I’d not heard—’
‘Rumours only, I’m sure,’ Mister Ambertroshin said, and he smiled round his pipe.
‘What does “Dantoc” mean?’ Arpo demanded.
‘No idea,’ the driver replied.
‘What?’
‘It’s just a title, ain’t it? Some kind of title, I imagine.’ He shrugged. ‘Sounds like one, t’me that is, but then, being a foreigner to it all, I can’t really say either way.’
A tad wildly, Arpo Relent looked round. ‘Anyone?’ he demanded. ‘Anyone heard that title before? You, Apto, you’re from here, aren’t you? What’s a “Dantoc”?’
‘Not sure,’ the Judge admitted. ‘I don’t pay much attention to such things, I’m afraid. She’s well known enough in the city, to be sure, and indeed highly respected and possibly even feared. Her wealth has come from slave trading, I gather.’
‘Anomandaris!’ Brash shrieked, startling all three horses (but not the mules).
‘Anomandaris!’ cried the vulture, startling everyone else (but not the mules).