The Two of Swords, Volume 2 Read online

  “Why should they?” Conselh shook his head. “Our best chance lies in being more bother than we’re worth. Same goes for the wagons, I guess. What’ve we got that the Ironshirts could possibly want?”

  “Lives. And horses,” Folha replied. “And carts.”

  “Well, yes, there’s that. No use us trying to figure it out, anyhow: we haven’t got the brainpower.” He got up and peered cautiously over the bank. “Looking good at the moment,” he said. “Let’s make a move. Don’t know about you boys, but I’m sick of this place.”

  Conselh and Folha were both wrong about the wagons. They were still there, and the Ironshirts hadn’t wanted them, or the horses, or any of the gear; not even the arrows, which they’d used as kindling. Another thing they’d got wrong was the assumption that Ironshirts didn’t know anything about the no Vei. Apparently they knew that if a no Vei’s body is burned, his soul finds no peace, because they’d filled the carts with dead bodies before setting light to them.

  It was a long time before anybody spoke. Then Folha said, “Do you reckon we’re all that’s left?”

  Conselh didn’t answer. Verjan said, “There must be more than just us. But I’d have thought they’d have headed back this way and we’d have seen them.”

  Trahidour, the tall, slim young one, was rootling about among the ashes. “Leave that,” Conselh snapped at him; he turned round and held out eight arrows, intact and undamaged. “I take that back,” Conselh said. “Any more?”

  Just one more, which they found after a long, disgusting search, making a total of nine between the six of them. “Makes no sense having one each,” Conselh said. “You. Any kind of a shot?”

  Chanso remembered his last effort. “No.”

  “Folha, you’re elected Minister of Defence. Sorry, make that Secretary of State for Supply. I don’t want you shooting at any Ironshirts; that’ll just piss them off. Deer only, and for crying out loud make sure you don’t miss. Got that?”

  Folha nodded and dropped the arrows into his quiver. Eight of them were red and black, the ninth was white and red. Chanso hadn’t seen any yellow and white, not even among the ashes. “Now where?” he said.

  Nobody wanted to answer that. Then quite suddenly Conselh grinned. “Home, of course. Where else?”

  “Talk sense,” Verjan snapped. “We’re on the wrong side of the sea, for one thing. Or had you forgotten?”

  “So we get a boat. Don’t look at me like that, we get to the sea, we’ll find a boat.”

  “Fine. Which direction is the sea in?” Conselh opened his mouth, then closed it again. “You don’t know, do you? You haven’t got a clue.”

  “It’s that way,” Folha said quietly, pointing. “Look at the sun,” he explained. “But Verjan’s got a point, hasn’t he? We don’t know this country, and we’re going to stick out a mile. What we want to do is get back to Choris Anthropou. We know where that is: follow the road, you can’t miss it.”

  “If that’s what you want,” Conselh said. “If you really think you can just stroll past the Ironshirts, go ahead. Suit yourselves. I’m going home.”

  “What do you think?” Trahidour said, and Chanso realised he was looking at him. “Well? You want to head south or make for Choris?”

  Chanso knew what his answer would be without having to think. “South,” he said. “I’ll stick with Conselh. If that’s all right,” he added quickly.

  Conselh laughed. “You can if you want,” he said. “Any more?”

  There was an awkward silence. Then Folha said, “I think it’s a stupid idea, but splitting up’s even worse. You do realise, we haven’t got any food, or water. Do you know how far it is to the sea? Three days? Three weeks? Months?”

  “You shoot it, I’ll eat it,” Conselh replied. “And, no, I don’t know how far it is, but it can’t be that far.”

  “It’s a hell of a way with only nine arrows,” Verjan said.

  “Which is a damn good reason for staying clear of the Ironshirts. Come on, nobody’s asking you to walk. And once we get down off these mountains it’s all grassland, right down to the sea, everybody knows that. It’s a soft, fat country, full of soft, fat people. It’ll be a stroll, you’ll see.”

  There was no road south. Instead, there was a mountain. Conselh reckoned they could probably lead the horses up it, but nobody agreed with him; the only alternative was to go round it. Conselh refused to take the road east, so they went west, the way they’d come.

  “Leave it to the horses,” Conselh said: “they can smell water.”

  Maybe there wasn’t any water to smell. Nor was there any end to the mountain; beyond what they’d seen was a second range, hidden by the first. “We’ll be back to Rasch Cuiber at this rate,” Verjan said, and nobody laughed. To the north, however, the mountains subsided into moorland. “You don’t want to go up there,” Conselh advised. “It’s bloody cold: we’ll freeze.” To Chanso, wiping sweat out of his eyes, that didn’t sound so bad.

  But it was cold at night, of course. There was nothing to burn, so they took the saddle blankets off the horses and tried to wrap up in them. Not much help.

  Folha shot a kite. “There’s not much meat on the buggers but it’s better than nothing,” he declared. A long, thirsty search found them a withered thorn bush, over which they roasted the kite. Its flesh was hard, bitter and stringy. Conselh declared that he’d had worse, and they’d grow to like it.

  “For all we know we’re practically at the end,” Conselh said, surveying the southern mountains, stretching from one horizon to the other. “If we go on just a bit further, there we’ll be. I don’t remember there being mountains all the way from Rasch Cuiber.”

  The trouble was, none of them had been paying much attention on the way from Rasch to the big battle. They all had a vague recollection of mountains away to the south, but where they’d started and whether there were gaps in them, nobody could say for sure. Conselh said he could picture it clear as anything in his mind. There was a huge great gap, rolling green downs as far as the eye could see. Verjan remembered it as a solid wall of rock. Chanso was fairly sure Conselh was right; he’d seen grasslands at some point, and he was fairly sure they’d been on the lower side of the road, but the image in his mind was uncertain; at times, it looked disconcertingly like the summer pastures back home, and at others he was sure there had been mountains on the other side. But maybe not; perhaps he was confusing the second day with the fifth, or something like that. He couldn’t actually remember how long they’d taken to get from Rasch Cuiber to the battle. He’d been riding with the wagons, in any case, and had spent most of his time chatting with the drivers.

  “Why the hell did we come this way?” Verjan said loudly to the back of Conselh’s neck. “What we should be doing is heading back to Choris Anthropou. Instead, we’re going in the opposite direction, deeper into enemy territory. Anyone want to explain that to me?”

  Nobody seemed to want to answer. Conselh had gone quiet, ever since Verjan started moaning. Whether he was just angry or whether he had no good answer, Chanso couldn’t tell; half and half, he guessed. He didn’t want to go south any more; he wasn’t sure it was even possible. It was pretty obvious that Folha and Verjan had been right all along. But Conselh couldn’t be wrong, could he? He seemed so wise and so strong, and how stupid it’d be to turn back now, if they were only a short way from the gap, which Conselh was absolutely sure he’d seen.

  They found one little spring; they had to lie on their stomachs and lap like dogs. Folha shot off all nine arrows at kites, and they only found eight of them.

  That night, while Conselh was on watch, the others huddled round a tiny fire they’d built out of tussocks of dry grass. When Chanso came over to join them, they went quiet.

  “You’re going to leave him,” Chanso said.

  They scowled at him; then Verjan said, “He’s lost his grip. He knows he’s wrong but he can’t bear to say so. He’ll keep going till we die of thirst or starve, or we run into Ironshirts.
Fine. I don’t want to do that. I’ll survive this, if it kills me.”

  “Verjan doesn’t like him much,” Folha explained with a grin. “But he’s right. Soon as his watch is over and he’s asleep, we’re off. He can follow us or he can do what he wants, up to him. It’s stupid going any further.”

  Chanso hesitated for a moment, then said, “Can I come with you?”

  Awkward pause; then Folha said, “I don’t see why not. So long as you don’t make trouble.”

  “Sure.”

  “All right, then. Go and lie down, pretend to be asleep. We’ll tell you when we’re ready to go.”

  Chanso lay down on his side, his eyes closed. Conselh would do the sensible thing, he was sure; as soon as he realised what had happened, he’d turn round and follow. Folha seemed a sensible sort of man; he’d taken charge now, and everything would be fine. All they had to do was retrace their steps, follow the road. It had been two days since the battle, so the Ironshirts would be long gone by now; who’d hang about in this horrible place if they didn’t have to? Going south had been a terrible idea, but wasting the two days had served some purpose. It was all going to be fine.

  Unless they left without him—

  He sat up and looked round. The others were all there, lying quite still, and beyond them he could just make out Conselh’s back. He lay down again, facing the others, eyes open. They weren’t moving at all. Maybe they’d frozen to death.

  Conselh came back and crouched down beside him. “You awake?”

  He considered not answering, but said, “Yes.”

  “Take the next watch.” Chanso stood up. Conselh went on a yard or so, then lay down on his back, hands folded on his chest, looking straight up at the stars. He didn’t seem sleepy. Too much on his mind, probably.

  It would be broad daylight at this rate. Conselh didn’t move, but from time to time Chanso caught the glitter of his open eyes in the dying glow of the fire. He was supposed to be keeping watch; what if Ironshirts crept up on them while he was looking the other way? He turned round, but there was nothing to see. The pale moonlight made him think of mist, early morning on the summer pastures at home. His fingers and toes were aching from the cold and he was thirsty again.

  Some time later Folha got up. Conselh raised his head to look at him. “My watch,” Folha murmured; Conselh nodded. “You should get some sleep,” Folha said.

  “Fat chance.”

  Folha relieved him at watch; then it was Verjan’s turn. What if Verjan got tired of waiting and tried to stab Conselh with an arrow? Stupid idea? Couldn’t happen? Chanso wasn’t so sure. They were all so wound up, so quiet; and Verjan struck him as just the sort of man who’d do stuff like that, though Chanso had never actually met a murderer. But people act differently when they’re at the end of their rope. Conselh could handle Verjan, no question, but would the others feel obliged to pitch in? What if they all ended up bashed up and cut about? That would really make things bad.

  Trahidour took the next watch, and then it was dawn. You could tell by the way they moved that nobody had got any sleep at all. Had Conselh figured out what was going on, overheard them maybe and stayed awake on purpose?

  Halfway through the morning they came to the gap in the mountains. Below them lay a wide, flat, grassy plain, through which flowed a broad river. “You know what,” Conselh announced, “I think I can see the sea.”

  Nobody said anything, and they turned off the road, heading straight for the river. They reached it not long after noon and lay on the grass while the horses drank. Verjan got up after a while and sat next to Chanso.

  “He’s still wrong, you know.”

  “He was right about this gap, wasn’t he?”

  “Meaning nothing. Maybe he’s got a slightly better memory than me: so what? He’s wrong about going south, and you know it.”

  Chanso thought for a moment. “There’s plenty of water now,” he said. “And you can bet there’s deer and waterfowl and plenty other game along the river. Should be cooler in the day and warmer at night. In fact, it reminds me a lot of home.”

  “I’m not saying you’re wrong. But we’re going deeper and deeper into hostile territory.”

  Chanso shrugged. “Why would there be Ironshirts here?” he said. “I figure, if they haven’t caught up to us by now, they’re not going to. I think we’ve seen the last of them. They’ve got to have better things to do than tracking a few stragglers.”

  “Oh, sure. And the moment the country people see us—”

  “So we won’t be seen. Don’t know about you, I haven’t set eyes on a living soul since we left the battle. Can’t see any farms or houses downriver, can you? I think this must be ride-around country, like home.” He frowned. “Haven’t seen any livestock either, mind. So maybe nobody lives here at all. That’d be better for us, wouldn’t it?”

  Verjan looked away. “The further we go,” he said, “the further we got to go back, once you’ve all seen sense. Look, even supposing we do make it to the sea, then what? Find a boat, he says. Dream on. And suppose we find a boat? We can’t hire anyone to sail it; we’ve got nothing. Sure as hell we can’t sail it ourselves. Down on the coast, anywhere there’s likely to be boats, there’s going to be a lot of people. We can’t just go strolling about: we’re the enemy.”

  “Doesn’t follow.” Trahidour joined them. “If we get some local clothes, cut our hair off, we’re just half a dozen poor folks looking for work.”

  Verjan turned and poked Trahidour’s forehead. “What about that? These people don’t have the cuts. What’re you going to do, wear a sack over your head?”

  “No,” Chanso said, “a hood. And we can pay for our passage, we got six good horses.”

  “Fine.” Verjan was getting angry. “So we’re going to walk all down through Blemya.”

  “No,” Trahidour said calmly. “We’re going to head for the marketplace, where there’s always some of our people, and we’re going to send home for them to come and get us. Or we borrow horses. If we get to Blemya, we’ll be all right. I’ve been there; we can fit in easy, find work, we’ll be safe there till we can get home. The main thing is to get the hell away from this war. I’ve had about as much of it as I want. Don’t ever want to see those Teeth again.”

  “Exactly.” Verjan got to his knees. “So we go back to Choris Anthropou, where they’re on our side. Damn it, we’ve got pay owing to us there. We can hire a damn coach and four back home, forget about boats. But if you go with him, he’ll get you killed. That I can promise you.”

  A shadow fell across Chanso’s face; he looked round and saw Conselh standing behind him. “Him,” he repeated. “And who might he be, Verjan?”

  Verjan got up slowly. “You got lucky,” he said. “There happened to be a gap and a river, and now they think you’re a fucking prophet. Folha? Over here. I want three of those arrows.”

  Folha walked over. “What for?”

  “I’m going back. This is stupid. I don’t want to leave you boys with this crazy man, but I’ve had enough. So give me the arrows and I’ll get going.”

  “Sorry,” Conselh said. “We need them. Go if you must. You can take your horse, but that’s it.”

  For a moment, Chanso thought Verjan was going to take a swing at Conselh; but instead he swung round and made a grab for the quiver at Folha’s waist. Folha took a long step back; Verjan staggered and stooped. Then Conselh closed in behind him and punched him in the small of the back.

  “Cut that out,” snapped Clar, “you can hurt someone like that.”

  “So what,” Conselh said. “He’s my kid brother, I can treat him how I like.” Verjan had dropped to his knees. Conselh came closer and kicked him in the face. “Should’ve done it days ago,” he said, as Verjan rolled over on to his side and lay still. “I don’t mind him bitching, I’m used to it, but I won’t have him making trouble when we’re in the shit like this.” He took a long step back. “Don’t think I didn’t hear you last night,” he said, “fixing to rid
e off and leave me. Well, you can if you want, though you won’t last five miles. But he’s through making trouble, and you’re through listening to him. And that’s straight from the shoulder.”

  Everyone was on his feet now, except Verjan. It was plain to Chanso that they were all afraid of him; probably all of them agreed with him, without Verjan wheedling in their ears, but Chanso wasn’t sure that counted for very much any more. “Is he all right?” he thought, and heard himself say it aloud.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Conselh said, “head thicker than a door. Here, you, get up.” He kicked Verjan in the ribs, but he didn’t move. “He’ll be fine,” Conselh said. “Come on, mount up. Plenty of light left.”

  They got on their horses. Verjan was still lying there, quite still. “You can’t ride off and leave him,” Folha said.

  “Why not? He’ll catch up, once he’s done sulking.”

  They rode on and left him. Chanso risked a glance back over his shoulder, then saw Folha was riding next to him.

  “You know,” Folha said, “they reckon Senza and Forza Belot never got on. But they’re sweethearts compared to Conselh and Verjan.”

  “I never had a brother,” Chanso said.

  “You’re better off. Take those two. Been fighting all their lives. One says one thing, the other says the opposite.” He shrugged. “I think this is as bad as it’s ever got, but they’ve never been in so much trouble before. Just as well Verjan hadn’t got his knife.”

  Chanso looked at him. “That bad?”

  Folha nodded. “Conselh took it off him before we left,” he said. “Don’t suppose he’ll get any sleep tonight. His own stupid fault, mind. Still, he was right about the gap.”

  “Do you think we should be heading south?”

  “No,” Folha replied, after a moment’s hesitation. “I think we should’ve gone the other way first time Verjan suggested it. But we’ve come too far now to go back. And we’ve got nothing to carry water in, and we’re lucky roast kite didn’t give us all the draining shits.”