Riverkeep (8 page)

“No use! Eat!” shouted Pappa. He pushed and heaved against the knots on his wrists.

“I can't!” said Wull. “You said yourself you can't trust the bradai! If I can stay far enough in front of 'em, they might give up and we'll make it to Lauston!”

“Eat!”

“I can't talk an' row! I'm not you!”

“Stinking it that speaks!”

Wull heaved again, palms and shoulders screaming—and this time felt an extra swell of current against his left hand. He drove the oar beneath the surface, turning the nose of the bäta toward it, letting it sniff out the extra power; pulled again on the oars, felt the boat lurch forward, quicker, saw the gap between him and the bradai even out.

“Can't go forever,” said Pappa.

“Be quiet,” said Wull between his teeth. His lungs were bursting, the frozen air fire in his chest.

To his horror, he saw the skiff's oars quicken: six of them. Six to his two, driving a thin-hulled boat that weighed half the bäta's bulk. There was no hope, no chance of escape. Even if he banked and fled, Pappa could barely walk and the bradai would simply run him down—scurrying through the trees and the gnarled roots of the forest floor like skirrils.

Wull focused on the tiny star of the final lantern and rowed through pain and fatigue and the tearing of muscles. Wind whipped the backs of his ears as the flame's star winked out until eventually, in the darkness of a fireless night that seemed to hold the world in its fist, the bäta rocked and a feather-cloaked figure said:

“Slow
down
, li'l man. We's a-caught you.”

Those who travel know that bandits are chief of all dangers, accounting for many more deaths per annum than collision-induced trauma, hypothermic complications, or loss of direction combined. The roads leading to and from Oracco are dangerous at night, and there can be few coachmen who travel without the company of a loaded barrel; but the shorelines of the Danék positively bristle with soot-blackened steel, and the bradai who stalk them are fearless in their disregard of both animal predation and the elements. They will strike at any time, night or day, as like from beneath the current as from the great swinging boughs of the oaks that line the banks. Some wear the skins of animals they have slain; others cloaks sewn with grasses and leaves. In all cases their victims' last sound is one of surprise.

—Wheeldon Garfill,
A Path Trod Well: Journeys of My Life

Wull's chest was heaving. He stopped the oars' movement but kept them high in the water.

“That was quite a turn o' speed, li'l man,” said the bradai. “We's nearly puffed out us-selves. It's rude to run, though—an' you knows we's goin' to catch you eventually.”

He stood and stretched, the feathers on his cloak fluttering. Beneath it he wore black clothes that were invisible in the darkness and belts from which Wull heard the light chime of weaponry: blades, Pappa had told him, blackened with soot. Wull said nothing, allowed his breathing to return.

“Where's you goin' in such a mad hurry?” said the man. “Don't you know it's bad manners to run from the gentlemen o' the river?”

“That's herons,” said Wull. “Herons are the gentlemen o' the river. You're jus' thievin' scum.”

The bradai turned his head to one side and raised an eyebrow.

“People who says a thing like that is usu'lly bold or daft. Which are you, long boy?”

“Neither,” said Wull. “I'm jus' not interested in talkin' to you while I'm waitin' for you to rob me.”

“An' ain't that a fine way to talk. What's the hurry?”

“That's my business,” said Wull. He looked at Pappa, the big head lolling.

The bradai laughed. “What's your name, boldly-daft-hurrying-long-boy?”

“What's yours?” said Wull, meeting the black-painted stare.

The man laughed. “Hear this?” he shouted to his companions. “He wants to know our names! Well, I'm Kenesaw—on the skiff there's Garnet an' Happy. Now, what's yours?”

“Wulliam,” said Wull.

“Uh-huh, an' who's your silent friend here?”

“That's my pappa,” said Wull. “He's the Danék Riverkeep.”

“No, he ain't,” said Kenesaw. “I saw the keep ten days ago—he's a fat lump with a neck like a log. Why would you need to be pretendin' to be someone else? You on the lam?”

“He is the Riverkeep,” said Wull hotly. “Look at his face! An' I'm nearly sixteen. I'll be the keep in a few days!”

“Good for you,” said Kenesaw, “an' happy birthday when it comes, but you ain't puttin' nothin' over on us. The keep does us plenty favors, breakin' up the ice an' all, but this winter's beaten him an' that ain't him anyhow. This looks like his boat, right enough, so I guess you've stole it an' that's why you's in such a hurry. Where's the money?”

“This is
my
boat!”

Pappa stirred. “Eat!” he said.

“Pappa,” said Wull, “tell them who you are! Tell them you're the Riverkeep!”

Kenesaw silently drew a foot-long knife from his waistband.

“Eat, it that speaks! Eat! Now!”

“I can see you two must share some riveting conversation,” said Kenesaw languidly. “The money?”

“There's no money,” said Wull, forcing his eyes not to flick to the cache of ducats in the bow.

Kenesaw sighed. “Now that's jus' silly, ain't it?” he said wearily. “Little runt like you, off in a big, stolen boat like this, maybe you's done in the owners. That's fine—we ain't got no room to judge what a man mus' do. But you ain't goin' to steal somethin' like this without findin' a li'l money, an' you ain't goin' to get far anyways without it, so why not jus' tell us where it is, Wulliam, an' this can be as easy as you like?”

The other bradai emerged from the shadow of their skiff and clambered aboard the bäta. Both had the fronds of bank fern sewn countlessly into their cloaks. Both carried short, darkened blades.

“Thievin' scum,” said Wull, dropping the oars.

An arm flashed toward him. At first Wull thought the man had slapped him, then he felt the wet spill of blood on his cheek. He bit off his glove and raised his hand—felt the heat of blood patter on the tips of his fingers.

“Why'd you do that?” he said. The pain was starting to blossom.

“No way we's gettin' cheeked by a stripling like you,” said Kenesaw, who hadn't moved. “Reputations are what counts, an' that's ours.”

“Aaargh . . . a-attacking defenseless children?” said Wull. He felt his cheek swelling in a bright flash across his face, pulling the rest of his body toward it: hot and tight and hard.

“You's no child if you's stealin' a boat, long boy, an' with a quick mouth like that, you's not defenseless anyhow. Callin' us scum! We's all cut by yer remark, ain't we, fellas?”

The other bradai, smells of dampness and bark pouring from their cloaks, were rummaging around the bäta, under the boards and stern, shifting Pappa's legs around. Wull pulled at their fern fronds and tried to stand.

“Leave him alone!” he shouted.

“It that speaks!”

“I told you,” said Wull, reaching for Pappa, the pain in his face almost blinding him, “we don't have any money. . . .”

Behind him came the heavy sound of bagged coins on wood.

Kenesaw's face lit up. “
I
told
you
,” he said.

“You can't,” said Wull, trying to push past them. “It's all we have. . . .”

“You'll jus' have to steal more from someone else, long boy.”

Kenesaw pushed Wull into his seat as he stood, rocking the bäta and following the other bradai into the skiff.

“I didn't steal it! It's ours!”

“It's ours now,” said Kenesaw. He tipped his cap. “Take care on your thievin' journey. Gentlemen o' the river, see?”

The skiff shot forward on its black oars, slicing its way into the night. Wull sat as it vanished, listening to the swell smack on the bäta's hull and trying to push away the pain from his slashed face.

“It that speaks! Eat now!”

Wull sighed and tightened his jaw. The blood from his cheek had run under his collar and was gathering in a sticky heat on his neck.

“All right, Pappa. Here.”

He dropped to his knees and held up a fish head. Pappa took it like a horse after hay, lips pulling at air and scale.

“Same as again,” said Pappa.

“They left some of the salted trout, proper fish—why don't you try that?”

“Same as again!”

“You love salted trout,” said Wull quietly, passing him another fish head.

As Pappa ate, Wull looked toward the boathouse. He could go back, forget this ever happened. Lantern twenty-two would be burning still—he could uproot it, take its
flame to thaw the others, bring the river back under his control, and fight the ice, as Pappa would have done.

“It that speaks,” said Pappa, voice garbled by the white meat of the fish.

Wull looked at his milky pupils.

Once Wull had accidentally cornered a red balgair—boxing it in against the hedgerows. The beast had gathered itself, peering hard at him, all its animal instinct swirling in its glare.

“Cannae be doin' that,” Pappa had said when he'd run into the boathouse, shaking. “Ye're lucky it din't have its babbies on its back—would have had yer throat out for comin' near 'em.”

“I din't mean to,” Wull had said, trying not to cry. “It was an accident.”

Pappa had ruffled his hair and made him cocoa.

“I know,” he'd said, “but they'd fight an ursa for their babbies. Be mindful o' that. Needs respect, does that.”

Wull had nodded and drunk his cocoa and gone to bed to wait for his story.

Now, knees hard on the bottom boards, his cut skin shrieking in the cold, that safe life seemed to have happened to someone else.

And, looking at Pappa's eyes, he saw the same swirl of instinct—the same animal tension.

Wull lifted his water pouch to his lips and took the torn pages from his pocket. He read again about the bohdan. He had to go on—there was nothing here for him. Not without Pappa.

He gathered the oars.

“Eat more!” said Pappa.

“Soon,” said Wull. “I don't want to stay here. We need to get to the inn and try to find some more food. And something for my face, I need to cover it—a bandage or something.”

“There's a bandage in here,” said a small voice from the bow.

Wull dropped the oars and the pages. He looked over his shoulder. For the briefest moment he thought the bäta itself—its eyes as judging as ever—had spoken, then a pile of blankets shifted and a girl about his own age emerged, stretching, thick scarecrowed black hair and a high fur-lined collar around her head. She was chewing a blade of grass and smiling sleepily, her face dented by dimples. As well as a thick woolen coat, she wore heavy-soled boots and thin cotton gloves.

“What in hells!” said Wull, mouth open and head spinning. “Where did you come from?”

“I was on their boat,” said the girl, climbing onto the bow thwart. “Smelled awful, though. What's that?” she added, seeing Wull stuffing the dropped pages into his pocket.

“Never you mind! And don't sit down, get out! Are you a bradai? Are you goin' to rob me an' all?”

She tilted her head and looked at him. “Do I look like a bradai?”

“I don't know,” said Wull, who'd never met a girl before.

“Well, I'm not. I'm . . . Mix. I was jus' hidin'.”

“You c'n hide on the bank then—you're not stayin'!” Wull turned the bäta away from the current and started to row for shore. “How
dare
you sneak on here! An' with them! Maybe I should shout them back? I bet they'd like to find out what you were doin' on their boat!”

“Ah, come on, you wouldn't do that,” said Mix, holding out the roll of bandages. “I'm on my own. You wouldn't abandon me.”

Wull grabbed the bandages and threw them to the floor.

“You've snuck onto my boat with the bandits that stole my money an' cut my face,” he said, rowing faster. “Why wouldn't I?”

“'S not decent,” said Mix.

“Girl it!” said Pappa.

“Hullo, Wulliam's paps. C'n I interest you in a fish head?” said Mix. She tried to clamber over Wull to get to Pappa.

“Don't! What are you—stay there!” shouted Wull. “An' how'd you know my name?”

“You told the bradai,” said Mix, raising an eyebrow. “Wasn't much of a puzzle.”

“Well, don't spy on me! You shouldn't be here!”

“I'll give your paps a fish head while you's rowin',” said Mix.

“Don't talk to him, jus' stay there!”

“I thought you wanted me to leave?”

“I do! I mean, don't move the bäta—you're slowing me down!”

“What's a bäta?”

“This boat, it's what you call—”

“So don't move it like this?” said Mix, rocking the bäta from side to side.

“No!” said Pappa. “Eat!”

“Stop it,” said Wull. “You're upsetting him.”

“I'm sorry,” said Mix. “Why don't you let me help him eat, then you c'n keep rowin' at the same time an' drop me off in a minute?”

“Eat!” said Pappa.

Wull looked back down the river. A few days ago he'd been sleepwalking toward becoming the keep and dreaming of an escape from the stagnancy of the boathouse.

“Fine,” he said, moving to the side, “but then you're goin', all right?”

“Not a bother,” said Mix, sliding past. As she hovered above him and rearranged her feet, her collar slipped, and Wull saw her neck was marked with delicate white patterns that swirled like a dusting of frost.

“What's that on your skin?” he said.

“Nothin',” said Mix, shrugging into her coat and holding up a fish head for Pappa.

“It's not nothin'. Is it a tattoo?”

“Do I look like I'd have a tattoo?”

“I don't know,” said Wull.

“Same as again,” said Pappa, chewing the fish head in slobbering bites. Mix hadn't seemed to notice the dribble of scales on her hand.

“So what are they?” he said. “The white marks, I mean.”

“A childhood thing.”

Wull watched her passing Pappa another fish head, felt the flames of pain on his cheek.