The Summer Palace (9 page)

“And jerky?”

“Dried, smoked
ara
. With herbs that keep it from rotting.” He
looked disgusted. “Nasty stuff, nothing like the usual smoked meat. We only make it for the trip down the cliffs, in case the snow delays us. It's hard to chew, and tastes like leather, but it keeps us alive.” He glanced up at the sky. “We'll probably start making this year's supply in a few weeks.”

Sword nodded. “Will you teach me how?”

Fist snorted. “Oh, you won't have a choice,” he said. “
Everyone
helps with the smoking!”

“Ah.” That sounded promising. He might be able to lay in a supply of food, then.

Which still left fuel. Well, he had a few ideas about that. Grass and
ara
dung were not hard to find, after all, and even if he had to dig them out of the snow, he thought he could manage. Besides, the Wizard Lord's staff surely had stocks of wood and charcoal for cooking.

“You're done with the sword for today?” Fist asked.

“Yes,” Sword said, expecting Fist to walk away now that he had confirmed that the show was over.

Fist did not walk away. He hesitated.

“Yes?” Sword asked.

“Could I try it?”

Sword smiled.

“If you're careful,” he said. He drew the weapon and handed it over, hilt first.

Fist grinned as his hand closed on the worn leather grip. He lifted the weapon and looked it up and down.

“It's lighter than I thought!” he said. “Is that part of its magic?”

“It isn't magical,” Sword said. “Just first-rate smithing. It's the finest steel available, stronger than anything else men can make, so it doesn't need to be heavy. A heavy blade would tire my hand and arm.”

Fist nodded, and swung the sword tentatively—more as if it were a club than as if he knew what he was doing. Sword resisted the urge to smile; after all, it wasn't that long since he had been almost as clumsy.

“It feels strange,” he said. “Are you sure it isn't magical?”

“Even if it were, the magic wouldn't work up here,” Sword said.

Fist nodded, staring at the sword. He took a few slashes at the air. Then he lifted the weapon again and felt the edge with his thumb.

He drew blood. “Sharp!” he exclaimed. He stuck his injured thumb in his mouth and looked at the weapon with new respect.

“I try to keep it ready,” Sword replied.

“Let me try it!” Whistler called, stepping forward, hand outstretched.

Fist stepped back, sword raised, and Sword was suddenly afraid that someone was going to get seriously hurt. He called, “Don't move!”

Everyone froze; Fist began trembling, so much that the tip of the sword wavered.
“Is it the magic?”
he whispered loudly.

Sword decided he had had enough of the truth. “Yes,” he said. “It must return to me. It doesn't like being handled by strangers.” He reached out and pulled the weapon from Fist's reluctant fingers, wiped it ceremoniously, and sheathed it.

The remaining hunters watched this in intense silence. Sword bowed and said, “Excuse me,” then turned and walked away, out from the firelit camp onto the dark, open plain.

He glanced back a moment later and saw that the young men had scattered—except for Whistler, who was following him, several paces back. Sword stopped and turned.

Whistler stopped, then smiled bashfully and came forward.

“Did you want something?” Sword asked.

“You said the sword isn't magical,” he said.

Sword grimaced. “It's not,” he said. “But it
is
dangerous. I was afraid someone would get cut badly.”

“I thought that might be it.”

“You were right.”

For a moment the two men stood silently, facing one another; then Whistler said, “May I try it now, then?”

“If you cut yourself, you'll have to explain it to the others.”

Whistler grinned. “I can do that.”

“All right, then.” Sword drew the weapon and passed it over.

Whistler took it, much as Fist had, but right from the start he handled it more gracefully; when he turned his wrist he shifted his forearm the other way, keeping the blade in front of him, keeping it firmly under control. He, too, tested the edge, but on his thumbnail, not on the flesh.

Then he tried to imitate a few of the motions he had seen Sword make in his practice.

“You must have a strong wrist,” he said, after several of his own slashes and thrusts had fallen badly off the intended line.

“Yes,” Sword said. “I've been working on it for years.” He reached out for the sword. “You handle it well for a beginner, though.”

“I watched you.” Whistler pretended not to see the waiting hand—or perhaps, in the gathering gloom, he genuinely didn't. Sword couldn't be sure.

“So did Fist, but he still held it like a stick, not a sword.”

“Well, Fist . . .” Whistler shrugged. “He can use a spear. He's strong and fast.”

The implication that Fist wasn't particularly smart was obvious.

“Listen,” Sword said. “Would you like to learn to use a sword?”

Whistler gave him a sideways glance, then looked down at the outstretched hand.

“Yes,” he said.

“It's easier to practice with someone else,” Sword said. “If you help me out, I'll teach you the basics.”

“Just help you practice?”

“And perhaps with a few other little things, now and then.”

Whistler looked at the sword, then turned it as he had seen Sword do, and held it out, hilt first.

“That would suit me well,” he said.

On his ninth day in the camp, the pieces for Sword's leather pants and vest were bought and cut, but he had not yet sewn them; he had not yet managed to obtain fabric for his shirt, as he was paying for his materials by helping several old women with their work, and they were overcharging him shamelessly.

The old women seemed to find him entertaining, and treated him almost like a pet. The nature of the work he was given was such that he spent much of his day in their company, and often found them watching him, giggling and chatting amongst themselves in the Uplander language, rather than tending to their own business.

He knew that much of their amusement came from his ineptitude at the simple tasks they had been doing for years. He needed all day to pluck and scrape a single hide properly; Gnaw Gnaw or Stepmother or almost any of the others could do the same job in less than an hour, and probably do it better.

He never did learn the names of any of the other old women beyond his original teachers; in fact, most of them refused to speak to him at all, beyond gestures and giggling. Whether they genuinely didn't speak Barokanese or simply preferred not to admit it, he could not tell. He considered trying to trick a reaction out of them by saying something shocking or funny or insulting, but thought better of it; his situation was not secure enough to risk being rude in such a fashion.

He had met several of the men in camp, too, though he was not permitted to work with them. In addition to the four whose tent he shared, he had talked with perhaps half a dozen hunters and a handful of men who had retired from that role. Where the old women
treated him like a marginally trainable pet, the men seemed to consider him a dangerous curiosity, to be watched intently, but from a respectful distance. They were fascinated with his sword; there were no Uplander swordsmiths, and so far as anyone there knew, the only other swords to be found on all the vast plain were a few ceremonial weapons owned by clan elders of one sort or another, none of them in the Clan of the Golden Spear. Sword's practice sessions always drew a crowd, and a few of the men were visibly envious of Whistler, once the youth began assisting Sword and learning a little swordsmanship of his own.

Young women and children watched, as well. The children seemed to consider it an interesting entertainment and nothing more than that; for the most part they did not share their elders' fascination with Sword's weapon itself, but cared only about what he could do with it. They paid little attention to him when he was not wielding the blade.

The women didn't seem even as interested in the sword as the children were; they watched his arms and shoulders, rather than the blade. Sword was used to that. He did not know whether the legends about the Chosen Swordsman's magical skills in bed had reached the Uplanders, as they had almost everywhere in Barokan, but he recognized here the same wary but definite interest he was accustomed to seeing back home.

Most of the adult clan members were paired off, and at the end of each practice session much of the crowd would drift away in couples, men and women with their arms around one another, but there were a few young women who did not seem to have male companions, and some of them seemed to be among those most interested in Sword's performance.

He would not have had any objection to acting on that interest, but there were no obvious opportunities. His living quarters, sleeping on the floor of a shared tent, did not provide any privacy at night. By day, he was under the constant supervision of the old women. In the evenings, his practice sessions, attempts at sewing, and meals took up much of his time. Back in Barokan he might have managed something,
perhaps arranging a rendezvous and slipping out at night, but here he was not sufficiently sure of the customs to attempt it.

He did meet the eyes of a lovely young woman during one practice session and smiled at her, but she did not smile back; she blushed and turned away.

After the session, Whistler mentioned, out of earshot of the others and without preamble, “We do most of our courting in the winter.”

“Thank you,” Sword said.

That explained why he had heard no mention of dances or other entertainments. Sword thought it unlikely that those young people who had no partners really waited all through the three seasons atop the cliffs without exploring a few possibilities, but apparently he had been a little too open and obvious.

He was mulling that over on his ninth night in camp as he tried to thread the
ara
-bone needle to start sewing his new pants together. He suspected that wearing the same stained and worn black clothing day after day did not make him any more appealing to the Uplander women; he had rinsed the Hostman garments out a couple of times, but hadn't really gotten them clean, since clan custom did not allow him to go naked anywhere except inside his own tent, and it wasn't possible to wash them properly with nothing but his hands, a borrowed basin, and a jug of water, especially not in the poor light in the tent.

Attempts to borrow clothing, so he could go wash his in the stream, had been met with first confusion, then disgust; apparently Uplanders did not share clothing under any circumstances.

Therefore, he needed to make himself a new outfit. It wasn't just a matter of making himself more comfortable, or fitting in better; a change of clothing was a necessity. His present garb would not last forever. He didn't think it would even last until winter.

Cutting the pieces hadn't been too difficult, but assembling them was a challenge. He had learned to use a needle and thread as a boy, so as to repair his own clothing when necessary, but he had never made an entire garment from scratch before, let alone with a bone needle rather than steel.

A shadow fell across his fingers, and he looked up to find Whistler crouching beside him, with Fist and Dancer standing by, blocking the lanternlight.

“We were wondering,” Whistler said, “whether you might want a break from Stepmother and her friends.”

Puzzled, Sword looked around, but didn't see the old women.

“Tomorrow, I mean,” Whistler said.

“Oh,” Sword said. “What did you have in mind?”

“Come hunting with us,” Fist replied.

“You won't be allowed to actually kill anything,” Dancer warned. “But we could use a hand.”

“Bent Ear hurt his foot,” Fist explained.

“We want you to help carry things,” Whistler added with a wry smile.

“Dead birds are heavy,” Dancer agreed.

“We'll give you a share of the feathers,” Fist said, grinning.

Whistler cast him a disgusted look. “Feathers aren't worth much of anything here,” he said. “That's why we've always considered you Lowlanders to be fools, because you'll pay so much for them. We'll give you a share of the meat and bone—say, a leg.”

“Not all of one!” Dancer protested. “Just for carrying?”

“Come on, Whistler, don't make him any gifts!” Fist agreed. “We'll give him a fair share, but not an entire leg.”

Sword looked up at them, then glanced down at his unfinished trousers.

He needed new garments—but learning how to hunt
ara
might well be necessary to his survival, as well, and this was clearly a social step upward, an opportunity not to be missed.

Especially since he would get a share of the catch. He had been paying for scraps to eat by working for the old women; supplying his own meat for a day or two, and having a few bones to trade, would put him in a much better position.