The Texts Of Festival (16 page)

Frankie Lee climbed forward onto the driver’s box and dropped to the ground. From the door of the tent old Johanna watched him approach with mild curiosity. She pushed grey hair back out of her eyes.

‘Greetin’s friend, wha’ can we do f’ you?’

Frankie Lee smiled and looked around at the tent and the banner.

‘This Aaron th’ gunmaker?’

‘Tha’s right.’

‘I’m lookin’ f’ guns.’

‘Pistol? Shotgun? We mos’ likely able t’ fix y’ up.’

‘I was hopin’ y’ might have a coupla rapid-fires.’

‘Rapid-fires?’

Johanna looked dubiously at Frankie Lee’s gambler’s clothes.

‘I better fetch me husband.’

‘Sure, go ahead.’

A moment later Aaron stepped from the tent, wiping his hands on his oily apron.

‘You lookin’ for a rapid-fire?’

‘Reckon so.’

Aaron inspected his fingers, then ran them through his thinning hair.

‘You realise, Mistuh, them kinda guns don’ come … uh… cheap?’

‘I know, it’s okay.’

Aaron looked straight at Frankie Lee.

‘You better step inside.’

As he followed the gunsmith into the tent he gave a swift signal to Ace, then the tent flap dropped and he was inside the tent.

The keys rattling in the lock announced the return of the young guard. Starkweather sat on the bed and willed himself to keep calm. As the kid stepped through the door, clutching an earthenware bottle and a bag of weed, Joe stood up.

‘Nice one kid, pass over the bottle an’ I’ll pour you a shot.’

‘Gee thanks, Mistuh Starkweather.’

Starkweather splashed a liberal quantity of spirit into his mug and held it out to the boy but, as he reached out to take it, Starkweather’s arm suddenly jerked upwards, throwing the raw spirit into the young guard’s eyes. He howled and doubled up, desperately trying to rub away the burning spirit. Quickly Starkweather swung his stick and brought it down across the back of the boy’s neck.

‘Sorry, kid.’

The boy slumped unconscious to the floor and Starkweather jerked the gun and keys out of his belt; then turning limped to the door and out into the corridor.

‘Sure is a nice piece.’

Frankie Lee worked the slide of the beautifully preserved pre-disaster submachine gun.

‘You got any more?’

Aaron went to a chest and pulled out two more guns wrapped in oil-soaked cloth.

‘I got two more but they ain’t as good as that ’un. They work, though.’

‘You got ammunition?’

‘Thousand rounds for that size.’

Frankie looked impressed.

‘Really? How many guns you keep here?’

Aaron thought for a moment.

‘I guess mebbe twenty rifles — repeaters that is. ’bout same of single shots — I make them meself, like. Then p’raps ten pistols an’ a dozen or so shotguns.’

‘No kiddin’.’

He paused for a moment.

‘I guess I’ll take the lot.’

Aaron laughed.

‘You gotta joke. Valentine ain’t even got that kinda trade goods.’

Frankie Lee spoke softly.

‘Go outside an’ look at my trades.’

Puzzled, Aaron walked to the tent flap and pulled it open.

Facing him was Ace, the little merchant and the other men from the wagon. Except for Ardbrass they all had drawn guns. Ace pushed Aaron back into the tent and they all crowded inside. Johanna came in from the back of the tent but before she could scream Frankie Lee clapped a hand over her mouth.

‘One sound an’ y’ husband gets it.’

Cautiously he released her. She remained silent, looking at the armed men almost resignedly. Frankie Lee glanced round the tent.

‘Any more in y’ family?’

‘Two sons: Vernon an’ Chet.’

‘Where they?’

‘Gone t’ the wood sellers.’

‘How soon they gonna come back?’

‘Not for mebbe an hour.’

‘You better not be lyin’.’

‘It’s true.’

‘Okay.’

He turned and gestured to the men.

‘Load this stuff on the wagon. Ace, you stay here an’ help me watch these folks.’

Quickly the men from the Last Chance hefted the chests of guns and carried them out to the wagon.

When the last chest had been loaded, Frankie Lee motioned towards the entrance with his gun.

‘Okay yous three, outside.’

‘What’re you gonna do with us?’

‘Nothin’ if’n yous behave. You’re jus’ gonna ride wi’ us till we’re safely outta the Quarter.’

Aaron, Ardbrass and Johanna squeezed onto the driver’s box beside Ace, and Frankie Lee resumed his position just behind them. This time it wasn’t the pistol he covered them with: in his lap he cradled the rapid-fire. Slowly the laden wagon bumped and rattled towards the South Gate of the Merchants’ Quarter.

Joe Starkweather paused beside the door that opened into the inner courtyard of the palace. The exodus of four hundred soldiers had left the broad paved courtyard unnaturally quiet. A dog sniffed at a pile of garbage and women of the court strolled on the terraced top of the wall beside the Stage.

Beside the Arena Gate the door of the guard house opened in response to the clanging of the admission bell. A guard in a surcoat with the black palace colours hurried round to the big gate. Starkweather slipped back into the doorway and watched as the guard slid open the peephole and held an inaudible conversation with someone outside. The peephole was then shut, the trooper slid the bolts off the gate, swinging it open and a delivery cart from the Merchants’ Quarter clattered into the courtyard. It halted beside the guard house and the guard hurried from the gate to help the merchant’s men move a large barrel from the back of the cart. The gate stood open.

Starkweather stared at the open gate. The guard was occupied heaving the barrel into the guard house. It was probably his best opportunity to get free of Valentine’s citadel. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out into the sunlight and limped hurriedly towards the open gate.

He had covered three quarters of the distance to the gate. The trooper and the delivery man had disappeared inside the guard house. It seemed that all was going perfectly. Then the guard stepped into the courtyard, saw him and raised his shotgun.

‘Hold it right there, Joe!’

As Ace was about to urge the mule through the South Gate a retainer stepped into the centre of the track and waved them to a halt. Two more retainers stepped out of the shack beside the gate and joined the first, their guns held casually at the ready.

‘G’day Mistuh Ardbrass, g’day Mistuh Aaron. We’re sorry t’ trouble you gen’lemen but we got orders to check all wagons headed for the Drag. Y’all mind steppin’ down a moment?’

For a moment Ardbrass appeared to go rigid; his mouth was open like a stranded fish but no sound came. Then Frankie Lee pushed him to one side and, thrusting his heavy gun towards the retainers, crouched with one foot on the driver’s box.

‘Don’ move boys, your orders jus’ got changed. Drop your guns an’ step back, an’ don’ get no fancy ideas ’bout takin’ me ’cause with them scatter guns you’d waste these two fine merchants as well.’

Reluctantly the retainers let their guns drop to the ground and took a pace back, looking at the wagon uncomfortably. Frankie Lee turned to the men in the back.

‘Okay, everyone out.’

The armed men scrambled from the back of the wagon and surrounded the three retainers. Frankie Lee jumped from the box and ordered the two merchants and the woman to climb down and join the retainers in the middle of the group of men. Then he looked round for the big labourer from Shacktown.

‘You wanna go check out the guard post?’

‘Sure.’

The big man ambled towards the shack and kicked the door open. Suddenly there was the roar of a shotgun; wood splinters flew as he was lifted off his feet and crashed into the dust, his face and chest hideous and bloody. Frankie Lee swung round and fired a long blast from the hip. The planks of the shack wall shattered under the impact of the heavy-calibre bullets. A figure appeared in the doorway clutching its stomach. For a moment it stood there and then pitched forward across the body of the labourer.

A commotion among the prisoners caused Frankie Lee to swing round again. The big labourer’s partner had Ardbrass by the throat and was about to bury a long butcher’s knife into the merchant’s stomach. Frankie Lee jumped and grabbed the man’s arm.

‘Knock it off!’

In blind fury he lunged at Frankie Lee who, twisting sideways, dodged the knife thrust and clubbed the man across the back of his head with his gun butt. Then he straightened up and faced the rest of the men.

‘If any more of yous got ideas of killin’ the prisoners, f’get it! We gotta ’nuff troubles already.’

The men shuffled uneasily but said nothing. Frankie Lee gestured towards Ace.

‘Start movin’ that wagon out; th’ rest of us’ll stay here wi’ the prisoners.’

Ace climbed into the driver’s seat and prodded the mule into motion. Frankie Lee walked over to the sullen group of prisoners.

‘We gonna pull out now. It ain’t gonna be much use you causin’ any fuss ’cause you ain’t gotta ’nuff troopers to take us even, but anyways we’re gonna walk back to the Drag real slow, watchin’ yous alla time an’ you gonna stay quite still till we’re outta sight. If’n you move you’re dead. Clear?’

The prisoners nodded and, after picking up their guns, Frankie Lee slowly began backing through the gate; the rest of the men followed. As they retreated down the track to the Drag Aaron looked fearfully at Johanna.

‘It looks as though we’ve lost everything.’

Johanna smiled, almost calmly.

‘We still have our skills.

16.

Sprawled awkwardly across the rugs and cushions, Valentine slept fitfully as his coach bumped along the old highway on its solid wheels. The previous day at sunset they had stopped to camp for the night but the amounts of crystal Valentine had consumed kept him up past the dawn and it was only when the army was once more on the move that sleep had come to him.

On the other side of the coach the woman in the red velvet cape sat and watched him blankly.

Outside the coach the army rode in silence in small irregular groups that contrasted sharply with the neat formations of the day before. The sky was grey and overcast with a promise of rain, and a brisk wind whipped the cloaks of the officers.

The coach halted and the jerk threw Valentine into wakefulness. Blinking he peered at the woman.

‘Wha’s happened?’

‘We’ve stopped, my lord.’

‘I know that, you stupid bitch.’

He leaned out of the coach and shouted at a nearby trooper.

‘Why have we stopped?’

The trooper reined in his horse and trotted to the side of the coach.

‘The scouts’re back, my lord.’

‘Well don’t stand there, stupid. Have them brought to me.’

‘They’re a-comin’, my lord.’

Valentine opened the door of the coach and stepped down onto the road, stretching and easing his cramped limbs. Two officers rode up escorting Slick and Jaybee. The four of them dismounted. The two officers came to attention and saluted while the dusty, tired scouts slouched between them.

‘The scouts are ready to make their reports, my lord.’

Valentine ignored the officer and studied Jaybee and Slick.

‘So what have you men learned?’

Slick rubbed his stubbled chin and returned Valentine’s stare.

‘Well…th’ whole town’s overrun by outlaws. Looks like a buncha tribes an’ there’s more a-comin’ in alla time.’

‘How many are there?’

‘Well, we spotted Oltha’s tribe f’ sure, only I got an idea that maybe Oltha’s dead an’ Iggy’s leadin’ ’em an’, o’ course, there’s Iggy’s bunch an’ …’

Impatiently Valentine cut the scout short.

‘Just tell me how many; I’m not interested in the life history of lice-ridden outlaws.’

‘Seems to me, could be useful t’ know who you’re fightin’.’

‘Just tell me how many, damn you!’

Slick looked narrowly at the lord of Festival.

‘I reckon maybe two hundred horse an’ five hundred foot, only there could be a tidy few more by now.’

He glanced at Jaybee for confirmation; the hill man nodded. Valentine paused for a moment and walked round the two scouts as though inspecting them.

‘You expect me to believe there’s an army of seven hundred outlaws down the road?’

Slick turned to look at him.

‘Near as we could figure.’

Valentine exploded.

‘Rubbish! You’re a liar, a fuggin’ liar!’

The two scouts tensed and Slick, with a hint of menace, shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

‘I’m just tellin’ you what we seen. I ain’t particular to bein’ called a liar by any man, whoever he is.’

Valentine’s face grew dark.

‘I’m tellin’ you, little man, there is no army of seven hundred outlaws. It is quite impossible.’

Slick shrugged.

‘Have it your own way; I seen wha’ I seen.’

Iggy stamped into the town flapping his arms to restore the circulation to his chilled limbs. He cursed the tribal custom that dictated that the new chief should spend the night on a freezing hillside honouring the spirit of the one he had killed. At least he had taken enough crystal to keep it up through the night and he was now the undisputed leader of the whole army. There was time enough to change the ways of the tribe once Festival had fallen.

In front of the Shirrif’s House Winston met him with a bowl of hot soup. Iggy drank, cupping the warm bowl with both hands. He shivered.

‘Godam rituals, I’m fuggin’ froze.’

He handed the bowl back to Winston and looked around wiping his mouth.

‘Anything happenin’?’

‘Scout came in from down th’ road. Seems Valentine’s on the move with an army.’

Iggy’s eyes flashed.

‘No kiddin’?’

‘Apparently there’s maybe four hundred horse moved outta Festival yesterday an’ were camped onna road. Scout figures they’re movin’ pretty slow an’ ain’t likely to get here much before sunset — oh yeah, an’ Valentine’s leadin’ ’em himself.’

A grin crept over Iggy’s face.

‘Ri’ on, fuggin’ ri’ on! We gotta start gettin’ some sorta li’l party for these here visitors.’

The rain had started just after they had halted for the midday meal and then fallen steadily for the whole afternoon.