The Water Road (27 page)

“At least that makes sense,”
Strefer said. They walked a few minutes more in silence, turning a corner on a
street that was not a main traffic artery, but one just down the pecking order.

“Can I ask you another question,
Strefer?” Rurek said.

“Sure,” she said.

“If there’s a Guild for those who
raise children, and for the journalists, and for the…” he stumbled for a word, “the
cooks.”

“Culinarians,” Strefer said. “They
get very testy about nomenclature.”

“Yeah, yeah, all right,” Rurek
said, a bit annoyed. “If there’s a Guild for all those people, is there a Guild
for people who run shady ferries across the river?” He looked at her with a
sharp grin.

Strefer knew the long and
complicated answer, but decided not to go through it. “I’ll have to think about
that one.”

It took about two hours before they
were out of the city proper and into the loosely connected settlements that had
developed around it. They finally turned due east, down a street that led to a
small set of docks on the riverbank. There was nothing to indicate if the docks
had a name or if there was some ferry service to the other side of the River
Innis. But there was an empty slip at the far upstream side of the docks. They
walked down onto the wooden planks that bobbed up and down on the water. From
that point, they could see a small flat-bottom barge about halfway across the
river, being poled across by four men.

“I suppose this is the place,”
Strefer said, slumping against a pole that rose out of the water and held the
dock in place.

“Think so,” Rurek said. He leaned
against his pikti, catching his breath after the long morning stroll.

They waited on the dock and watched
the ferry make its way slowly across the water. At times, it seemed to make no
progress at all, in spite of the furious efforts of its crew. Strefer realized
that they must have to correct for the effect of the current that was trying to
sweep the craft out into the Water Road several miles downstream.

She looked away for just a moment
and saw two men emerge from one of the boats tied up at the far end of the
dock. It did not occur to her to mention them to Rurek or even think twice
about them. Docks are busy places this time of day. People came and went all
the time. There was nothing suspicious about them, to Strefer’s eyes.

When she glanced that way again,
she saw that the two men had not walked away from the docks towards the city,
but were walking slowly down towards where Strefer and Rurek were waiting on
the ferry, which remained stranded in the middle of the river. They were both
tall and lean, more sinew and nerve than muscle. The taller one was so pale he
was almost white and, if he had hair and a more muscular physique, could pass
for Neldathi. The shorter one, his skin the darker green hue of an Arborian,
looked hungry and driven. They had something in their hands, but Strefer could
not see what they were holding. But her suspicions were now aroused. “Rurek,”
she said, reaching into her satchel for the knife he had given her, “you see
these guys?” She pointed towards the oncoming men.

Rurek had apparently nodded off.
The question from Strefer jarred him back to his senses. “Uh huh,” he said,
turning towards the dock boardwalk and taking his pikti in both hands, ready to
use it if needed.

He needed it. While the two men
were content to simply walk towards them when only Strefer was watching,
Rurek’s settling into a fighting stance must have convinced them that stealth
was no longer an option.

The two men were on the ferry dock
before Rurek had the chance to move forward and at least divert them, if not
block their path. The taller one tried to run around him, but was tripped by
the quick flash of the pikti in Rurek’s hand. The treated wood smacked into
bone with a crack, sending the man sprawling on the dock. Howling in pain, the
knife he had slipped from his hand, skittered across the dock, and plopped
harmlessly into the river.

The shorter man took Rurek by
surprise. Rather than try to avoid him or square off with him in single combat,
he simply plowed into the Sentinel, sending them both tumbling onto the dock,
which pitched and rolled on the now turbulent water. Deploying his training and
years of experience, Rurek rolled expertly out of the scrum and sprung back
quickly to his feet, pikti in hand. He turned his head to Strefer. “Are you all
right?” he shouted.

“Fine,” she shouted back. “Look
out!” she cried as the short man returned to his feet and moved towards Rurek.

This time, the short man was out of
ideas. Surprise had been successful, but only momentarily. He waved the knife
menacingly at Rurek, who simply swiped it from his hand with the end of the
pikti. The blade flew out across the water, glinting in the late-morning sun,
and dropped into the river.

Strefer’s attacker returned to his
feet as well, legs wobbly underneath him as the dock pitched and heaved. When
he saw the knife in Strefer’s hand, he said, “Why don’t you give that to me,
eh, love? Don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I’m touched,” she said, steady on
her feet.

“Fine by me,” the tall man said, “I
get paid whether you live or die.” He lunged towards Strefer in much the same
way his partner had lunged at Rurek, perhaps hoping to cause her to panic.
Instead, Strefer did as Rurek told her and slashed out at his face with the
knife in a long, round arc. The blade found his cheek, opening a small gash.
“You bitch!” he yelled, reeling backwards in a combination of surprise and
shifting boards underneath him.

Rurek’s foe, without a weapon and
out of ideas, stood for too long in one place trying to figure out his next
move. Rurek seized the initiative and drove one end of his pikti into the
shorter man’s stomach. He doubled over in pain and fell to his knees.

Behind her, Strefer could hear
shouts and whistles from the river, from the men on the ferry that was making
its way to the dock. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, and didn’t
really care, so focused was she on the tall man opposite her. The way his feet
shuffled underneath him, she thought there was a chance she could knock him off
his feet and into the river. Once the idea was in her head, there was no reason
to stop and think about it. She yelled at the top of her lungs and drove off
the post behind her, lowering her shoulders, aiming at the midsection of her
foe.

He was ready for Strefer’s move, or
at least able to react to it quickly. He stepped to the side and grabbed her as
she charged past. They slammed down on the dock, the tall man on top of
Strefer, his weight pinning her down. The knife was out of her hand and she had
no way of knowing where it had gone. Her head hit the dock and she tasted the
sick taste of blood in her mouth.

“Thought you’d get the drop on me,
bitch?” the man said, hand on the back of her head holding her down.

Strefer heard a crack from a few
feet away, and then heard the same sound just above her, followed by the sound
of a limp body falling onto the dock.

“Are you all right?” asked an
unfamiliar voice from behind her.

Strefer rolled over and looked up,
shielding her eyes from the sun with a bruised hand. Standing next to her was
one of the men from the ferry, pole still in his hands and dripping water on
the dock. Her attacker lay beside her on the dock, silent and unmoving. “I’ll
be fine,” she said. “Thanks.” He helped her to her feet. Behind him, others
clambered off the ferry to survey the scene.

A few feet away stood Rurek,
panting, pikti still at the ready. The short man lay on the dock in front of
him, as unmoving as the tall man. A trickle of blood ran from his head,
dripping into the river through a gap between boards. “That was a dumb thing to
do,” he said, pointing towards her bloody lip.

“Lesson learned,” she said. “Believe
me.”

Before anyone could arrive to deal
with the bloodied and beaten attackers, Strefer and Rurek hopped onto the
ferry. The crew, who must have concluded they wanted to be on the other side of
the river when the authorities arrived, followed. Within moments, they began
inching slowly across the river to the Arbor.

Part
III

Chapter 20

Once Ushan had agreed to Antrey’s
plan and things were set in motion, Goshen became emboldened as never before
and insisted on exposing Antrey to daily Neldathi life and trying to make her a
part of it. As the clan moved further along its circuit, stopping to make camp
every fourth or fifth night, Goshen would walk Antrey around the large compound
that arose one day out of nowhere and disappeared just as completely a few days
later.

At every campsite, the meeting hall
became the center of activity. Much like the Triumvirate compound in Tolenor,
everything else radiated from it, although the nature of the terrain made the
layout much less uniform than Antrey was used to. There were dozens upon dozens
of smaller compounds made up of linked collections of tents or other
structures, each of a different size. Goshen explained that these were mostly
extended family units, although some were groups of people with particular
skills. Hirrek’s hunters lived spread out amongst the clan, but the Speakers of
Time, for example, all lived in the same area. Children played. Animals grazed
through the melting snow. Meals were eaten, arguments flared and died, and
stories were told. Life, in all its manifold diversity, played out around her.

One day as they walked, Goshen and
Antrey came upon an old man sitting with his back against a tree in the shade
it provided. He sat not on the ground but on a small three-legged stool made
from rich dark wood just tall enough to keep him from sitting on the snow. In
his right hand he clutched a long staff unlike one Antrey had ever seen before.

It was as tall as a pikti, but that
was the only thing they had in common. Where the pikti was made from some
mysterious wood and prepared in such a way as to be black as night, the old
man’s staff was brilliant and metallic. Upon close inspection, Antrey could see
that it appeared to be covered in gold. And while the pikti was perfectly
smooth, this staff was covered in ornate carvings along almost its entire
length. Only the ends were different. On one end, the one that rested on the
ground, the staff became plain and narrowed somewhat so as to dig into the
ground. On the top was a carving of two figures, or what had once long ago been
two figures. Antrey could not make them out from a distance.

Goshen noticed her appreciation.
“They are quite something, are they not?” he asked.

“It’s brilliant,” Antrey said.

“Would you like to see it up
close?” Goshen said. “It is time you met this man, anyway.”

Antrey said nothing, but let Goshen
lead her over to the tree. The old man did not appear to notice them as they
approached, even as the snow crunched under their feet.

Goshen said something when they
reached him in polite soft tones. “This is Otom,” Goshen said to Antrey. “I
asked him if he was keeping himself well this fine day.”

The old man turned his head towards
the pair, but his eyes did not find them. He smiled and asked something of
Goshen. The two men conversed briefly in the Dost language without translating
for Antrey’s benefit. Finally, Goshen laughed and Antrey prodded him for an
explanation.

“Otom says that the day, in fact, is
not fine. That the sun is too bright and hot on his face, but the shade
provides its own discomforts. He wonders what my Maker of Worlds is going to do
about it.”

Antrey smiled at the old man’s
gentle poke at Goshen.

Goshen answered the man quickly,
with a smile. “I told him that was a discussion for another day,” Goshen said
to Antrey. “I also told him that I brought a young friend to him.” He turned
back to Otom and said something that ended in “Antrey.”

Antrey nodded and smiled at the old
man. He just shook his head and said something to Goshen in a low, disgruntled
tone. “What was that?” she asked.

“He says that he does not know the
name,” Goshen said. “That it is not known to him from the history of our
people.” He turned back to the old man and responded to him. “I told him that
the clan grows more numerous every day and asked how he could be so certain
about such a thing.”

The old man laughed again and
nodded, not quite at Goshen but in his general direction. He said something to
Goshen then cocked his head slightly and said something that again ended in
“Antrey.”

“Otom says that he will not argue
the point further and that he is pleased to meet you,” Goshen said.

Drawing on the little bit of the
Dost tongue Goshen had taught her, Antrey said, “Good day to you, Otom.”

In Altrerian, Goshen said, “Otom is
a Speaker of Time.”

Antrey’s eyes went wide and her
breath caught. Had Goshen brought her here on purpose? Was she supposed to
interrogate the old man about the clan’s past? How had Otom not noticed that
she was not, in fact, Neldathi, much less part of the clan? Goshen said
something quietly as an aside to Otom, who laughed loudly and showed a
gap-toothed smile. Then he spoke to Goshen in long bursts of short words.

“What’s so funny?” Antrey asked
Goshen.

“I told him that you were intrigued
by his staff, that it drew your attention from across the field. He is amused
by your reaction to him. He asks how old you are and if you have ever met a
Speaker before.”

“It’s been a very long time,”
Antrey said to Goshen, but quickly followed that with, “but don’t tell him
that.” Antrey thought for a moment. “Tell him I’m not that young, but that I
was an obnoxious and nervous child, unable to sit still for anything,
especially the old stories. Now that I’m grown, I recognize what I have missed
and want to learn.”

Goshen translated for her, which
caused the old man to nod knowingly. Up close, his staff was less impressive
that it had appeared at a distance. The gold, or some sort of equivalent, was
flaking off in spots, as the wood was showing its age. The figures at the top
appeared to have been, at one time, a Neldathi warrior and some sort of large
beast locked in combat. Now, it appeared to be some kind of abstract sculpture,
comprised of odd curves worn by years of use.

“Tell him that I am particularly
interested in the very old stories,” Antrey said. “In the stories of the clans
before the Rising. I want to know if life was so much different then.”

Goshen translated Antrey’s question
and the old man thought for several moments before answering. When he did so,
it was in a smooth singsong voice. “Not so much as you might think,” Goshen
said for him. “Each clan kept to itself, for the most part. There was not so
much animosity as there is now. There were disagreements, to be sure. Conflicts
were frequent when the clans confronted each other over territory, but they
were minor compared to what happens these days.”

Antrey interrupted him. “That’s
something I’ve never understood. The clans don’t have territory the way Altrerians
conceive of it. How can there be territorial disputes?”

Goshen looked at her with a
quizzical look, thought for a moment, and then talked to Otom. Whatever Goshen
told him must have aggravated him terribly. The old man’s tone changed to quick
brisk words, emphasized with a well-timed thump on the ground with his staff.

“What now, Goshen?” Antrey asked.

“He says that he is beginning to
think I am playing a trick on him and that Var is enough of a trickster for one
old man’s life,” Goshen said. “He is appalled by your ignorance.” He turned to
Otom and said something that met with a more reasoned response. “I told him to
assume that you know nothing of your people,” Goshen said, turning back to
Antrey. “He says that he will do this because he and I are old friends, but
that will change if he finds out later it was all a trick.”

“Thank him for me,” Antrey said,
“and assure him that this is no trick.”

Goshen translated for her and Otom
seemed satisfied. The old man took a deep breath and launched into a long
speech, pausing every few moments for Goshen to translate.

“It is true that the Dost, like the
other great clans, have no settled land,” Goshen said for him. “There are no cities,
nor even villages, like the ones north of the Water Road. We travel at all
times, pausing every few days, like we are now. We are constantly at motion,
for that is our way. You know that much, do you not?”

“Yes,” Antrey said in the Dost
tongue.

“Good,” Goshen said for Otom. “We
move, but we do not wander. Each clan has a path that it follows, the circuit
that defines our territory. Our land stretches to the Water Road in the north,
where we seek some refuge from the bitter cold of winter. Then, as the snows
recede, we move back to the south. Although we remain in each place only a few
days, these places hold meaning. We return here to hunt year after year. We
know in each place what can be picked or harvested for food and what cannot.
Places where a young one is born, or an old one dies, are marked in small ways.
All of this is our land. That fact does not change simply because we do not
occupy every part of it at all times.”

“Ask him if that had changed any
since the Rising,” Antrey said to Goshen.

“The territories have always been
there, as have the circuits along which the clans move,” the old man answered.
“They adjoin each other, of course. The territory of the Haglein lies to the
west of the Dost, along the ridge of the mountains. The land of the Chellein to
our south, between the Levin Mountains and the sea, for example. Before the
Rising, there were conflicts over territory, disputes over boundaries, but they
were often resolved peacefully. Councils of the two or three clans would meet
and come to a solution without violence. Excessive violence, at any rate. There
were those with hot blood, of course, or short tempers who bristled at
compromise. But fighting between clans was brief and was more about the
clattering of spears than death and destruction.”

“And what about after the Rising?”
Antrey asked, although she already knew the answer.

Otom sighed before he answered.
“Everything changed,” Goshen said for him, his voice full of regret. “Disputes
over territory became personal insults. Became matters of honor, for the clans,
the theks, and the gods. One clan would attack the other when they passed near
each other. Then, in the next season at the same place, the clan victimized in
the prior year would strike back, seeing revenge. The cycle repeats itself,
even to this day. Now the clans simply try to avoid one another, but that is
difficult as each grows larger. Last year, or perhaps two years ago, our clan
turned east and ran into a rear guard of the Chellein. Many lives were lost
before the fires of hate burned themselves out on both sides. Nothing was
accomplished.”

Antrey paid more attention to Otom
and his manner than to what Goshen was translating for him. There was pain in
the old man’s voice, reflection on his face of memories he would rather forget.
But how could he, as a Speaker of Time? For the first time, the strife amongst
the clans seemed real to Antrey, not some theoretical concept. The quaver in
the old man’s voice and the way in which the words came so difficultly conveyed
the pain and the anguish of this history. Antrey had read of it in books and
knew of it from her childhood, but now for the first time in her heart she felt
the pain of an open wound that never healed.

Goshen looked at her. “We should
probably be moving on,” he said.

Antrey nodded, then knelt down in
front of Otom and took the old man’s hand in hers. “Tell him that I thank him
very much for his story and ask if I may come back some other time and hear
more.”

Goshen translated for her, to which
Otom responded with a nod. He then exchanged a few parting words with Goshen
before Goshen led Antrey away.

When they were back out into the
warming sun and out of his hearing, she asked Goshen, “Is Otom blind? He never
mentioned how I look.”

“He is blind when it suits him,”
Goshen said. “He sees what he needs to see. From you, all he needed to see was
your willingness to listen to him and learn. Nothing else mattered.”

Antrey was confused. “But what
about all that stuff about whether I was one of you or not?”

“Pay it no mind,” Goshen said,
waving it away. “An old game played between friends who long ago forgot why we
are playing it. Believe me, he is quite fond of you.”

“Is he?” Antrey asked, a slight
smile on her face.

“Oh yes,” Goshen said. “And that is
a very good thing. I think you will have need of a Speaker of Time at your side
in the coming times.”

~~~~~

As the great column that was the
Dost moved further south, off the mountains completely and into slowly thawing
valleys, Antrey tried to familiarize herself with more and more of the clan’s
everyday life. With Goshen as her guide, she made the acquaintance of the young
and the old, those responsible for the beasts of burden and those who gathered
water and other necessities. She sat nearby while the children were trained in
the ways of the clan, and went out on a hunting expedition, much to Hirrek’s
distress.

The reactions to Antrey, or perhaps
to Goshen—she was never certain which—varied wildly. Older members of the clan
tended to welcome her warmly and have a good sense of what lay ahead. They had
seen so much violence in their lives. Many of them had seen sons or husbands
killed or maimed, seen their children carried away, and were eager to put those
days behind them. A few appeared to hold on to long-earned grudges and would
have nothing to do with Antrey or her plans. She understood and did not try and
argue for a change in their perceptions. That would come soon enough, through
action. Let them be angry for a while longer.