Chapter XXII
Somewhere deep in the underbelly of Medialia, the waters erupted out of their quiet rest. The springs and wells gurgled and spewed over their appointed banks, and sought escape through the Earth’s crust. The source of the River Alluvia gave expression to their bubbling overflow, the annual flooding of the mighty stream. The water poured forth from the underground fountains, and the hips of the great giver of life spread to either side over the land upon which she sat. The swelling river deposited rich soil upon the Rufoux fields, bringing lush fertility from the northernmost point down until the mouth of the Alluvia opened into the sea. As well, it brought trouble from the south up.
The Melics and the Rufoux worked in camp now, collecting the logs as they drifted lazily downstream and pulling them onto dry ground; a short portage brought them into place at the stockade wall upon the bluff. Teams of men dug holes, dropped the logs in place upright, packed the ground around their bases and lashed them together at the top. The work progressed by the cadence of Melic music until no worker took notice of anything but the wood, the earth and the rhythm. Only by chance did Osewold glance up and see masts rising over the Alluvia’s southern end.
“Koinoni!” he called out, and the Melics faded into the wood without a sound.
“Koinoni! Koinoni!” said a dozen Rufoux voices, almost with a tone of despair.
More than a half dozen large boats came up the river slowly, oars and poles working against the current, tall prows and masts standing high above the water’s surface. The vessels consisted of no more than a combination of bundled reeds and wood bound together, and a huge billowing sail hung from each mast. Though the ships’ flat bottoms drew almost no water, only at flooding time would the Koinoni bring them this far inland. Upon their decks stood dozens of still figures, draped in dark, heavy robes with deep hoods.
The Koinoni had arrived, the traders and the bane of the Medialian world. Their dress, by design, hid any and all information that might spoil a transaction for them. Their reputation for cheating and deceit had spread so widely that only the Rufoux would deal with them at all; for that reason had the Melics simply disappeared. Koinoni knew the Rufoux as well, that they had metals and grains to offer, and did not take kindly to treachery, so both clans approached their dealings carefully. Indeed, only at flooding time did the Koinoni feel confident of a quick getaway, if necessary. Artur had roughed up a few Koinoni in his time, and Jakke too had found some satisfaction in their visits. But the Koinoni had come to hide their fraud so cleverly, the Rufoux often never caught on.
The Koinoni shrouded themselves with mystery. They had no history nor traditions, so long ago being forced from their homeland by neighboring peoples that they didn’t remember their country at all; instead they wandered the world, picking up whatever traits best suited them from the cultures they visited. Their robes hid the identity of each individual, so much so that one could not tell man and woman apart, until one was sold into whoring. Their hoods hung so low as to drape their faces completely in shadow; they had no peripheral vision, and developed the habit of whirling about in place, once around, first one and then the next, like a clockwork of sentinels, in order to see anyone who might be approaching from the side or back. The Koinoni had one love, for money at any price.
The Rufoux always welcomed flooding time for the new birth of the soil, but it also always brought Koinoni. The boats approached slowly up the waterway.
Osewold watched carefully as the Koinoni approached, and the other Rufoux returned to their work on the stockade, alone. The lead ship edged toward the riverbank and came slightly aground, and six figures stepped out upon the shore. Slowly they walked toward Osewold, one spinning around, then another.
“Zootaloo!” said the one in front, using the Koinoni greeting adopted from some far-flung nation.
“Good day,” said Osewold, choosing his words carefully.
“I am Yarrow,” he said. “I lead the Koinoni.”
“My name is Osewold. Our chief Artur is not here.”
“I know Artur, but just as well. What do you have?”
“I have nothing for you. I told you our chieftain is not here now, and I will not speak for the Rufoux.”
“Just as well. What do you want?” He held out a hand, and Osewold could see a gold-colored dust caked around his cuticles; the others took their turns spinning like lilies in still water.
In the village, Pepin and Wyllem had been directing the building of gates. Carolingia loitered about the worksite, leaning against a hut. When they heard the cries of the Koinoni arrival, Pepin took a sideways route quickly toward the wood, but Carolingia lingered as Wyllem walked toward the river. As he passed, she abruptly grasped him by the belt and pulled him close there behind the little building, leaning her loins heavily against him. Her lips pressed upon Wyllem’s neck before he knew what had caught him, and she tried to force his hand downward upon her body. He struggled against her embrace, preoccupied with the Koinoni, and an arrow whirred in the air. The shot severed the strap of Carolingia’s dress and stuck into the wall of the hovel with a loud thump. Carolingia jumped, and her frock drooped to reveal pallid, shriveled breasts, and a thin line of dull red trickling from her shoulder. This exposure was too much even for the Melic strumpet, and she released Wyllem to cover herself.
“That was close!” she complained.
“That’s as close as she’ll ever miss,” and Wyllem, free to see to his duty, caught sight of the smirking Arielle, leaning upon her bow, her right fist defiantly on her hip. He gave her a grateful salute and made his way to the river.
“I am Wyllem. Our chief is not here, and I have taken charge in his absence.”
“Zootaloo!” said Yarrow. “What do you have?”
“We have no grain to give. Our supply has been ransacked,” said Wyllem, studying the various spinning Koinoni, puzzled.
“Any metals?”
“We will have to ask Jakke, the chief of metalworkers,” and Wyllem gestured toward the village.
“Mountain Man?” said Yarrow. “No, not now. Perhaps we will meet with him later. Better to ask him later.” The rest of the Koinoni remained silently spinning.
“Well, we have nothing then.”
“No grain?”
“No,” said Wyllem. “The Aoten have taken some and destroyed some.”
“Yes, the Aoten have come to your land. The giants always bring a very big problem. Do you build a fence to keep them out?”
“We plan to build a whole stockade, yes.”
“That did not work for the Xinna,” said Yarrow, completely without emotion.
“Well, the Melics have been helping us,” Wyllem replied, suddenly thinking he had to defend his clan’s activities.
“I see no Melic, except one,” said Yarrow. Carolingia, holding up her dress by clutching a breast with each hand, walked up to the Koinoni figure furthest back.
“Yes, well, they have been helping. Where did they go? But as you see, we prepare for a hard fight to defend ourselves; if we fail, we will die out completely.”
“Also like the Xinna. That would be bad indeed. That would leave nobody in Medialia for Koinoni trading.”
“Our concerns are somewhat different at the moment.”
“The Aoten must have laid waste to your crop. Even under the floodwaters I can see the bare ground of your fields — have the giants then taken it all?”
“No,” said Wyllem carelessly. “We have stored the rest away.” Osewold frowned at the back of Wyllem’s head and shook his head slightly.
“Oh,” said Yarrow, and he craned his neck in an attempt to see into the village. At least that’s what he appeared to do, underneath his heavy shroud. “You have set aside some for planting, no doubt?”
“Well, yes, we always have some for the planting.” Wyllem had not thought of this point since the harvest, but the Rufoux always held seed grain back.
“So you do have extra?”
“For the planting.??
?
“How much extra?”
“I cannot say,” said Wyllem, feeling confused and put-upon. Accustomed to asking the questions, now his usual cautious ways seemed to slip away in the treacherous chit-chat.
“What do you want for it?”
“We want nothing.”
“Koinoni expect nothing for free.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. We don’t have any extra for trade.”
Yarrow clapped, and one of the other figures skipped his turn spinning and approached with a brightly colored cloth that floated in his hands.
“It radiates rich beauty, does it not? Feel how delicate and soft. Nobody can compare to the weavers of the East.”
Wyllem dutifully felt the cloth. “This wouldn’t stop a mosquito, much less an arrow,” he said with perfect candor. Osewold caught sight of Geoffrey approaching cautiously from the work site.
“What would you give for it?”
“Nothing. It has no worth to me.”
“Ah, but for your wife. Surely your wife loves beautiful things — are you married?”
“Yes, but knowing my wife —”
“What would you give? Extra grain?” persisted Yarrow.
“Our extra grain is for planting,” said Wyllem.
“But you have extra, you admit you do. Certainly you have some for trade.”
“Well —”
“We will make you a very good deal, a very bad trade for Koinoni, but a good deal for you.”
“What else do you have?” asked Wyllem, and Osewold let his head droop.
“Wonderful sculptures, works of art,” and the second figure produced small silver idols from underneath his cloak.
“What do these do?” asked Wyllem.
“They bring you the good fortunes of the gods, the good magic of Zdjaman.”
“It’s just a little statue.”
“This god of a faraway people, it rules over this powerful people, numbering many thousands. Their god has made them a strong people, of whom all are afraid.”
“It’s just a piece of metal. Nothing to be afraid of.”
“No, just a Xinna god. But so beautiful, is it not? Beautiful to keep in one’s home?”
“Yes, it looks like nice metalwork, not Rufoux, but skilful anyway.”
“Perhaps, if the Rufoux had the idol, you could learn to shape metal in this style.”
“Metalwork always fascinates us.” Wyllem began to look interested, and Osewold grew more nervous.
“It is very beautiful, and the Koinoni will make you a very good deal,” said Yarrow.
“Do you want metalwork for it? We could see Jakke.”
“Not Mountain Man, not metal. Koinoni will be happy to trade for Rufoux grain.”
“How much grain would you want?” said Wyllem. Osewold nearly grabbed him by the coat to drag him off, but instead at that moment Yarrow’s attention was distracted by another spinning Koinoni.
“What happened to the sixth? Where has Jaipoo gone?”
“Who?” said Wyllem, looking over Yarrow’s shoulder. “And where is Carolingia?” Osewold and Geoffrey took the opportunity to grasp Wyllem by the arms and drag him toward the stockade wall.
Carolingia half-staggered deeper into the forested lands, only barely clutching at her dress.
“You bedded a Koinoni?” erupted Pepin in disbelief.
“Yes. Did you not dream it?” her reply dripped sarcasm.
“Which one?” Pepin asked, for no particular reason.
“What does it matter?”