His men hidden in the undergrowth, Huntsekker moved back to a large, gnarled oak and primed his blunderbuss. He was on edge. The breeze whispered through the leaves above him, flowing up from the old log bridge. The air smelled fine, and Huntsekker felt a moment of peace settle on him. He glanced back to where moonlight was glinting on the river. He had seen the old bridge a thousand times since he had moved to the highlands twenty-four years earlier. Yet somehow he had never really noticed it. It seemed to him curiously beautiful now; ageless and solid in an ever-changing world. Huntsekker wondered who had built it.
Damn, but I should have found a way to avoid this mission, he thought. When Chain Shada had refused to pound upon the crippled highlander Huntsekker had known a surge of pride. It had largely erased the shame he felt at the foul blow Gorain had hammered to Grymauch as the highlander was kneeling on the boards. Now here he was ready to take the man's head.
It wasn't always this way, he realized. When he had first used his tracking skills it was to catch murderers and thieves, men who were seeking to escape justice. His success had brought him to the attention of the Moidart. Huntsekker laid his blunderbuss against the trunk of the tree and scanned the crest of the hill. Still no sign of them. Idly he tugged at the twin spikes of his silver beard. Don't come, Grymauch, he thought.
'The two fighters disobeyed me, and betrayed the honour of the Varlish,' the Moidart had said at their last meeting. 'Unless they are dealt with we face civil disobedience and perhaps a revolt. It is up to you, Huntsekker, to see this does not happen. You will find the man Gorain, take him into the woods and hang him. You will leave this paper under a rock close to the body.'
'Yes, lord. What of the other fighter?'
'Galliott will arrest him and bring him to me. Once here he shall answer for his impertinence.'
Huntsekker had little doubt as to the nature of Chain Shada's punishment. He would be tortured and killed in the dungeons below the Winter House. Still, it was not his problem.
Except that Galliott had failed. Chain Shada was no-one's fool and had broken free of the soldiers, escaping into the town, and from there into the countryside. Now it was Huntsekker's task to kill him, and anyone with him. The breeze touched him again, and once more he found himself staring back at the bridge. This was a magical land. Huntsekker had felt drawn to it from the first moment he had marched here with the Second all those years ago. Having completed his nine years Huntsekker had taken his pension and found work on the High Farm, buying it from the ageing owner six years later. Dal Naydham and Vinton Gabious had been with him since that time. Both men had married since, and now had houses on Huntsekker's land. Dai's wife had died last year in childbirth, and his three children now lived in Vinton's house, alongside the latter's own six boys.
Huntsekker shook his head, trying to free himself from such thoughts. Any moment now the two victims would appear and he needed to be ready. Taking up the blunderbuss he stared again at the crest. They should have reached it by now. He pictured the route they must take, across the open field and into the woods, down the short slope and through to this trail. There was no other way they could have reached the bridge without being seen.
A pistol shot sounded. Huntsekker jerked. Boillard Seeton came running from the undergrowth to the north, the sleeve of his grey shirt stained and dark. A powerful figure came running after him, followed by a youth carrying two pistols. There was no sign of Dal, Vinton or Bass. With a curse Huntsekker stepped out from behind the tree. 'Down, Boillard,' he shouted, bringing up the blunderbuss. Boillard Seeton hurled himself flat, screaming as his injured arm struck the earth.
Something cold touched Huntsekker's throat. 'Best be putting that dreadful thing down, Harvester,' came the voice of Jaim Grymauch. 'I'd hate to be cutting your throat on such a fine night as this.'
'Aye,' agreed Huntsekker. "Twould spoil the moment.' Carefully he uncocked the piece and laid it against the tree.
'Now step forward, if you would, and join your friend.'
Huntsekker walked across the clearing. Chain Shada was kneeling beside Boillard. 'The shot bounced off the bone,' he said. 'It didn't break it. A few stitches and you'll recover, though you'll hurt for a while.'
'What of the rest of my men?' asked Huntsekker.
'Bruised and sleeping,' said Chain Shada.
'That's a relief to me. They are family men.'
Jaim Grymauch moved from behind Huntsekker. His clothes were wet through. Huntsekker smiled. The old rogue had slipped down to the river and swum to the bridge, coming up behind him. 'You'll catch a chill, Grymauch,' he said. 'You're not as young as once you were.'
'Maybe I'll take that bearskin coat,' replied Jaim. That'll keep me warm.'
'It's too big for you, son. Takes a man to wear a coat like this.'
Grymauch chuckled and moved to Chain Shada. 'The way is clear,' he said. 'Time for you to be going.'
'What about these two?'
Jaim swung to face Huntsekker. 'It is a good question, Harvester. What are your plans?'
‘I’ll go back to my farm and tend to my cattle. As far as I am concerned I got here too late and the fighter had already crossed the bridge. I saw no-one else.'
'And you?' Grymauch asked Boillard Seeton.
'The same,' answered the injured man.
'Well, that's it, then,' said Grymauch.
'The hell it is!' stormed the youth, his voice shaking with anger. 'I say we kill them.' Huntsekker saw the pistol come up. It was pointed at his face. He stood very still.
'We'll kill no-one!' said Jaim Grymauch.
'We can't trust them. They'll betray us as soon as they get to Eldacre.'
'Aye, maybe they will. That's for them to decide,' said Jaim softly, moving to stand between Huntsekker and the youth. 'Killing shouldn't be easy, boy. Life should be precious.'
'How precious would it have been had he caught ms?'
'I am not responsible for the way other men live their lives,' said Grymauch, 'only how I live mine. If a man comes against me, and I have no choices, I'll kill him. But I'll not murder unarmed men. Put away that pistol.'
'You are making a mistake, Grymauch.'
'Maybe I am. If so I'll live with it.'
'I never thought you a fool till now,' said the youth. Huntsekker watched him uncock the pistol and walk away. Grymauch turned to Chain Shada, offering his hand.
'The boy might be right,' said the Varlish fighter, taking the hand and shaking it.
'Aye,' agreed Grymauch. 'Time will tell.'
'Be lucky,' said Chain Shada. Without another word he swung away and walked down to the old bridge.
'How's that bull of yours?' asked Grymauch.
Huntsekker shrugged. 'Broke his leg last year. We ate him and he was mighty fine.'
'Damn shame,' said Grymauch. 'That was one good bull.'
'I have another now. Even better.'
'I might just drop by and see him.'
'If you do you'll be picking shot out of your arse for a month.'
Grymauch laughed. 'Take care, Harvester,' he said, then he too strolled away.
Huntsekker watched him go, then walked into the undergrowth to check on his men. They were all still unconscious, though their heartbeats were strong. He returned to Boillard Seeton.
'I've never seen the like,' said Boillard. 'One moment it was all silence, the next that big bastard was right there. Three blows and the others was down. I pulled my knife then that bastard kid appeared and shot me. By the Sacrifice I'll see him swing and I'll piss on his grave.'
'No, you won't, Boillard. You gave your word.'
'Under duress,' argued Boillard. 'Don't count.'
'Mine does.'
'Well, I'm not you, Harvester. You do as you wish. Nobody shoots Boillard Seeton and gets away with it.' The man pushed himself to his feet. 'Damn, but I'll enjoy seeing them hang.'
'I don't think so.' Huntsekker's scythe whispered from its sheath, then plunged through Boillard's thin back, spearing hi
s heart. With a sickening wrench Huntsekker pulled the blade clear. Boillard toppled forward. The cool breeze blew again across Huntsekker's face.
This time there was no magic in it.
CHAPTER NINE
MAEV RING PATROLLED THE OLD BARN, WATCHING THE WORK OF THE twelve spinners, stopping here and there to offer advice to the newest of the women, who was having trouble co-ordinating the foot pedal of the bulky machine while feeding the yarn to the wheel with her left hand. 'Keep it steady and not too slow,' said Maev. 'It will come.'
The woman smiled nervously. The twelve machines had cost Maev three pounds each. They had been carted in pieces all the way from the capital, Varingas, and reassembled in the old barn. It had taken months for Maev to learn the process, and to acquire enough, skill to train others. The enterprise had been fraught with irritating delays and mistakes, but after two years Maev's spinners were creating enough good thread to supply the majority of Eldacre's shirt and clothing makers. The five weavers were creating rugs that were now highly prized, and the small dyeing plant Maev had acquired by the river in north Eldacre meant that she could hire even more women to knit brightly coloured and heavy woollen overshirts. These were immensely popular among the Varlish in winter.
Maev Ring could have grown mildly wealthy with these enterprises alone. But she had a problem. It was one that most Varlish would give anything to share. Maev's other business ventures were so successful she was becoming a rich woman. The seeds of her dilemma had been planted when she acquired a forty per cent share in the business of Gillam Pearce the bootmaker. His work was of exceptional quality, but his business acumen was non-existent. He had been facing debtor's gaol when Maev entered his workshop five years earlier. Gillam, a small red-faced man, was sitting at his bench, applying a third coat of polish to a pair of riding boots.
'What can I do for you, madam?' he asked Maev, affecting not to notice the highland shawl and heavy grey work skirt, which - in a world ruled by the Varlish - negated the need for any courtesy.
Maev Ring approached his bench and placed a heavy pouch upon it. 'It is my understanding, sir,' she said, 'that despite your skill you are in need of funds.'
His thin lips tightened. 'My affairs should not be the subject of gossip. Please leave.'
'I am not here to gossip, Master Pearce. Be so kind as to open the pouch.'
He did so. The glint of gold caught his eye, and he tipped the contents to the bench. 'By the bones of Persis,' he whispered. 'There is thirty pounds here.'
'And more to be had. If you are willing to listen.'
'Gold has a way of making me attentive, lady,' said Gillam, rising from his bench and moving round to fetch a chair for Maev. She sat down and he returned to his seat. 'Please speak what is on your mind.'
'Your boots and shoes are beautifully made, though you do not use the finest of leathers.'
'They are too costly,' he said, interrupting her.
'Indeed. But this is why the rich do not buy your boots. In serving the poor you have been forced to underprice your wares. In short, you need a change in direction.'
'The highest quality hides must be shipped from . . .'
'Masacar, three hundred miles from the old city of Stone,' she said. 'I know. A small shipment will be arriving in the next week. I have acquired it.'
'You are a bootmaker?'
'No. I am a highland woman with coin to spare. If we become partners I believe we would both benefit.'
'Partners? Apart from money, madam, what will you bring to this partnership?'
'Profits,' said Maev Ring.
For some time they talked. Maev agreed to finance the buying of leather and the settling of debts in return for a forty per cent holding. She then produced an old pair of riding boots from a heavy canvas shoulder bag. She passed them to Gillam Pearce. He looked at them closely. 'Fine leather,' he said, 'but poor stitching. The wear on the heels is uneven, and the left boot is too small by a fraction. See here where the wearer's toes have stretched the leather.'
'Could you make a pair of boots for this man that would better these?'
'Assuredly, madam.'
Then do so. Create a work of art, Master Pearce.’
‘Will he be coming to me for a fitting?’
‘No. When finished they will be a gift from you.’
‘Who is to be the lucky recipient? Your husband?’
‘The Moidart. These boots were discarded some weeks ago. One of his servants brought them to a friend of mine, who brought them to me. If your gift finds favour, Master Pearce, others will hear that you craft footwear for the Moidart. Where the lord goes, others will follow. Then there will be no more two-chailling boots from Gillam Pearce. You can hire others to craft them.’
‘You are very confident, Madam Ring.’
‘That confidence is well founded, Master Pearce.'
The Moidart had been delighted with the gift. The boots had been of black Masacar leather, soft as silk, and yet durable. He had not sent any message of thanks to Gillam Pearce, but three weeks after delivery of the gift two of Eldacre's richest noblemen had visited his workshop, ordering similar footwear. By the end of the summer Gillam Pearce's order book was full - despite the obscenely extravagant prices Maev Ring had insisted he charged.
As Maev left the old barn and walked across the open area to the kitchen she calculated once more the returns from Gillam Pearce alone. Sixty pounds to settle his debts, twenty-eight pounds eighteen chaillings to ship in quality hides, and eleven pounds nine chaillings to refit his workshop and acquire higher quality tools. In total a hundred pounds seven chaillings. In the four years they had been partners Maev had earned four hundred and seventeen pounds four chaillings in excess of this sum.
The forge and armoury, previously solely owned by Parsis Feld, now supplied some three hundred pounds per year. Other businesses - the dye works, the cattle auction dealers, the three furniture makers, and the Eldacre abattoir - supplied one hundred and forty pounds more.
The profits were becoming singularly dangerous. The law governing the clans was harsh. No highlander could purchase a Varlish business, or acquire land of more than two acres. No highlander could own a horse above fourteen and a half hands, and only then if it was a gelding. No highlander could lodge coin with a bank, or borrow moneys above five chaillings. Any highlander found in possession of a sword, longbow, gun, or horse above fourteen and a half hands or virile, would be judged a rebel and hanged.
Despite the fact that Maev had broken no laws she knew that this would prove no defence. It was the spirit of the law that counted. Successful highlanders were perceived as a threat to the governing order, and were dealt with one way or another. Then why go on getting richer and richer, she asked herself ? It was not the first time the question had come to her. Maev had thought about the problem often. It was not the money. Heaven knew there was little enough that a highland woman could spend it on. No, as she had explained to Jaim, it was the challenge.
He hadn't understood. 'We were out walking last week,' she said. 'We passed a section of wall that had tumbled. You stopped and spent an hour restacking the stones.'
'The cattle would have wandered,' he said.
'Aye, they would, Grymauch - but they were not your cattle. It was not your wall. That's how it is for me. I see the potential in a business, and it irks me when it is not realized.'
'Is it worth risking your life for?'
'No, it is not,' she agreed. 'I cannot explain it - even to myself. It is my talent, and I feel obliged to use it. I keep telling myself I will draw back and stop one day. Yet I don't.'
Maev moved through to the long kitchen. Shula was kneading dough at the wooden worktop. The shy Varlish woman had proved a boon around the house, although Maev had made it clear to her that she was welcome to stay as a guest. Instead Shula worked like a servant, constantly at some labour or other, cleaning, dusting, washing blankets and sheets, mending Kaelin's clothes.
Maev climbed the stairs and entered
the west-facing bedroom used by Jaim Grymauch. He was still asleep. Maev sat down upon. the bed and nudged him. He groaned and rolled over, but did not wake. Maev caught the smell of ale on his breath.
'Wake up, you ox,' she said, shaking his shoulder. Jaim's one good eye opened. It was bloodshot.
'What is it?' he mumbled.
'I need to know what happened with Chain Shada. Kaelin came back and would say nothing. Now he and Banny are off in the hills. And you - you drunkard - did not stagger in until dawn. Well the sun has been up for five hours now, and no self-respecting man would still be sleeping.'
'Give me a few minutes to find my brain, woman.'
'By heaven, Grymauch, you'd need ten expert trackers and a wizard to find such a mythical beast. I'll be downstairs. Get yourself dressed and join me there.'
'A cooked breakfast would be nice. Bacon, eggs, a steak and some mushrooms.'
'Such a breakfast is for working folk who rise early. I'll slice you. some bread and cheese.' Maev rose and glanced at the clothes so carelessly slung on the floor. She hefted Jaim's cloak, which was still damp, and sniffed it. 'Did you fall in the river?'
'I didn't fall. I swam.' Grymauch threw back the covers and swung his legs from the bed.
'You vile man!' she said. 'How dare you show your nakedness to me?'
'You told me to get dressed!'
'When I'm gone, man.' Maev flung the cloak aside and stalked from the room. Only when she reached the stairs did she allow herself to smile. She wondered what the difference would be between having Jaim Grymauch or a pet bear living with her.
Her good mood lasted only as long as it took Jaim to dress, eat his bread and cheese and to tell her of the events of the night before. 'You didn't kill them?' she said, astonished.
'No, I didn't kill them.'
'Oh, Jaim, you idiot. Now they'll be coming for you and Kaelin. What were you thinking?'
'I was thinking that I am a Rigante, not some murdering Varlish. The boy has already killed two men. And he was willing, Maev. He was even eager to add to that tally. Two prisoners. He would have shot them down without a thought. That's not right.'