'Because he's my nephew,' Halt told him. His dark eyes burned into Keelty's and the captain knew, instinctively, that he was telling the truth. Then a further thought struck him.
'But you said . . . he was Ferris's nephew?' he said. 'So that means you're . . .' He stopped, not sure if his line of thinking was correct, not sure if he was missing something.
'It means I'm keen to get off this rolling tub of bilge-water and be on my way,' Halt said briskly. He glanced around, saw that Will had brought their packs and saddles up from the small sleeping berth they had shared. He nodded his thanks and moved to the bow. The sailors had placed a ladder so that the three passengers could negotiate the two-metre drop to the sand more easily. Halt swung a leg over the bulwark and looked back at Keelty, standing with the sheet of paper fluttering in the wind.
'Don't lose that,' he admonished him.
Keelty, his mouth open as he tried to put all the factors together, nodded absently. 'I won't.'
Halt looked at his two companions. 'Let's go,' he said, and ran lightly down the ladder to the sand. He was grateful to have the feeling of solid ground under his feet once more.
Eight
They pushed inland, following a rough trail that wound erratically through the dotted clumps of low-lying scrub and long grass that covered the ground. The wind was a constant force about them, keening in off the sea, bending the grass before it. Will glanced around. No trees in sight. For a moment, the sound of the wind soughing through the grass took him back to the terrifying night he had spent on the Solitary Plain, in his first year as an apprentice, when he and Gilan and Halt were hunting the Kalkara.
He shrugged mentally and corrected himself. When the Kalkara were hunting them was more accurate.
'Be nice to see a tree,' Horace said, echoing Will's earlier thought.
Halt looked round at him. 'They won't grow here. The wind brings in the salt from the sea and it kills them. We'll need to get further inland to see trees.'
Which raised a point that had been bothering Will. 'Halt, where are we going? Do you have any idea?'
Halt shrugged. 'We know Tennyson landed at Craiskill River. And this is the only path from the landing site. So reason says he must have gone this way.'
'What happens when we hit another path?' Will asked. Halt gave him the ghost of a smile.
'Then we'll have to do some alternate reasoning.'
'Can't you find their tracks or something?' Horace asked. 'I thought you Rangers were supposed to be good at that.'
'We're good,' Halt told him comfortably. 'But we're not infallible.' The minute the words left his mouth, he regretted them. He saw the look of mock surprise on Horace's face.
'Well,' said the young warrior, 'that's the first time I've ever heard you admit that.' He grinned easily at Halt, who scowled at him.
'I preferred you when you were young and had a modicum of respect for your elders,' Halt said.
In truth, there were signs that people had passed along this track, but Halt and Will had no way of knowing whether they had been left by Tennyson's party or by other people. This was, after all, a path leading from a popular smuggler's rendezvous. It stood to reason that the Scotti used it constantly, bringing goods to trade with the smugglers and taking back the casks of spirits and bales of wool they brought ashore. Wool was prized in this part of Picta, where the weather was too cold and damp for the successful raising of sheep. Cattle were hardier and more attuned to the climate and the Scotti traded leather hides and horns for the soft wool.
So they rode on, content for the moment to follow the trail, and with no real alternative to make them choose another direction.
They had started in the late afternoon and night was nearly upon them when they found a fork in the trail. One branch continued in the general direction they had been taking – eastward. The other forked off to the south. Both branches seemed to be equally well used.
'We'll decide which way to go tomorrow,' Halt said. He led them off the track, through the high grass and scrub. They found a more or less suitable camp site behind a clump of scrub and blackberry bush, which grew to a little more than head height. They led the three horses in a series of circles for a few minutes to trample down the long grass, then unsaddled and watered the horses, and settled down themselves, leaving the animals to crop the grass around them. Kicker was attuned to travel with the two Ranger horses by now and Horace had no need to hobble him. He'd stay close by his two companions.
He listened to the grinding, chomping sound of the three horses as they ate and looked around, a frown on his face. 'Don't know where I'll find firewood.'
Halt regarded him with a slight smile. 'No point in looking,' he said. 'There's none around and we can't have a fire anyway. Once it's dark, even a small fire will be visible for miles and we never know who's watching.'
Horace sighed. Cold food again. And nothing but cold water to wash it down. He was nearly as fond of coffee as the two Rangers.
'Let me know when we start having fun,' he said.
There was a fine rain in the night and they woke under damp blankets. Halt rose, stretched and groaned as his aching muscles nagged at him.
'I really am getting too old for this,' he said. He looked around the low horizon, bounded by scrubby heather and long grass, and saw no sign of anyone watching them. He gestured towards the blackberry bush and said to Will, 'I think we can risk a fire this morning. See if you can cut some dry branches from inside that thicket.'
Will nodded. He'd be grateful for a hot drink to start the day. He crawled into the tangled blackberry bush and swore quietly when a bramble stuck him.
'Mind the brambles,' Halt said.
'Thank you for stating the obvious,' Will told him. But he got to work with his saxe knife and cut a bundle of the thin dry stalks. Halt was right. The thick tangle had kept the rain from penetrating and Will backed out of the tunnel he had cut with a substantial bundle of sticks. None of them would burn for long, but they'd give off little smoke.
'Should be enough to boil the coffee pot,' he said. Halt nodded. They'd eat a cold breakfast again – hard bread and dried fruit and meat. But it would be more palatable with a hot, sweet mug of coffee to wash it down.
A little later, they sat, savouring their second cups.
'Halt,' Will said, 'can I ask you something?'
He saw his old mentor's mouth begin to frame the perennial answer to that question and hurried on before Halt could speak.
'Yes, I know. I just did. But I want to ask you something else, all right?'
A little miffed that Will had forestalled his stock answer, Halt gestured for him to go ahead.
'Where do you think Tennyson is heading?'
'I'd say,' the Ranger answered, after a few seconds' deliberation, 'that he'll be heading south now that he has the chance. Back into Araluen.'
'How do you know that?' Horace asked. He was interested to hear the answer. He was always impressed at the two Rangers' ability to read a situation and come up with the correct answer to a problem. Sometimes, he thought, they almost seemed to have divine guidance.
'I'm guessing,' Halt told him.
Horace was a little disappointed. He'd expected a detailed analysis of the situation. The ghost of a smile showed on Halt's face. He was well aware that Horace occasionally entertained exaggerated ideas of Ranger skills and abilities.
'Sometimes that's all you can do,' Halt said, a note of apology in his voice. Then he decided it might be a good idea to explain his train of thinking. He reached behind him to his saddle bag and took out a leather map case. He spread a map of the northern half of the border country between Araluen and Picta out before him. The two young men positioned themselves either side of him.
'I figure we're about here,' he said, tapping his forefinger on a spot several centimetres in from the coast. Will and Horace could see the Mull of Linkeith marked, and the Craiskill River, which meandered back to the northeast, angling away from the relatively direct eastern
path they had been following. Horace leaned forward, peering more closely.
'Where's the path we're on?' he asked. Halt regarded him patiently.
'We don't mark every little footpath and game trail on these maps, you know,' he said. Horace stuck out his bottom lip and shrugged. The action said that he thought such things should be marked. Halt decided to ignore him.
'Tennyson probably wants to head south,' he said. 'And this fork in the trail has been the first opportunity he's had to do it.'
Will scratched his head thoughtfully. 'Why south? You said that last night. What makes you so sure?'
'I'm not sure,' Halt told him. 'But it's a reasonable assumption.'
Horace snorted disparagingly. 'Fancy word for a guess.'
Halt glared at him but Horace made sure he wasn't making eye contact with the Ranger. Halt shook his head and continued.
'We know Tennyson didn't particularly want to come to Picta,' he said. 'O'Malley told us that, remember?'
Understanding was beginning to dawn on Horace's face. His faith in Ranger infallibility was slowly being restored.
'That's right,' he said. 'You asked him and he said Tennyson just wanted to get out of Hibernia.'
'Exactly. And Picta was the place O'Malley was going. So he dropped Tennyson off at the Craiskill River. Now, I'd be willing to bet that the Outsiders don't have any influence in Picta so far . . .'
'What makes you say that?' Will wanted to know.
'The Scotti aren't particularly tolerant of new religions,' Halt told him. 'And the local brand of intolerance is a little more violent than it is in Araluen. Try to start a new religion in this country and they'll string you up by your thumbs – particularly if you ask them for gold as the price of conversion.'
'Not a bad policy really,' Horace said.
Halt regarded him levelly. 'Exactly. However, it's reasonable to assume there are pockets of influence dotted around the remote parts of Araluen. I'd be surprised if Selsey was the only place they've infiltrated.'
Selsey was the isolated West Coast fishing village where Halt had first discovered the Outsiders' activity.
'And even if that's not the case, he really has no other choice, does he?' Will said. 'He can't stay in Hibernia because he knows we were after him there. He can't stay in Picta . . .'
'. . . or they'll string him up by the thumbs,' Horace put in, grinning. He liked the mental image of the overweight, self-important Tennyson strung up by the thumbs.
'So Araluen is the logical choice,' Halt finished. He tapped the map again, indicating a location south of the position he had originally pointed to. 'And this is the closest path through the mountains back into Araluen. One Raven Pass.'
The border between Araluen and Picta was delineated by a range of rugged mountains. They weren't particularly high but they were steep and forbidding and the easiest ways through them were a series of mountain passes.
'One Raven Pass?' Horace repeated. 'Why One Raven?'
'One raven is sorrow,' Will said absently, repeating the old proverb.
Halt nodded. 'That's right. The pass is the site of an old battle many years ago. A Scotti army was ambushed in the pass and wiped out to a man. Legend has it that since then, no bird life will live there. Except for a solitary raven, who appears every year on the anniversary of the battle and whose cries sound like Scotti widows weeping for their men.'
'How many years ago did this happen?' Horace asked. Halt shrugged, as he rolled up the map and replaced it in his map case.
'Oh, three or four hundred years back, I suppose,' he said carelessly.
'And how many years does a raven live?' Horace asked, a small frown furrowing the skin between his eyes. Halt rolled his eyes to heaven, seeing what was coming.
Will tried to step in. 'Horace . . .'
Horace held up a hand to forestall him.
'I mean, it's not as if it's breeding there and this is its great-great-great-great-grandson raven, is it?' he said. 'After all, it's one raven, and one raven can hardly have great-great-great-grandsons on its own, can it?'
'It's a legend, Horace,' Halt said deliberately. 'It's not meant to be taken literally.'
'Still,' said Horace doggedly, 'why not call it something sensible? Like Battle Pass? Or Ambush Pass?'
Halt regarded him. He loved Horace like a younger brother. Even a second son, after Will. He admired his skill with a sword and his courage in battle. But sometimes, just sometimes, he felt an overwhelming desire to ram the young warrior's head against a convenient tree.
'You have no sense of drama or symbolism, do you?' he asked.
'Huh?' replied Horace, not quite understanding. Halt looked around for a convenient tree. Perhaps luckily for Horace, there were none in sight.
Nine
Tennyson, self-styled prophet of the god Alseiass, scowled at the platter that had been placed in front of him. The meagre contents – a small piece of stringy salted beef and a few withered carrots and turnips – did nothing to lighten his mood. Tennyson was a man who enjoyed his creature comforts. But now he was cold and uncomfortable. And, worst of all, hungry.
He thought bitterly of the Hibernian smuggler who had put him and his party ashore on the wild west coast of Picta. He had demanded an exorbitant fee from the Outsiders and, after a great amount of haggling, had grudgingly agreed to provide them with provisions for their overland journey south. When the time had come for them to disembark, they had been virtually manhandled off the ship like so much unwanted ballast, and half a dozen sacks had been tossed onto the beach after them.
By the time Tennyson had discovered that at least a third of the food provided in the sacks was spoiled and inedible, the smuggler's ship was already well off shore, swooping over the rolling waves like a gull. He raged impotently on the beach, picturing the smuggler laughing to himself as he counted the gold coins he had extorted from them.
At first, Tennyson was tempted to claim the largest share of the small store of food for himself, but caution prevailed. His hold over his followers was tenuous. None of them were abject believers in Alseiass. These were the hard core of his group, his fellow criminals, who knew that the Outsiders cult was nothing more than an opportunity to extort money from simple country folk. They saw Tennyson as their leader only because he was skilled in convincing gullible farmers and villagers to part with their money. But at the moment, there were no farmers or villagers nearby and they felt no sense of deference to the bulky grey-haired man in the flowing white robe. He might be their leader, but right now he wasn't returning any profit to them, so he didn't deserve any more than the rest of them.
The truth was, he needed them as much as they needed him. Things were different when they were surrounded by several hundred converts, eager to pander to Tennyson's every whim. When that was the case, they all lived high off the hog, and none higher than he. But now? Now he would have to share with the rest.
He heard footsteps approaching and looked up, the sour expression still on his face. Bacari, the senior of the two Genovesan assassins still remaining in his employ, stopped a few paces away. He smiled sarcastically at the platter of food on Tennyson's knee.
'Not exactly a feast, your holiness.'
Tennyson's brow darkened in anger. He needed the Genovesans but he didn't like them. They were arrogant and self-centred. When he ordered them to carry out a task, they did so with an air of reluctance, as if they were doing him a favour. He'd paid them well to protect him and he expected that they might show him a little deference. But that was a concept that seemed beyond them.
'Did you find anything?' he asked.
The assassin shrugged. 'There's a small farm about three kilometres away. There are animals there, so we'll have meat at least.'
Tennyson had sent the two Genovesans to scout the surrounding area. What little food they had remaining was almost inedible and they were going to have to find more. Now, at the mention of fresh meat, his spirits lifted.
'Vegetables? Flour? Grain?' h
e asked. Bacari shrugged again. It was an infuriating movement, Tennyson thought. It conveyed a world of disdain for the person being addressed.
'Possibly,' Bacari said. 'It seems like a prosperous little place.'
Tennyson's eyes narrowed. Prosperous might equate with well populated. 'How many people?'
Bacari made a dismissive gesture. 'Two people so far as I could see,' he said. 'We can handle them easily.'
'Excellent!' Tennyson rose to his feet with renewed enthusiasm. He looked at the distasteful contents of the platter and hurled them into the heather beside the track. 'Rolf!' he called to his chief henchman. 'Get everyone ready to move! The Genovesans have found us some food.'
The band began preparing to move out. The mention of food had heartened all of them. The surly looks and angry muttering that had become the norm for the past few days were gone. Amazing what the prospect of a full belly would do for people's spirits, Tennyson thought.
It was a well-kept thatched cottage with a barn beside it. Smoke rose in a lazy curl from the chimney. A cultivated field showed the green tops of vegetables growing – kale or cabbage, Tennyson surmised. As they approached, a man emerged from the barn, leading a black cow behind him on a rope. He was clad in the typical attire of the region – a long plaid covering his upper body and a heavy kilt wrapped round his waist. He didn't notice them at first, but when he did, he stopped in his tracks, the cow dropping its head to graze the long grass.