Sixteen
He wasted no time retrieving the padder, donning the old Atavist homespun
and taking his leave of Benjo and Milana.
They appeared genuinely sorry to see him go, and in a way, Sandon
himself was sorry to go, but he had more important things to spend his time
worrying about than how these folk whom he’d known for a mere couple of weeks
felt about his departure. Funny…the last
few weeks had been nothing more than a series of leave-takings, one after the
other. Milana had fussed about, giving
him a blanket and provisions for the journey, as well as a light wet-weather
overcoat for him to take. He’d never
seen an Atavist wearing anything else than their simple homespun robes,
regardless of the weather, but he took it all the same. He had no idea how many days he’d end up on
the road again, and there was no guarantee that he’d be able to find any decent
shelter. Even if they had already moved
on, the Men Darnak part would have a proper camp, and they’d be on one of the
main routes leading into the town. He
knew very well from his own experience how the Men Darnak entourage operated
and he had seen the direction in which the messenger had departed. He quickly headed the padder out of town, dug
his heels into its flanks, and winced as the animal broke into a bouncing
trot. Such a short time and he’d
forgotten about the jouncing, bony back and uncomfortable seat. It didn’t take very
long to be reminded.
He headed out of town,
across the network of connecting canal bridges and on toward the main
road. The padder was sluggish. It seemed that in having it stabled, it had
received more of the good life than it was used to. Every now and again, the jouncing step
brought bursts of gaseous odor in a rhythm that kept time with the animal’s
pace. Sandon pulled up his hood in a
vain attempt to ward off some of what the padder was sharing. The day itself was still, and though clouds
whipped across the sky far above, the air at ground level was calm. For once, he would have been grateful for at
least a hint of a seasonal breeze. He
passed a few travelers on the road, but most hurried past without even a
glance. Once again, he had apparently
slipped further into his guise as a wandering Atavist.
After about a mile, he
neared the bloated, muddy flow of the
Signs of true
civilization quickly faded as he left the bridge behind. The long roadway stretched before him, flat
land peppered with Storm Season vegetation stretching out in either direction. Off in the distance to the left, ahead of
him, the ground slowly rose, leading up and away to the hills where another
collection of mines and the major Kallathik settlement lay. Far across to the right, well out of sight
from his current position, lay broad farmland and further on, the slopes
bearing the thick, ancient ajura
forest, the source of most of their timber.
The ancient forests had grown for hundred, perhaps thousands of Seasons,
but they were starting to thin at the edges as the Guild of Primary Production
plundered the ready produce, used to such good effect in their furniture and
their houses and in so many other things, not to mention the trade with the
Kallathik.
Sandon turned his
attention to the road ahead, noting that in places it was in sore need of
repair. No doubt the Principal would
have it recorded and passed back to those responsible with the appropriate
words of disapproval. Very
little escaped the old man’s attention.
If Sandon was ever again in a position to ... no, there was no point
even thinking about it. The way things
were developing, he might as well reconcile himself to the role of a wandering
Atavist as regaining any status within the Principate let alone anything
resembling his old life. Everything
else, for now, was just wishful thinking.
He gave a heavy sigh and scanned the landscape ahead for any sign of the
Men Darnak camp.
After a couple more
miles, set off the roadside in an open field, he saw what could be nothing than
what he sought. There was a cluster of
large tents and wagons. Padders lay tethered
off to one side. At this distance, he
could barely make out the detail, but the flashes of color spoke Men Darnak in
a clear and unmistakable voice. More
than once he had been in a camp such as that.
He squinted, trying to make more detail.
There should have been more tents than there were, more animals. Either the Principal was traveling with a
vastly reduced retinue, for which he could hazard no reason, or this was a
lesser encampment, and the main body was stationed somewhere else. He pulled the beast to a halt and sat where
he was, observing. There seemed to be
nothing unusual about the camp activities.
Men went about their business, moving between the tents, or wagons,
shifting things from one place to another.
Sandon turned to scan the surrounding countryside, but there were no
other signs of life. Nor was there
anywhere to find cover. He chewed at one
side of his moustache, considering. He
couldn’t really ride straight into the camp, so that still left him with a
problem. He couldn’t even tie up the
padder if he was to wait around and observe, looking for his opportunity. Why, he hadn’t even worked through a
plausible story as to why he might want to join up with the party in the first
place.
Sandon sat there
watching for over an hour, the padder becoming restless and complaining more
and more with every passing minute. Once
or twice, he had to jerk sharply on the reins to stop it wandering off looking
for somewhere to graze, not that it would find anything in the immediate
area. The seasonal vegetation provided
nothing fit for a padder to eat, and that suddenly gave him an idea. Thankful for the light raincoat Milana had
given him, he dismounted, dug around in the bundle strapped to the padder’s rear
and wrestled it free, then spread it out on the soggy ground. Still holding the padder’s reins in one hand,
he sat, cross-legged, waiting for darkness to fall. The animal grumbled and complained, and once
or twice, he had to tug firmly on the reins again to still it, but eventually
it subsided and its head dropped as it dozed, standing in place.
Darkness fell earlier
now that Storm Season was truly with them — not that the daylight was more than
gloom, day after day. Its oppression sat
heavily in the back of his mind, like the discomfort, the drizzle and the
constant orange-gray smudged coloration that lay over everything like a
pall. He squatted watching the camp,
noting the way the men’s movements were sluggish, lacking enthusiasm. Finally, one by one, lanterns sprang into
life, and before long, the large central oil fire was set up in the middle of
the tents. Men started gathering around
it, huddling in groups. Others withdrew
to tents, the shapes suffused with yellow glows lit from within. Pity the poor individuals set to duty
outside, with nothing more than the comfort of the large central heater and
their own company to keep them warm.
After he judged enough
time had passed, Sandon stood, and gathering the waterproof coat into a bundle,
shoved it back into the pack. He groaned
as he moved; sitting on the cold damp ground for so long had left him stiff and
sore. At least it was only a short ride
to the camp now, and he’d only have a limited time sitting astride the damned
animal’s bony back. With a grimace, he
mounted, and running his story over in his head, headed the animal toward the
camp with a sharp kick of his heels.
Slowing the animal to a
walk, he passed the first of the tents, looking around. He had been right, there were fewer here than
he would have expected. A couple of the
men — how many were there, five? — looked up as he neared, showing first a
touch of confusion, then open hostility.
“What do you want here,
Atavist?” challenged one, not even bothering to get up.
“I am seeking some food
for the animal, perhaps some warmth for the night.”
Another man
laughed. Sandon recognized neither of
them, not that he necessarily should.
Generally, Men Darnak’s traveling parties were taken from the
administrative ranks, or some of his personal household. That was good too. Right now, he was immensely conscious that he
might be recognized at any moment. He
swallowed back his natural response to the laughter, and thought about his next
words carefully.
“By the Prophet, I am
asking for your help.” He said it as
clearly as he could.
Another man sitting
across the other side from the first two glanced up and quickly looked away
again.
“Please,” continued Sandon. “I
can pay.”
One of the first pair
was grinning now. “Do you know whose
camp you’re in? And since when did your
lot pay for anything?”
Sandon met the grin
levelly. “I have some credits,” he
said. “Or I can work. I have been doing what the Prophet wills.”
“Go on. Get out of here,” said the grinning face
dismissively, the expression now becoming less amused.
“Wait, Jask,” said
another one. “The Principal wouldn’t
like it.”
The man called Jask
frowned. “What he doesn’t know won’t
hurt him.”
“Please, brother,” said
Sandon. “You must have plenty to feed
all these animals. You must be able to
spare a little.”
“I said get out of
here.” Jask’s voice had lifted a little,
and he stood and took a step forward. “Now. Go on. Take your stinking beast away from here.”
“And the rest of you,
brothers?” said Sandon, turning to the rest of the group. Three avoided looking at him, but the one
that had spoken before was chewing his lip, watching, and he too rose slowly to
his feet.
“Jask?” he said quietly.
“Damn you, Fran,” said
Jask, glancing at his companion. “No,
damn you. You can keep your stupid
religious nonsense to yourself.”
A hiss came from another
of those seated about the heater, now openly watching the exchange.
A motion from one of the
nearby tents, and the flap was shoved to one side revealing a tall, thin
figure. Sandon would recognize that
frame anywhere. Witness Kovaar. He lifted a hand to pull his hood further
about his face. Kovaar strode across to
the group.
“What’s going on here?”
he asked in his thin reedy voice as he approached.
One of the other men in
the group muttered in a low voice as he neared.
“Now you’ve done it, Jask.”
“Nothing to worry about,
Witness Kovaar,” said Jask. “Just one of
those Atavists looking for what he can get.
We can handle it.”
Kovaar drew up beside
the man, and with merely a glance at Sandon, peered at Jask with narrowed
eyes. He looked back at Sandon, seeming
to both study him and be thinking at the same time. Sandon gave the barest of nods, hoping that
the poor light and his changed appearance would be enough. Witness Kovaar, after a moment, returned the
nod with the barest inclination of his head.
“This is one of the
Prophet’s people. Do you know what he
wants? Have you asked?”
The man called Jask
shrank back from Kovaar’s gaze. “Said he wanted some feed for the animal.”
“Well give it to him.”
“Said he wanted to stay
here the night.”
Kovaar glanced back at
Sandon, gave him another assessing look, then
spoke. “Well let him.”
“But...”
“Did you not hear
me? Give him what he wants. It is our duty by the Prophet’s will.” He turned on his heel and without another
word, strode back to his tent and disappeared inside.
The look on Jask’s face
was like he had swallowed something bad.
“You’d better come with me,” he said sullenly.
Sandon dismounted and
followed, leading his padder back to the line of tethered beasts staked further
behind the line of tents. It looked like
he’d gotten away with it…so far. There
had been no sign yet that Kovaar had seen through his subterfuge. But then, there was something not right as
well; it was Kovaar who had appeared from the tent to see what was creating the
fuss. It was Kovaar who had ordered the
men around. Where was Leannis Men
Darnak, and how had Kovaar managed to gain such a hold on the Principal’s
affairs. Sandon was immediately more
concerned than he had been before. Men
Darnak’s men were deferring to the odious priest. And what had that look of calculating
assessment Kovaar had given him been about?
Certainly, on the surface of things, they were both men of the Prophet
in their own ways, and the teachings of the Church spoke of charity, but there
was something more there. Sandon chewed
this over as the grudging Jask set him up for the night. One thing was sure; the fates were shining his
way to have allowed him to come even this far.
He would have to wait and see exactly how long that good fortune lasted.
#
Sandon awoke to the
sounds of the camp stirring about him, another cold, gray day and the noise of
padders complaining. Men were grumbling
along with the beasts as they went about their allotted tasks, and here and
there, he caught snatches of conversation.
He hitched himself to his feet and went to attend to his own padder. At the line of animals, he received one or
two strange looks, but he assumed that news of last night’s events had already
made its way throughout the camp. From
what he overheard, he quickly learned that they were nearing the end of their
visit to the area, that Men Darnak had indeed been looking for Tarlain, and
that there had been expeditions to the Kallathik hive. When he had seen to the animal, he went in
search of the man who had offered support, Fran. He found him over the other side of the camp,
carrying bundles and loading them onto the back of a wagon.
“Brother,” he said.
Fran stopped, still
holding the bundle he was carrying, frowned, and then slowly placed the bundle
at his feet.
“I was wondering if I
might have a word with you.”
Fran nodded. He had clear, open features. His hair was light, and fell in waves about
his ears. He looked at Sandon, waiting
for him to continue.
“I wished to thank you
for your words last night.”
Fran shook his
head. “It wasn’t for you, especially.”
“All the same…”
Fran stood waiting and
Sandon nodded. “I have heard that you
might be leaving soon. The activity
suggests you are about to break camp.”
He gestured about them with one hand.
“Would you know where you are headed?”
Fran shrugged. “Probably back to the Men Darnak estates, but
the way the Principal’s been behaving lately, it’s hard to say. We’ll know soon enough.”
“Ahh,” said Sandon. “It would be good if that was the way. I too am traveling in that direction.” He filed the comment about Men Darnak’s
behavior away without comment.
Fran leaned down and
hefted the bundle again. “So, what is it
you’re saying?” He started off toward
the wagon, and Sandon kept pace with him.
“Perhaps there might be
a way I can travel with you.”
Fran headed back to the
pile of bundles and lifted one with a grunt.
Sandon reached down and lifted another.
“What are you doing?”
“I am helping,” said
Sandon. “I can help. I can work.”
“I don’t know,” said
Fran, but the young man didn’t protest as Sandon walked with him and tossed the
bundle into the wagon’s back with the others.
“Someone would have to clear it with Witness Kovaar, but the Prophet
knows, we’re short handed enough.” He grunted as he hefted a heavy sack. Sandon stooped to help him. Together they carried it back to the wagon
and swung it inside.
Kovaar
again. Sandon mulled this over as
they walked back to the pile of supplies.
Elsewhere, others were starting to break down the tents and pack them
away. If it was going to be cleared with
Kovaar, it would have to happen soon.
“Fran, could you...?”
The young man stopped,
hesitating, looking back at the remaining pile of bundles and sacks, then back
at Sandon.
“I’ll keep loading while
you go and see,” said Sandon.
Fran was caught in a
moment of indecision, but then he nodded.
“All right,” he said. “It can’t
hurt.”
As Fran headed off to
speak to whomever he had to, Sandon, good to his word, kept loading the
wagon. The young man seemed simple and
good-natured enough. He had no doubt
that he’d put in a good word for the lone Atavist. Meantime, he had seen nothing of Leannis Men
Darnak. In the past, the Principal would
have been in the midst of everything, directing, passing judgment, making his
presence felt, but there had been not a sign.
He’d seen Witness Kovaar already once or twice, but still nothing of the
old man. Then there was the whole
question of how he was going to get close to Men Darnak anyway. If he was to be of any use, he had to get
near enough to be able to observe, perhaps to influence, without giving the
whole game away. As it was, he needn’t
have worried. He was nearing the end of
the pile, starting to shift the last few sacks, when Witness Kovaar came
striding toward him over the damp ground with Fran in tow. Almost out of habit now, Sandon reached up
and pulled the hood further around his face, bowing his head.
“So, Atavist, what are
you called?” said Kovaar.
“I am Tchardo.”
Kovaar stood looking at
him for several moments. Sandon felt the
tension rising inside, but finally, the priest spoke.
“This man here tells me
that you wish to travel with us. Is that
so? Where are you headed?”
“Where the Prophet
wills,” said Sandon. “I go where the
Prophet wills.”
“Yes, of course,” said
Kovaar with a sigh. “Nowhere else but
where the Prophet wills.” Again the look of assessment. “So, it may be useful to have you along. Every reminder that we can give the Principal
about the Prophet’s teachings can only serve to the good.” This time Kovaar looked around the camp
before turning back. “Yes, you will
travel with us. You will even sit with
us tonight, I think. The Principal and I
will have much to talk about with you.”
He turned to Fran. “You, whatever
your name is. If any of the others give
you any trouble about this, or if they start giving this man, Tchardo, any grief,
you send them to me.” He again fixed
Sandon with that lingering gaze, then nodded and walked away. That last look had invoked a sense of unease,
deep in Sandon’s belly. He watched the
priest’s thin figure disappearing across the other side of the camp. Finally, he turned back,
ready to load the last of the sacks.
Fran looked at him and grinned.
Together they lifted the sack and tossed it into the back of the wagon,
then dusted off their hands.
Sandon nodded slowly,
and just as slowly he said, “Thank you.”
He didn’t speak the last words he added to the thought, I think.
“Fran,” he said, as they
headed back to assist with other preparations.
“You said something about the way the Principal has been acting. What did you mean?”
Fran looked troubled. “I’m not sure I can say. It’s, just…well, I don’t think he’s been
himself. I wouldn’t like to say any more
than that.”
The young man refused to
be drawn any further on the topic, but it only served to make Sandon’s sense of
unease more solid.