Among the Silvering Herd Page 3
“Just a matter of time,” Sapira said. “One of the young bucks, maybe the one we saved on the trail…”
“He may have another season in him,” Gale said. “The young have strength, but we elders are canny.”
“Everyone’s day passes.”
“It does.” Gale fought a rush of heat through her chest, a front of threatened tears.
“I can’t bear to think of him falling to wolfets. It’s weak, I know…”
Gale unlocked her hands, shaking her fingers loose. “Nobody should witness the slaughter of something they love.”
Sapira reached out, and the buck came closer still. “I’ve trespassed on your goodwill, Gale. Garland—I mean Parrish—he refused my advances. Teale’s too. Now…I realize we shouldn’t have made any.”
“Rot. Nothing you’ve done has marred our friendship, Sapira.” Parrish hadn’t denied they were lovers; why should she? If she left the situation muddy, the boy might get to sleep tonight.
“Thank you.” By now the stag was close; it huffed steamy air onto Sapira’s fingers.
“I’m surprised he lets you so near.”
“My inscription came from one of his horns.”
Gale glanced around. There was no sign, anywhere, of Een. “Is that something we can discuss openly?”
“Why not?”
“Sapira. The horn…it wasn’t owed to Sylvanna?”
“No, it was scratched. The inscription’s of a poorer grade. It’s why…well, you’ve seen my imperfections.”
“Imperfections?”
She looked shamefaced, suddenly, like the girl she was. “My lapses of composure.”
“Composure comes with practice.”
“So says Aunt Agate.”
Gale smiled. “You’re telling me lower-grade inscriptions are permitted in the contract?”
“Why not?”
“Oh, Blossom. You need to hire a more devious class of lawyer.”
Just before nightfall, the new pulver ran mad.
They were on the ridge, roasting trout over the fire and watching the first stars glimmer into view, when they heard the trammel of fleeing deer.
Bendi was on a young buck, riding bareback, yanking at its horn. His shouts were incomprehensible—Redcap dialect, not Fleetspeak.
The buck fought and leapt, but the grip of the pulver’s legs had crushed its rib cage: it was already staggering. Blood ran down its forehead from the horn, blinding it.
“Guard the camp,” Valette ordered. The others obediently encircled the civilians as, reaching for her pike, the pulver ran down the steps.
There was a crack as the buck’s horn snapped off in the crazed man’s hand. The animal wailed, collapsing forward onto its knees. Bellowing, the pulver swung the horn about, fighting whatever delusion had gripped him.
Parrish was down there.
“You can’t go down there, Kir,” Een cawed, drawing the guards’ attention as he seized Gale by the arm. She had moved instinctively.
Parrish stepped up to the outside range of that pointed, swinging, horn. “It’s Bendi, isn’t it?”
The pulver bared his teeth. “Ruined all, Bendi has ruined…oh dear ones, I have failed!”
“Maddenflur,” Sapira whispered. “Has he taken…”
“Maybe someone slipped it to him,” Gale said.
Parrish’s voice carried across the plains. “On the island where I grew up, Bendi, we take in those slain by magic. Such murders are doubly tragic, because nothing lasts forever. It is a given that the scrip will be destroyed in time; that the spell will revert and the murdered person will live again. So the victims must be kept safe.”
The pulver was staring at Parrish’s lips.
“There was a young monk once, whose job was to bear corpses from the sea to the monastery of the sleeping dead. But he loved a woman whose farm lay on the route from the port. He’d stopped at her cottage, once, and a grass fire caught near his wagon. The coffin and the woman lying within were burned.”
The pulver extended his hand, splaying his inhumanly strong fingers mere inches from the boy’s throat. Nobody moved. Even the deer seemed to hold their breath.
“He thought he’d committed the unforgivable,” Parrish said. “The corpse was badly burned. When the woman was restored, she would die again, in agony.”
“Unforgivable,” said Bendi. “Yesss…”
“He was in despair; he considered taking his life.”
“Ruined, ruined.”
“Get him!” Een roared, startling everyone as he drowned out Parrish’s words.
The senior pulver had been inching up behind her maddened acolyte. Now, warned, Bendi whipped around. Parrish sprang backward; the point of the horn just missed his throat.
Fast as a cat, that boy. Gale hurled herself sideways in a faked stumble, tripping Een and then flopping onto his belly, more or less sitting on him.
“Oof! Kir Feliachild!”
She ignored him. His stunt could have killed Parrish.
The pulvers wrestled over the horn, shattering it to matchsticks. Valette caught a flailing blow from Bendi as she got between him and Parrish. “Get back,” she bellowed.
Come on, get out of there. Let them fight it out.
Parrish saw sense; he retreated to the ridge.
“You almost talked him down,” Gale said, strangely proud.
Een gave Gale a shove. “Get off, woman! I think you’ve broken my rib.”
Ahh, the small victories. Gale climbed to her feet. “Sapira. Should someone go through Bendi’s supplies?”
“Yes. Start with the ointments,” Sapira ordered one of the guides. “They contain the maddenflur extract; it’d mask the smell.”
The guide vanished into the shelter, reluctantly—everyone was transfixed by the pulver fight. Then he cried out.
“What now?” Gale bustled ahead of the crush to the cave entrance. The remains of the seven perfect horns were scattered across the stone floor, pieces of bone intermingled with shredded remains of the quilted satchels, clumps of feather and torn silk.
“Poor Bendi must have begun his rampage here,” Een said to Sapira, who had gone shock-white at the sight. “My dear, it will be all right. Sylvanna will continue to extend credit, as a courtesy. Our alliance—“
“May need renegotiating,” Gale said.
Een’s head snapped ‘round. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve gathered the Islanders have the right to use lesser greystag horns to inscribe charmers,” Gale said.
“So?”
“Up until now—“
“—as a courtesy, you might say—” Parrish put in.
Gale smiled at him over the train guides’ heads. “Yes, a concession to your long alliance, Een, they’ve confined themselves to scripping the occasional Blossom. But there’s nothing to keep them from selling ‘em. Is there, Sapira?”
The girl’s color was returning “Nothing at all.”
“Inferior inscriptions,” Een chuffed: “So?”
“Look at this girl, Een. Give her five years to build some skills and there won’t be any difference between her and a perfectly scripped legislator. How much you can charge for the spell if there’s something almost as good on offer?”
In an opera, that would have been the end of Een; he’d have crawled off, been demoted by his superiors and vanished into obscurity. But there was nowhere to slink: he sat by the fire, holding his ribs and simmering.
Gale tipped a glance at her first mate: Follow me. They picked their way down to the stream. The senior pulver had calmed Bendi and was trotting him around the plains, burning off the maddenflur dose. Wolfets were tearing at the dead stag, making good use of the unexpected feast.
Parrish spoke first. “If Een didn’t hate you before—“
“He knows it’s nothing personal. Next round, maybe he’ll win.”
“You shouldn’t insist you’re the same.”
“This is what we have, Parrish, instead of war. Maneuvering and game
s. Een and I play for different teams.”
“And for people’s lives.”
“High stakes,” she agreed.
“You are the good one, Gale.”
“He was right about your moral certainty. Comes of being a failed monk, I suppose?”
“I grew up on Issle Morta, but I’m no monk.”
“It wasn’t you in the story?”
He shook his head. “My father.”
“What made you think telling Bendi an instructive fairy tale when he was out of his head—“
“That you can blame on the monks. They favor parable over argument.”
“I don’t have much patience for fables,” she said, and then drew a long breath. “When Sloot does retire…”
“It won’t be right away.”
“I won’t be preached at.”
“Understood,” he said, and then: “She didn’t say happy.”
“Pardon?”
“The priestess at your birth. She said a useful life. Not a happy one—“
“You see those stags, Parrish?”
“I—“
“What do you think of ‘em?”
“They’re…they’re astounding.”
“It’s a privilege to see them.”
A flare—understanding, agreement? Connection. “Yes.”
Damn, Sloot. She did like him.
“I’ve seen a thousand wonders, cub. And I’m well past dying young. I never thought to survive this long.”
Which was the problem, maybe.
She would let Sloot go. Her place in his memories would recede. A mercy for him, one she should have offered long ago. I’ll take them to Erinth, she thought. One last vacation, and we’ll work out how to change the guard.
She looked at her friend’s chosen replacement, ran through her objections to him, and discarded them one by one.
Parrish steeled himself, as if for a blow. “About my time in the Fleet—“
“Plenty of time for that story.” She would hear it all one day: his alleged disgrace, his monkish upbringing, everything that lurked beneath those chocolate eyes. Sea voyages and their unavoidable stretches of tedium drew out all your tales.
At her feet was a clutch of gold and violet crocuses. On impulse she plucked one, holding it out.
“Another flower,” he said, with a glimmer of amusement.
“Don’t get ideas: just making sure you remember me.”
“I prefer this strategy to having my teeth busted in.”
“I’ll do that tomorrow,” she said, and his laugh was the unaffected chortle of a boy.
They turned toward camp, making for the fire as more snow broke free from the riverbed, vanishing into the night-darkened waters of the mountain.
END
Copyright (C) 2011 by A.M. Dellamonica
Art copyright (C) 2011 by Richard Anderson
Other Works by A.M. Dellamonica
“The Cage,” TOR.COM, July 2009
“The Sorrow Fair,” Helix Speculative Fiction, NY, U.S.A., 2008
“Five Good Things About Meghan Sheedy,” Strange Horizons, Madison, U.S.A., in March, 2008
“What Song the Sirens Sang,” Xtra West, Vancouver, BC, March, 2007 (Commission)
“Time of the Snake,” FAST FORWARD, edited by Lou Anders, Pyr Books, U.S.A. February 2007
“The Town on Blighted Sea,” STRANGE HORIZONS, August 2006, Year’s Best Science Fiction pick (Gardner Dozois)
“A Key to the Illuminated Heretic,” ALTERNATE GENERALS III, edited by Harry Turtledove (April, 2005) Nebula Award preliminary ballot / Nominated for the Sidewise Award
“The Spear Carrier,” www.scifi.com, NY, U.S.A., March 2005, 42 pages.
“Ruby, in the Storm,” www.scifi.com, NY, U.S.A., October 2004, 47 pages.
“The Dream Eaters,” THE FAERY REEL, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling, Viking Books, NY, U.S.A., August 2004, 30 pages.
“Origin of Species,” THE MANY FACES OF VAN HELSING, edited by Jeanne Cavelos, Ace Books, NY, U.S.A., May 2004, 17 pages.
“Faces of Gemini,” GIRLS WHO BITE BACK: MUTANTS, SLAYERS, WITCHES AND FREAKS, edited by Emily Pohl-Weary, Sumach Press, Toronto, ON, May 2004, 20 pages.
“The Children of Port Allain,” On Spec Magazine, Edmonton, AB, Summer 2003, 23 pages.
“Cooking Creole,” MOJO: CONJURE STORIES, edited by Nalo Hopkinson, Warner Aspect, NY, U.S.A., April 2003, 12 pages.
“The Riverboy,” LAND/SPACE, edited by Candas Jane Dorsey, Tesseract Books, Edmonton, AB, Spring 2003, Gaylactic Spectrum Award Short List, 2004, 10 pages.
“Living the Quiet Life,” Oceans of the Mind Magazine, Delray Beach, FL, U.S.A., January, 2001, 44 pages.
“A Slow Day at the Gallery,” Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Dell Magazines, NY, U.S.A., September, 2002, 11 pages.
“Three Times over the Falls,” www.scifi.com, NY, U.S.A., February, 2002, 59 pages.
“The Girl Who Ate Garbage” (with Jessica Reisman) www.scifi.com, NY, U.S.A., October, 2001, 37 pages.
“Nevada,” www.scifi.com, NY, U.S.A., October, 2000, 28 pages.
“The Dark Hour,” Tesseracts 8, edited by Candas Jane Dorsey and John Clute, Tesseract Books, Edmonton Alberta, 1999, 21 pages.
“Novice,” 365 SCARY STORIES, Barnes and Noble Books, NY, U.S.A., September, 1998, 3 pages.
“The One Act,” Realms of Fantasy Magazine, Rumson, NJ, U.S.A., December, 1997, 8 pages.
“The Man with No Motive,” Writer’s Block Magazine, Edmonton, AB, August 1997, 5 pages.
“Prodigal,” Audio Versions, Hawthorne, NJ, U.S.A. March, 1997, 15 pages.
“Furlough,” Pirate Writings Magazine, Brightwaters, NY, U.S.A. November, 1996, 1 page.
“Love Equals Four, Plus Six,” Realms of Fantasy Magazine, Rumson, NJ, U.S.A., October, 1996, 6 pages.
“Crusader,” Tomorrow Speculative Fiction, Evanston, IL, October, 1996, 7 pages.
“Homage,” Crank! Magazine, Cambridge, MA, U.S.A., August, 1996, 21 pages.
“Jailbreak,” Terminal Fright Magazine, Black River, NY, U.S.A., February, 1996, 3 pages.
“Lucre’s Egg,” Crank! Magazine, Cambridge, MA, U.S.A., December, 1994, 9 pages.
“Balm in Gilead,” Other Voices Magazine, Edmonton, AB, January, 1991, 10 pages.