Gool (7 page)

What? Duro said.

They’re attacking him. They’re killing him.

The screaming stopped but the hungry snarling and yelping went on.

You touched him, Duro said. He had your smell on him.

No, she wailed.

Let’s get out of here. They’ll follow his trail back.

I didn’t mean him to be killed.

Come on, run.

They were too late. Dogs boiled out of the opening in the rocks, sighted them, poured at them, some silent, racing, others barking wildly.

Tree. Into a tree, Duro yelled.

They had time only to reach the nearest, a scaly trunked silver tree leaning at an angle. Xantee shinned up, with Duro half-running like a monkey behind. The leading dog, a giant hound, jumped at him and ran two steps on the trunk before sliding to the ground. Xantee climbed until she was in the branches. Duro found a place on the other side. They sat and panted.

The dogs were frenzied at the base of the tree, shrieking, running in circles. They were every size and colour, all filthy, with matted hair, all scabbed and scarred from fighting and hunting.

If they had any brains they’d bite the tree and bring it down, Duro said.

What will they do?

Wait until we starve and fall out.

Duro, we’ve got to call Tarl.

There is no Tarl.

One of them’s in charge though. It’s that big black one.

The dog was huge, the size of a tree tiger. It was smooth-haired, square-jawed, wide in its chest. Half its tail had been bitten off in a fight. Yet it had the best food and as much as it wanted, that was plain from the muscles that shifted under its skin. It looked up at Xantee and Duro with yellow eyes, seeing them as food and knowing it only had to wait.

It gave a short bark and the dog-clamour stopped. It barked again and most of the pack trotted off towards the rocks, leaving only a dozen at the tree. The pack leader circled, watching them. Then it gave a growl and turned away.

Talk to it, Xantee, Duro said.

She was still sickened by the death of the dog that had found them, but she cleared her mind, examined the leader until she was sure, then said, Dog.

It stopped in its tracks, turned slowly, looked at her, with hackles bristling on its spine.

Dog, she said, I’m Xantee. I want Tarl. I want the Dog King. Bring him to me.

It came back a few steps, as if to see her better. She got no picture from its mind. There seemed to be no image, even of herself. Yet there was a disturbance, like something stirring underwater. The dog was confused.

Dog, she whispered, go for him. Go for Tarl.

It’s the name, she thought. It knows ‘Tarl’.

The dog growled deep in its chest. Its skin shivered, like a horse getting rid of flies.

Tarl, she repeated. Bring Tarl.

It remained staring at her – hot yellow eyes with nothing in them but hunger for prey. But still, in its mind, a disturbance. Xantee felt she was in a contest of wills, and the dog, simpler than her, would win – except that she had Tarl. She pronounced his name, sent it into the animal, heavy and hard.

The dog shivered again. Then it gave a whimper, almost puppyish, and hung its head.

Tarl, Xantee said.

The dog met her eyes. An image came fleetingly – she had the impression of something human, man-shaped at least.

Bring him, she said. Bring Tarl.

The dog turned, walked to the rocks and vanished through the opening.

Now what? Duro said.

It knows him. So we wait.

There’s only nine down there. We could put them to sleep one by one.

No.

We can’t stay here all night. I’m getting a sore bum.

Eat something. Drink something.

They shared berries and water, and had barely finished when another dog walked from the rocks. It was smaller than the leader, as thick in its chest but shorter in its legs. It was yellow and black. After a moment it gave a woof.

A second dog, almost identical, joined it in the open, and with it came something that might be a man. He walked half bent, as though to be level with the dogs, but rose to his full height as he approached the tree.

He’s not human, is he? Duro said.

Quiet, Xantee said.

Years of stooping had bent his back and lowered his head. Years of running with dogs had pulled his muscles askew and lengthened them so that they twisted like ropes across his limbs. His hair hung over his shoulders and down to his waist; grey hair, matted like a ram’s fleece. He wore nothing: hairy shoulders, hairy loins. Nothing except a knife in a belt at his waist. It saved him from being a dog – and his eyes saved him. Xantee had half-expected hungry eyes, yellow eyes, but these, watching from beneath a fringe of knife-hacked hair, were the eyes of a man.

The dogs at the foot of the tree moved out of his way. The pair with him, yellow and black, stood at his sides. Like the pack leader they were well fed; but greedy, always hungry, Xantee saw, in the way of dogs.

The man said nothing, simply looked at Xantee and Duro. He touched his hands on his dogs and one of them yawned. The other seemed to grin. Tarl – he had to be Tarl – had said something to them. Fat ones, was that it? Or had Xantee misunderstood? He could speak with dogs, Hari and Pearl had said, but not with humans, unless with his tongue. Hari had told Xantee, though, that several times he had caught an unspoken whisper from Tarl.

She had to be quick. But before she could speak, Duro burst out: ‘Say something, you. You’re a man, not a dog.’

Tarl rolled his head as though avoiding a punch. His eyes opened wide. ‘Ha!’ he said.

Xantee knew she could go into his mind and control him, and that it was the safest way, but Pearl’s and Hari’s lesson was too strong: never invade someone’s mind unless you do it to save your life. It hadn’t come to that, not yet. Instead she said, ‘How long since you’ve heard a human voice?’

‘Ha!’ Tarl said. He croaked and spat, then said, in a voice creaking with disuse, ‘Words. Man words. All poison. All shit.’ He loosened his knife.

‘Try it,’ Duro said. His own knife jumped into his hand.

‘Boy,’ Tarl said, his voice still creaking, ‘my name is Knife. You think you can beat me. Climb down.’

‘Stop,’ Xantee cried. ‘They’re Dweller knives, not made for killing.’

‘Dweller?’ Tarl said, making the name as though his tongue was hinged.

‘And your name isn’t Knife or the Dog King, it’s Tarl.’

‘Tarl.’ He closed his eyes, opened them, then dog-snarled with his lips, showing brown teeth, gapped and broken. ‘Only dogs know that name. How do you know?’

Now, Xantee thought. She wet her lips. ‘Hari told me. Your son.’

Tarl stepped back. The yellow dogs flanking him gave a yelp of dismay. Tarl shook his head, shaking something out – anger? pain? – and his knife, quicker than Duro’s, jumped into his hand. Xantee’s mind was faster. Now was a time to save her life.

Stop, she said. And said to Duro, who had raised his arm to throw: Stop, Duro. I’ve got him. Put your knife away.

Tarl’s eyes were burning. She was holding him only lightly – enough to stay his knife-hand.

Tarl, listen to me. I don’t want to be in your mind. I’ll speak to you in a voice you can hear when you put your knife away. But I’m going to tell you about Hari.

He shook himself, bent and groaned, trying to break free. The nine dogs about the tree slunk away to the rocks, and the yellow pair whimpered.

Tarl, put it away, she said. Then we’ll talk.

He was strong. His will seemed as strong as the gool’s, but she held him, and at last he slid the knife into its sheath.

Now, Tarl, I’m going to let you go. Then we can talk.

She released him, and he staggered and put his hands on the dog’s backs to feel their warmth. Then he looked at Xantee.

‘That’s a Dweller trick, getting in my head.’

‘I’m sorry. Can we come down?’

‘Tell the boy to keep his knife in his belt.’

‘Yes.’

‘Or I’ll kill him.’

‘He won’t touch it.’

Unless I have to, Duro told her.

I’ll do the talking, Duro. You keep quiet and keep still.

They climbed out of the tree. Tarl could have killed her then with no trouble, but he stood and watched with, Xantee thought, his hackles raised, like his yellow dogs. He worked his lips and seemed to sniff her odour.

‘Talking hurts my mouth.’ He studied her, narrow-eyed. ‘You’re Company.’

‘No. Company’s gone. Company’s dead.’

‘Not white, not black. Half Company. Blue eyes.’

‘I get them from my mother.’

‘And the boy,’ Tarl said. ‘He’s Company. Soon I’ll kill him for that.’

‘My father died fighting Company and the clerks,’ Duro said.

‘No matter, boy. White skin dies.’

‘No one dies,’ Xantee said. ‘And some are alive you think are dead. My mother, Pearl.’

‘Pearl?’ Tarl said, stepping back from her.

‘She gave me my blue eyes. And my father gave me my skin. Not black, I’m sorry. Brown. His name is Hari.’

‘No,’ Tarl said. ‘Hari’s dead.’

‘He’s alive. And Pearl is alive.’

‘He jumped from the cliff. He chose her.’

‘He chose her because they were going to kill her.’

‘She was Company.’

‘No, she was Pearl.’

‘And he died. I saw.’

‘You saw what Hari wanted you to see. And wanted Keech to see, and all the burrows men. And the women too, from Bawdhouse.’

‘No.’

‘Yes, Tarl. Listen. Hari’s your son. You taught him. His mother died in the sickness and he rode on your back in Blood Burrow until he could run by himself. You taught him how to use a knife and how to kill king rats. You showed him where to hide when the Whips came hunting. But the Whips caught you and took you to People’s Square. Hari told me and my brother, Lo.’

‘Lo?’

‘Yes, named after the Survivor, Lo, who taught Hari to speak with dogs and rats, and with him too, without using his tongue.’

‘No.’

‘Listen, Tarl. In People’s Square you tried to kill the clerk –’

‘My knife was slippery with blood. It slipped in my hand.’

‘Then Hari cut you free, but the Whips caught you again. Hari escaped. He swam in the swamp and climbed through a hole in the wall, and he promised to save you from the place they were taking you to. Shall I name it, Tarl?’

‘No. No,’ Tarl whispered, sinking to the level of his dogs as though strength had drained from his legs.

Xantee whispered it. ‘They took you to Deep Salt.’

A wailing sound came from Tarl’s mouth – grief, terror, agony of mind. He fell to his knees and put an arm round each of his dogs. They licked him, trying to comfort him.

‘And there, Tarl, you saw the grey ghosts –’

‘No. No more.’

It’s enough, Xantee. Don’t hurt him, Duro said.

But Xantee had one more thing to say: ‘Hari saved you. Hari kept his promise. He came and saved you.’

Tarl stayed kneeling. Tears ran from his eyes on to the dogs’ snouts. Xantee waited. She kept herself from looking in his mind. At last he stood up and wiped his face.

‘Girl,’ he said, ‘others were there. Anyone could have told you. Not Hari. Hari died.’

‘No, he lived.’

‘He chose the white bitch and jumped off the cliff with her. They smashed to pieces on the rocks.’

‘Tarl, listen again. Hari was your son. You taught him to think; you taught him how to save himself. Do you think when he explored the Company mansions, watching through the windows as servants carried food to the tables and the fat Company bosses ate with grease on their chins, and their pretty women put it in their mouths with silver forks – did he tell you all that, Tarl? Yes, he told you. But do you think as he watched he had no way of escape if the guards saw him? He knew the cliffs. He knew the one place he could jump, if the tide was high and the wind was blowing big waves in. The wind was blowing that night, Tarl, the tide was high, when Burrows signed a treaty with the Clerks, and you threw the Company princeling off the cliff and your dogs killed Ottmar. Keech found Pearl. He showed his followers her hair, he showed her eyes. And Hari saved her –’

‘Others could have told you this,’ Tarl cried.

‘Look at me, Tarl. Do you remember Pearl? Am I like Pearl?’

‘No.’

‘Am I like Hari?’

‘No.’

He would not look at her.

He’s not going to believe you, Xantee, Duro said.

She had one more thing to try.

‘Tarl,’ she said. He looked at her. ‘Your name is Tarl. And Tarl the Hunter. And Knife. And the Dog King. Many names. But you have one more. The clerk burned it with acid on your forehead in People’s Square. No one sees it. You hide it with your hair. No one knows that name any more. But Hari knew it and Hari told me. Shall I tell you your other name, Tarl?’

His hand had risen – he could not stop it – and clamped on his forehead. Under his black weather-beaten skin he was sickly white.

‘You can’t hide it from me, Tarl,’ Xantee said. ‘Your other name is DS936A.’

His mouth widened in agony. His voice was like a frog’s croak. ‘No one . . .’

‘Except me and my brother Lo and Hari and Pearl.’

‘DS,’ Tarl said, ‘is . . .’

‘Yes, I know,’ Xantee said gently. ‘DS is Deep Salt. The number is your number. And A is your grading. The clerk had never given an A before.’

Tarl rose to his feet, a movement so quick Xantee had no time for thought. He ripped his knife from his belt and threw. She thought it was meant for her, but it split the gap between her and Duro and thudded into the tree ten metres away. And as quickly as Tarl had moved Duro moved: changed his lunge at Tarl, turned and made an underhand throw, and his knife whacked into the tree a finger’s width from Tarl’s.

Xantee held the dogs still.

Tarl panted. Then he changed to deep breaths, calming down. At last he said, ‘Yes, that’s my other name.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Xantee said. ‘Can I let the dogs go?’

She heard him say something to them – a tongue she did not know – and she released them. They sank at Tarl’s feet and watched him, waiting to be told what to do.

He turned to Xantee. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you look like him. My son, Hari. And the Company whore he chose ahead of me. And you, boy –’ he looked at Duro – ‘you learned that throw from Hari.’