Ravenheart (35 page)

“You will be most welcome, Captain.”

Ranaud returned to the keep, and Kaelin stood for a moment, eyes locked to the Varlish trader. “See you in a month,” he said, then strolled back to the wagon.

Captain Ranaud ascended the stairs and entered the office of the colonel. The older man had been imbibing the narcotic mixture again, and his lips had a blue tinge. Why don’t you just die? wondered Ranaud. Your body is wracked with disease, your lungs like wet paper. Why do you hang on? Masking his contempt for the dying man, he fetched him a goblet of water.

“Do you think he will prove helpful?” asked Colonel Linax.

“One way or the other, sir.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“He will either give us valuable information or I shall arrest him for discharging a pistol. It is a long time since we hanged a highlander publicly. It will send a message to Jace and his cutthroats.”

“Jace is not to be underestimated, Ranaud. You are new here. His power is formidable.”

It has been allowed to become formidable by weaklings
like you, thought Ranaud. “I bow to your superior understanding, sir. However, we did have troublesome clansmen in the isles, and we dealt with them.”

“I know, I know,” said Linax. “Two hundred hanged, villages burned. The fishing fleet was sunk, I understand, and there is now widespread starvation. There are those who think that a small price to pay for stability. I am not one of them. The isles now produce no tax revenue whatever.”

“The isles themselves were never important, but the message of the isles and the two hundred and twelve hanged has reached the mainland. It will keep the clans in their place. We should have wiped them out a century ago and peopled the highlands with Varlish.”

“We must agree to differ, Captain. Has your prisoner offered any useful information?”

“Call Jace has two cannon and around five hundred muskets.”

“I am surprised you got him to talk. These Black Rigante are hardy fellows.”

“He resisted all pressure until we sawed off his foot. I swear these clansmen have little feeling. They do not experience pain as we do.”

“How will you use this information? With two hundred men we cannot storm Call Jace’s stronghold.”

“No, not yet. But I think the Moidart will begin to make plans when he learns of the cannon. Then we can burn out these rebels once and for all.”

Linax began coughing again, but the spasm passed swiftly. “I knew a man once,” he said, “whose house was infested with cockroaches. They drove him crazy. In the end he torched his home. It burned very brightly. And he was highly successful. As he stood among the blackened timbers the following day, he did not see a single cockroach.”

“The meaning is lost on me, sir, I am afraid.”

“It is one thing to light a fire, Captain, quite another to control it. And I think you may be wrong about the Moidart. Have you heard from the capital lately?”

“Not in the last month, sir.”

“There is more talk of unrest. The king’s popularity is not what it was, and he is still at loggerheads with the Tribune Chamber. Civil war is coming, Ranaud. Not this year, perhaps, or maybe next. But it is coming. The Moidart will have to choose sides. He will not want to commit troops so far north when he has enemies of his own far closer.”

“A campaign here would be over in days,” said Ranaud. “We’d hang Jace and fifty or so of his senior men, indenture half the clan to work in the mines, and build a garrison at the center of Rigante territory.”

“Do not let your success on the isles go to your head, Captain. Yes, they were troublesome, but they were badly led and badly provisioned and carried no real weaponry. Call Jace has probably two thousand fighting men, and he is a real leader. He is smart—cunning, if you like—and unafraid. I do not think it would be over in days.”

That’s because you are old and dying, Ranaud thought savagely. You have invested these qualities in Jace so that your own failures become more understandable. There was little point in telling this weak and indecisive man that he had already set in motion a plan to eliminate Call Jace. The Rigante leader had built his tiny empire on bands of murderous raiders operating to the east of Black Mountain. Well, two could play that game. Ranaud had gathered intelligence about Jace for the last few months. The Rigante was known to frequent the house of a young widow woman half a day’s walk from the sanctuary of his own lands. Ranaud had sent eight men into the mountains, hard, ruthless men. They would wait until Jace showed himself, then kill him. Without their leader the Black Rigante would be infinitely easier to handle.

Tense now and angry, he bowed to the colonel.

I will spend the afternoon with the prisoner, he decided. It will be pleasant to listen to his screams as we cut away his other foot.

*  *  *

The visit to the barracks had disturbed Kaelin Ring. There was something chilling about Captain Ranaud that left an edge of fear in the young Rigante. The man had known about his fight with Bael and the fact that he had used a pistol. There was no doubt about that in Kaelin’s mind. So why had Kaelin not been arrested? The answer was obvious and was contained in the old proverb: The enemy of my enemy must therefore be my friend. Ranaud believed Kaelin Ring had cause to hate Call Jace and his family. As long as he continued to believe that, Kaelin would be safe. The moment the Beetleback realized his mistake, Kaelin would be arrested and hanged.

Jaim’s advice had been sound. But all that had been gained was a reprieve. Kaelin Ring would never supply Ranaud with information to be used against Call Jace and the Rigante. In fact, the reverse was true. Kaelin was anxious to pass on to Jace the fact that Ranaud was gathering information about his stronghold.

He was tempted to wait until the next tribute was due and then explain what had happened to whichever of the Rigante came for the cattle. Then he thought again of Ranaud and his knowledge of the trouble with Bael. Someone had described the scene. Now, it could have been that word of it had just spread, a casual word here and there, the information pieced together by Ranaud. But even back in Old Hills there were known to be informers who would sell information to the Beetlebacks for coin. Here it would be no different. What if Senlic Carpenter or Finbarr Ustal was in the pay of Ranaud? What if some of Jace’s own men were informers? If Kaelin told the wrong person, his own life would be forfeit.

No, he decided on the third day after the meeting with Ranaud, I will confide only in Jace.

Chara’s face appeared in his mind, and he acknowledged that this would be a fine way to settle the impasse that kept them both from seeing each other.

The following day he spent in the company of Senlic Carpenter and Finbarr Ustal. Five hundred sixty steers had been
grouped in the south pastures, ready for the drive to southern markets. Finbarr had hired twenty drovers for the trip.

Kaelin listened as Senlic offered advice to the younger man about routes, watering places, and areas to avoid. He was also given a list of the names of prominent farmers along the route who would need to be paid for grazing rights. Finbarr was obviously looking forward to the trip and pleased that this new responsibility had been offered to him.

Later that evening Kaelin confided to Senlic that he intended to travel to the lands of the Black Rigante the following morning.

“Not wise to go uninvited, lad,” said Senlic. “What do you want there?”

“I want to see Chara,” Kaelin told him.

“Aye, she’s a fine-looking lass. I heard you asked for her hand. But if she’s turned you down once, she’s likely to do so again.”

“She didn’t turn me down. She said she needed time to think on it. A month is enough.”

“You can’t rush women into that kind of decision,” the old man said with a smile. “Took three years before my woman agreed to walk the tree with me.”

“I didn’t know you were wed.”

“Twenty-six years, Kaelin. Fine years, mostly. One morning I woke up and she was lying quietly beside me. I leaned in to kiss her cheek, and I realized she’d gone. Just like that. Slipped away in the night. Twenty-six years and no chance to say good-bye. Ah, but that was hard. Mighty hard.”

Kaelin felt suddenly awkward. In that moment Senlic seemed old and fragile, his eyes sorrowful. The silence was uncomfortable. Kaelin broke it. “You have children?” he asked, anxious to steer the conversation away from death and regret.

“Seven. Six boys and a girl. Actually, there were ten, but three did not survive past infancy. But let’s not talk about it, Kaelin. It makes me maudlin.”

“I am sorry, Senlic. I did not wish to pry.”

Senlic sighed, then forced a smile. “My father always told me that life was nothing but memories. He was right. As each moment passes, it becomes history. He thought it was important to hold to the moment, savoring it. He often talked of good times past and hoped that the future would supply more golden moments. The truth is, though, that memories are only golden when shared—when you can say to a loved one, ‘Do you remember that walk by the orchard grove when first we held hands?’ She will smile and say, ‘Of course I do, you old fool.’ That is the joy of memories. When Katra died, she took half my life with her, and now the memory of the orchard is at best bittersweet. Ah, I am getting old and I talk too much.”

Senlic heaved himself from the chair and stretched his back. “I’ll have a pack ready for you tomorrow when you leave. Try to keep it safe from bears this time.” Then he patted Kaelin’s shoulder and left the house.

Holding his broken left arm to his chest, Call Jace slid down the gully on his back. His leg hit a tree root, which twisted him, and he began to roll. The fractured forearm struck a rock. Jace cried out. At the bottom of the gully he lay still, gritting his teeth against the agony. Then he sat up. Blood had soaked his black shirtsleeve. Carefully he undid the button of his cuff and folded back the sleeve. The ball had hit his forearm, shattering the bone. There was no exit wound. He tried to flex his fingers, but they were stiff and swollen.

In the distance he heard the dogs barking. Jace swore and struggled to his feet. His pistol was gone, discharged into the face of one of his attackers, then knocked from his hand in the short fight that had followed. His sword, too, was lost, trapped between the ribs of another man. He hoped the bastard would die hard.

Jace moved along the gully and into the stream, splashing through the clear water and emerging on the other side. He took five steps and then stopped. With great care he extended his right foot backward, placing it into the last footprint he
had made, then did the same with the left. He did that until he was standing once more in the stream. Then, with water swirling around his ankles, he pushed on, following the line of the stream as it angled northwest.

Without pursuers this route would have him back in Rigante country in around five hours. Trouble was, the hunters knew this also. If Jace headed for home, as they must be expecting, they would cut him off. With him having one useless arm and no sword, they would kill him without undue effort.

Jace kept to the stream for a quarter of a mile, then emerged on the same side he had entered, clambering up over a gently sloping rocky outcrop and then onto a deer trail that cut back toward the southeast. The fingers of his injured arm were throbbing now, the skin tight and stretched. He had been lucky.

He had seen the musketeer at the last moment and had instinctively thrown up his arm as the man fired. The shot would otherwise have struck him in the head. The musketeer had dropped his weapon and pulled a pistol from his belt. He had been marginally too slow. Jace had drawn his own flintlock and discharged it, the ball taking the assassin in the bridge of the nose, smashing his skull.

Other men had rushed from the trees. Jace had had time to draw his saber and plunge it into the body of the first. The man had screamed and, twisting as he fell, dragged the sword from Jace’s hand. As the others had closed in, the Rigante leader had spun on his heel and fled into the forest.

Call Jace glanced up at the sky. Close to two hours had passed since he had been shot. Twice musket balls had screamed by him, one ricocheting from a tree trunk and spattering his face with splinters. Now they had brought dogs into the hunt.

Jace scrambled up a steep bank and paused at the top, crouching low and listening. The dogs were not barking now.

Think, man! What to do, where to go?

No longer a young man, Jace was already tired from the
chase, though there was some strength left. How many were hunting him?

He thought back to the moment he had emerged from the trees at the back of Magra’s house. One man he had shot; another he had stabbed. Four had come running from the front of the house. Was it only four giving chase? If so, who was holding the dogs? Were there others in the house guarding Magra?

Only one musketeer had been at the rear of the building, the rest in hiding at the front. Had he emerged from the trail at any other point, it would have been more than his arm they would have hit.

Jace
had
approached the house from the front but had held back scanning the building. Magra had known he was coming, and they had worked out a simple code. If it was safe to come in, Magra would leave a water jug on the porch. There had been no jug.

He should have eased himself back into the trees then and returned home. But he had been concerned about Magra and so had worked his way around to the rear. It had been a mistake. Even so, you are alive, he told himself.

Once again he heard the dogs barking, this time from below and to the north. They were in the gully.

Keeping low, Jace began to climb, topping the rise and angling his route back toward the one place they would not think of searching.

It took almost an hour.

Now, once again, he was hidden in the trees by Magra’s small house. The two dead men lay where they had fallen. Jace scanned the area, circling it just in case anyone had been left behind. At last he left the sanctuary of the trees and ran to the man he had stabbed. His saber was still embedded in the corpse, and Jace dragged it clear. Then he recovered his fallen pistol, thrusting it into his belt.