The Tears of Sisme Read online

  Caldar wondered who 'they' might be, as he picked up his pack and skipped nimbly out of the door. He got his answer straight away, for standing with Hamdrim in the little circle of lamplight outside was Berin and behind them the dark bulk of a mule. Berin just had time to smile and say, “Yes, I’m coming”, when Hamdrim caught the mule by the lead-rope and strode off into the night at a good pace with a brusque, "Come on."

  The road showed up white and even in the dark. It was cold in these early hours with a chill little breeze that made them glad to keep moving. The boys didn't talk; they were in that strange state that comes with travelling before dawn, walking automatically while still fast asleep inside. They had covered several miles this way without noticing it, when Hamdrim suddenly said something. With a start they both came to and looked about, surprised to see that daylight had been creeping up on them while they walked and it would soon be dawn.

  Hamdrim looked over his shoulder at them and called back smiling, "What a pair! Walk right on into the lake if I wasn't here to wake you up. You didn't even hear me say we'd be calling at the Beltan’s farm, did you?"

  And he went striding on, whistling merrily.

  Fifteen minutes later they were sitting on a wooden bench set back against the massive stone wall of a farmhouse, where overhanging thickets of honeysuckle and climbing rose made a sheltered grotto lit by the rising sun. In front of them on a grey weatherbeaten table stood a large jug of steaming hot milk and four mugs. The mule stood quietly near the table, steaming gently also.

  The wooden bench groaned in protest as it took the weight of Gemma Beltan’s vast benign bulk. She had brushed aside Hamdrim’s protests that they were in a hurry, insisting that they sit themselves down in the garden and share a jug of hot milk and some gossip.

  Gemma was cousin to Pedran, Berin and Hamdrim’s father. So first came the questions about Pedran’s health and then all the titbits Gemma could extract from Hamdrim about the folk around Rimberford. In the end the conversation had turned inevitably to farming.

  “No cases of swine plague in the upper valley?”

  “It’s early yet.”

  “At least it’s put the prices up. Though that’s not all to the good, is it? You heard about Taccen?”

  Hamdrim nodded gloomily, knowing what was coming.

  “Going into pigs! Never misses a trick, that man. Gilliser’ll be next, you watch. Always stepping right on Taccen’s heels.”

  Gemma proceeded to say exactly what she thought of rich greedy men who made it hard for smaller farmers to make a living. Caldar was more interested than embarrassed: he had never viewed his home and his stepfather in quite these terms before and the criticisms were passionate, though with a strange undercurrent of admiration.

  When Gemma paused, Hamdrim cut in, “This is Caldar, Taccen’s youngest.”

  “Caldar, is it? Yes, I’ve heard of you, lad. Don’t take after your brothers, do you? Pair of thick-skulled prize bulls. Taccen’s a good man at heart, but he needs to curb those lads or he’ll lose all respect. You heard about Benorran’s lass?”

  This question was directed at Hamdrim, who nodded and then shook his head to indicate that it wasn’t for the boys to hear.

  “Ah well, mustn’t gossip all day.” Gemma heaved herself to her feet. “Fair journey, Ham, and you too, lads.” A meaty hand patted Caldar’s shoulder. “You go your own way, lad. Nothing worthwhile was ever inherited.”

  "Now, Caldar, we need to have a word about last night," Hamdrim began, as Gemma waddled away. He eyed Caldar seriously for a moment. "That new man with the mules, he turned up two days ago looking for a job. I'd just heard Jonan wasn't coming this trip and I needed another muleteer, so I took him on straight away. He did his share right enough yesterday 'till late on when you turned up. After that he started working very slowly and I caught him two or three times just standing staring at you, intent as a cat on a mouse. I’d no idea what was going on, but I was getting annoyed. So I sent you home and told him to get on with his work.“

  He paused and took a long pull at his mug, followed by a mouthful of the bread and cheese he had taken from his pack. Still eating he swivelled round and smiled briefly when he saw Caldar staring at him with a face full of questions.

  "Hold on, I haven't finished yet." He ate another mouthful and then went on.

  "After we’d weighed out all the loads, we were putting the mules in for the night, when Kulkin - that's his name, told us he was from South Lake, though he didn’t sound it to me - said he'd like to come round by Misaloren with us, 'cos he was right out of that terrible tobacco he smokes. I told him he was needed with the mules, I'd buy him anything he wanted in Misaloren myself. He didn't seem too pleased about that. But the odd thing was, after he'd gone, Faradan told me he knew for a fact the fellow had plenty of baccy, he'd been offering it round out of a full pouch that afternoon. Said he didn't like the feel of him, asking questions all the time - mostly about you and your family, Caldar - and what was he up to."

  Hamdrim stopped again and taking off his fleecy jerkin folded it into his sac. By now there was the first hint of warmth in the pale sunshine, though the sky was still the clear washed blue of early morning. Caldar's food was untouched. He wanted to tell the others about last night, but it sounded so feeble - had he imagined it? or even dreamed it?

  Before he could make up his mind, Hamdrim went on. "He’s a rum-looking beggar, but it’s more than that, something creepy, something you wouldn’t want behind you in the dark. Then last night really got me wondering. I went up to your place to talk to Taccen quite late; he’s releasing Sisstik to give Pedran a hand over the summer. That’s why Berin’s here.”

  Hamdrim did not say he had gone there to turn down Taccen’s offer of help during Pedran’s illness. His father Pedran had scant regard for his rich neighbour and being indebted to Taccen was not something he could accept. Yet as things turned out it had ended as a fair exchange. Taccen had even more cattle than usual up at the Rails this year, and when the herdsman Sisstik had refused to go up and leave his ailing wife alone for several months, it was clear the men at the high pastures were going to be short-handed. In the end sending Berin to help make up the numbers was a solution that suited them all.

  “I was going up the side path when I came on old Brack lying outside your window. He never stirred, like he was dead, but there wasn’t enough light to see properly, so I got a lantern from the kitchen. He was dead alright. Someone had cut his throat.”

  “What?” Caldar was stunned. “Lazalis never said. Why…?”

  “There’s only one reason to kill a dog that way. To make sure he couldn’t bark.”

  Caldar’s face betrayed his intense hurt. Brack had been given to him as a pup when Caldar was three and they had grown up together.

  Hamdrim went on. “Your window was open, so I went in and checked on your room: just you fast asleep in there, nothing else. I talked it over with Taccen and Lazalis, but we could make no sense of it. Then as I was leaving, I was passing your window again, when I caught a whiff of something, something half-way familiar. Took me a minute to place it - any guesses?"

  He looked at the boys, his eyebrows raised, but he wasn't smiling. Nor was Caldar. Still numb from the shock of Brack’s death, he'd been growing more and more uneasy, remembering the strange feeling of menace which had held him rigid in his bed. But he couldn't guess the answer, so he said nothing.

  "Kulkin's tobacco," Hamdrim answered himself. "He must have been out there some time last night and I reckon it was him killed Brack. I didn't know what to make of it, so I went back and told Taccen. He said he’d have Jaim sleep in the passage outside your door. He’s no more idea than I have what this is about, but he agreed you’d be well out of the way at the Rails. Meanwhile he’ll deal with Kulkin, rouse the whole valley to find him if need be." He looked directly at Caldar. "That's my story. Now let's hear yours."

  It did not take long, but coming after Hamdrim's tale it was enough to leave the
table in silence when he had finished.

  "What now?" Berin asked.

  "Now we go to town," his brother replied, standing up. Mysteries he couldn’t solve straight away were of limited interest to Hamdrim: time enough to act when they knew more. "Leave Kulkin to Taccen. We need to fill Randy’s panniers with apples,” he slapped the mule on the rump, “and the best stuff in the market’ll be gone if we sit around any longer. Then it’s the noon ferry to East End. Yes, Berin, you heard me right, a ferry ride. We’re calling on a friend of Taccen's tonight.”

  By mid morning they were coming to the first houses, new wooden chalets with shingle roofs, built in clearings along the river bottom. They were still a league from the lakeside, but already the road was wider and busier, white dust rising to hang against the blue sky as more and more carts and mules and horsemen began to share the highway.

  The hill scarps on either side had fallen back now. Instead there were broad slopes thick with trees and under and through and over them poked the colourful roofs and chimneys of Upper Misaloren. Abruptly the valley tipped forward in the last slope down to the lake and they came over the rim to see the Old Town crowded below them, a rippling angular carpet of red roofs, with an occasional splash of green or yellow where someone had copied the fashionable new slates from the upper town, the whole untidy patchwork bounded cleanly by the vast blue-green of the lake which stretched off to the horizon.

  Despite his brushes with the wardens, who occasionally found the time to chase light-fingered boys, Caldar loved the Old Town with its narrow streets sunk deep between overshadowing buildings. It rained nearly every day down here summer and winter, and the Lakesiders had a haphazard network of covered passageways, which one could follow from one side of the old town to the other. To those who lived and worked in it, it was an extraordinary jumble which they had inherited, a huge warren which, being mostly Espars, they ran with a typical efficiency the clans could never emulate. They complained continually about the frustrations of living in such a place and would never have considered for a moment living anywhere else.

  Misaloren was the largest town on the eastern arm of the Lake, the Easterleng. In fact in the whole country only Suntoren, the capital of Esparan nearly four hundred miles away at the end of the Lake's great southern reach, was bigger. That was said to be a huge city, many times the size of Misaloren; but to Caldar, as to most of the folk of the Easterleng, Suntoren was just an exciting name and Misaloren was their trading centre and effectively their capital also. The old castle at the lakeside was half a ruin now, but the blue and white flag of Esparan flew proudly above the battlements with the multicoloured old battle-standard of the clans ( battle was the only thing which had ever united them) just below it.

  The Rimber clans counted the Espars as ‘almost-kin’ and had reluctantly agreed to the Lake states being renamed Esparan after the Independence War. To the rest of the world they were all Espars now. But the clans had tenaciously retained their identity and looked down on the true Espars from a position of friendly superiority. The Espars might be richer and far more numerous than the clans, but these things had counted for little when the last Borogoi horde had come through the mountains. It was Harrikan and the clan swords that had turned them back.

  Today Hamdrim took the shortest route to the fruit market. Mules were not allowed in the walkways, and he led Randy into one of the Down streets with its little yellow flags strung across at intervals between the houses. The Old Town was so busy and the streets so narrow that the Lakesiders had long ago made all the routes leading to the Lake into either Up or Down streets for carts and animals. Down streets had yellow flags and Up streets blue ones. It still looked chaotic every day, but friendly and somehow manageable.

  The fruit market was only three hundred paces from the dock side, as much of the produce came across the Lake from the South Shore or down it from East End. Outside Hamdrim handed over Randy's lead rope to his companions and with a wave was gone into the raucous bustle of the market.

  The mule just looked down at the ground in indifference, completely motionless except for the occasional twitch of his ears, while the boys gazed around them, absorbed by the life of the town. Frayed streamers from the Ring Festival waved from every doorway and railing, while discarded wreaths littered the ground with bright splashes of colour. Several groups of porters squatted nearby, smoking, chattering and playing quick, complicated games of dice. A cart was being unloaded, the bulging sacks of purple shilleens making the men grunt as they swung them onto their backs. Sailors, traders, shopkeepers, housewives, all jostled good-naturedly for space as each went about their private business. Hamdrim emerged in due course, a porter behind him carrying the second of two big sacks of apples. The boys helped to load Randy's panniers, then they strolled to the quay-side for some leisurely bread and cheese before boarding.

  *

  "Damn! Lost again. Wi' me own dice an' all." The squat porter got to his feet, slipping the bones into his pocket. With a grunted "I'm out", he picked his way through the market litter towards a group who lounged on the quayside, passing round a bluesmoke pipe. Dermans like himself, they'd come to Misaloren market with the South Side boats before dawn. Now they had a few hours rest before the busy afternoon session loading for the return journey.

  Feckie waved away the proffered pipe. Twelve years he'd been on the market boats and never taken to the bluesmoke habit. With the bones you might come out poorer when your luck was out like today, but they didn't addle your brains.

  "Skinned them Misers again, did yer?"

  They all looked at him expectantly. Anything to liven a dull day. He shook his head, scowling, and spat to the left, so the bad luck wouldn't cling to him.

  "Ch. . .ch. . .cheat yer ef. . .every t. . .t. . .t. . .time ther c. . .c. . .can, them furriners."

  Feckie glanced pityingly at the young stammerer, an amiable dolt, too young for the pipe, but with little wit to lose.

  "Misers ain't furriners, Skirren. Not even Sunties is furriners. All us comes from round t'Lake, all us is Espars. Furriners is from outside, like Borogoi."

  "Never seen. . .a Borog. . .meself," announced the current grey-haired pipeholder between puffs. Then passing it on, he added, "Lot o' queer folk about though, Feckie. Remember that blue fella in Pinmir docks last week? An' them beggars with no ears in Shett?"

  The lack of reaction indicated that none of this was news to his companions. Undeterred the speaker warmed to his theme.

  “An’ what about ‘im?” The grey head nodded sideways along the quay. None of the porters was in any doubt who was meant. A magical space seemed to have been created as people veered wide around the tall figure in a red and black robe with a long sword belted at his waist.

  “Never seen a sword out in t’street before, leastways not in t’Easterleng.”

  “Yer ‘aven’t seen ‘em, but they’re ‘ere. Up in t’ills, t’clans ‘ave all got ‘em.”

  “Never polish ‘em neither. Keep blood on ‘em from t’last scrap.”

  “Why d’they do that then?”

  “Proud of ‘em, aren’t they? S’Borogoi blood.”

  “Borogoi? Nar, that’s …. I dunno, ages ago. An’ if they’re proud of ‘em, why d’they ‘ide ‘em?”

  “Cos they ‘ave to, don’ they? Only swords allowed now’s for competitions, blunt-like.”

  “That’s not a competition sword. That thing’s bin used.”

  “What’s ‘e doin’ ‘ere, wavin’ it about public like that?”

  “’E’s not wavin’ it, is ‘e, just standin’.”

  “Bodyguard I reckon. Summat valuable bein’ shipped.”

  “Get away, when you ever seen a bodyguard ‘ere? ‘E’s a bandit or somethin’.”

  Pleased at the flurry of talk he had touched off, the older porter resumed control of the conversation. "It’s not just ‘im. One or two strangers on every ferry now. Seen 'em yerselves." He looked challengingly round the circle. "'Eard tell there's a lot m
ore in Suntoren. 'Undreds. What they want then? S'nothing for 'em 'ere."

  "Sh. . .sh. . .should all g. . .go 'ome," Skirren put in nodding.

  "Mebbe they can't," Feckie said mildly, standing up.

  The comments were true enough, but apart from the swordsman there was nothing new here and he couldn't bear to hear it all dragged out for the hundredth time. He strolled idly back towards the market. With any luck he might pick up one or two more casual hires.

  "Feckie."

  The hoarse voice in his ear made him jump. He spun round to face a stranger, tall and bald with a dark bony face. Tesseri? No; no Tesserit he'd ever seen had light blue eyes. One of the outsiders then.

  "What d'yer want?" Not too truculent, he warned himself. There might be money in it.

  As if reading his mind, the stranger produced two coppers, then asked, "That ship loading there behind you. Where's it bound?"

  "That's t'ferry to 'Urigell. East End. Still time to catch it an' yer want ter."

  The man made no move. His whole attention seemed to be directed towards the ship. Feckie turned to follow his gaze. The mule he had helped load with apples an hour ago was being coaxed up the gangplank by his driver, with the two lads following slowly.

  "Is he the one?"

  "Eh? One o' what?" Feckie replied, caught by surprise. "Yer mean. . ." He shut his mouth in mid-sentence frozen by a chilling glance from those pale eyes. The stranger's gaze returned to the gangplank as if unable to let go.

  "Does the ferry call anywhere else?"

  "No." The porter was back on sure ground. "Just goes 'tween Misaloren an’ 'Urigell. Stops there an' comes back tomorrer mornin’. T'other one goes t'other way an' ends up in Misaloren. . ."

  The stranger cut him off by tossing him the coppers and disappearing abruptly into the jostling crowds.

  This hunt had not gone well. The boy had no birthmarks that anyone could remember, and the scout who followed him had failed to get close enough to see. But Kulkin was satisfied, for the moment. At least he’d located this particular quarry. Verification would have to wait. Time was getting short and he still had to check several other possibilities supplied to him by the Search team.