Deep Water (12 page)

“My lord.”

“How many did you lose?”

“I think about half my squad,” Leof answered, sobered.

Thegan clicked his tongue and let go of his arms, moving back to the table and looking down at the map of the Lake that lay
there.

“That’s the worst we’ve heard so far,” he said quietly.

“The wind was at our back, my lord,” Leof explained. “The Lake needed to make sure we were knocked out.”

Thegan looked at the other men, as though Leof’s words were significant.

“You think it was the Lake, then?”

“Well, of course… what else could it be?”

“The town wasn’t touched.” Thegan’s tone was grim.

“But, my lord, isn’t it known that the Baluchston people have an agreement with the Lake? That it leaves them alone?”

“We know that they, unlike everyone else who settled this Lake, live in safety. The Lake is dangerous, I grant you that. So
is the sea, and the storm. But to plan and execute an attack like last night took intelligence, and I do not believe that
the Lake has that. Anymore than the storm does.”

“Perhaps that is so,” Leof said slowly, wondering for the first time why he had assumed that the Lake was acting on its own
behalf, without guidance. Was it just the voice he had heard, or was it all the stories that were told about the Lake, stretching
back centuries? Stories about attacking forces befuddled, turned around in the middle of battle so that they were fighting
their own side, or gone missing altogether only to turn up weeks later, swearing they had no memory of the time in between.
Those stories were part of every child’s upbringing in the Domains, and so were stories about the mysterious Lake People,
the only original inhabitants who had successfully resisted Acton’s forces. And still did.

“Why should it be the Baluchston people who planned it?” Leof said. “Why not the Lake People?”

“The Lake People are nothing but Travelers who do not travel,” Thegan said impatiently. “Do you think if they had power like
that they would skulk in the reeds like water rats? Do you think they would let Baluchston stand and the ferries run across
their precious Lake?” He shook his head. “No, if the Lake People controlled the Lake they would have taken it back from Baluchston
long since. As they haven’t, the control must reside in Baluchston.”

“But what would they gain from attacking us?” Leof asked. He wasn’t convinced, but he knew Thegan in this mood. No argument
would change his mind.

“They hope to maintain their freedom.”

“They have freedom. They’re a free town.”

Thegan looked at him, an amused twist at the end of his mouth. “They
had
freedom. They are clever enough to realize that if I hold both Central and Cliff Domains, and cleared the Lake, their freedom
would mean very little.”

Leof paused. The other men were carefully not reacting to that statement. Now was not the time to argue for the continued
liberty of the free towns. Towns outside the warlords’ control had always been a sore point with Thegan, despite the fact
that Acton had established them himself to encourage trade between the Domains. Better to cut to the core of the debate.

“My lord, what if no one controls the Lake? What if it
is
intelligent?”

There was silence in the tent for a long moment. Thegan seemed to think about it, but Leof realized with a shock that he was
only pretending.

“If it
is
intelligent,” he said eventually, “then it will be pleased that we are ridding it of Baluchston. If it is not, then we will
destroy those who control it. Each and every one of them.”

Leof felt forced to protest. “What if it was only a few, or just one enchanter working on his own?”

Thegan did pause at that, then shrugged. “We’ll give them a chance to surrender the enchanter and swear their loyalty. If
they don’t, we fire the town.”

But if there is no enchanter, if the Lake is intelligent, then you have just invented the perfect reason to destroy a free
town, Leof thought. He felt colder than he had when he woke that morning. Because he didn’t know if Thegan really believed
what he was saying, or if he had just seized the chance to take control of a free town without protest from the other warlords.

“Come, you look like you need some food and a sleep,” Thegan said to him, once again the commander concerned for his men.
“The men need a rest, too. Tomorrow will be soon enough to march on Baluchston.”

F
OR THE FIRST
few miles out of Carlion, Saker was surrounded by other carts, riders and people on foot. The roads, caught between dry-stone
walls, were so clogged that the walkers were faster than the carts.

His disguise was perfect, except that he was traveling alone. So he stopped and offered a lift to an old couple carrying a
baby. They accepted with relief. The old man climbed into the back of the cart with some help from Saker; the woman clambered
up next to Saker with more agility. She carried the baby in a shawl tied around her chest. It was not a newborn. Its curly
yellow hair waved in the breeze as it popped its head up out of the shawl and looked around. Saker hated it. It was the inheritor
of Acton’s brutality. With hair like that, it would never be treated like an animal. Never be spat at, or cursed, or refused
service. He set his heart against it.

Then he wondered, why were they alive? Had they run away so fast that the ghosts hadn’t got to them? He asked his passengers.

“Ghosts? No bloody ghosts, sir, they were demons from the cold hells! Ghosts can’t do what they did!” the man shouted over
the noise of the wheels on the rough road.

“They killed our daughter’s husband, they did, right in front of us,” the woman confirmed.

“And your daughter?”

“Oh, she’s been dead these ten months, birthing this one,” she said, smoothing down the baby’s curls.

“They didn’t attack you?”

“It was strange, it was,” she said, thinking hard. “It was like we weren’t even there. Like they only saw him. As though Lady
Death had sent them specially to get him.”

She sounded as though she didn’t mind that idea. Saker gathered that the baby’s father had been disliked. It worried him,
though, that three blond people had been overlooked by the ghosts. Surely they couldn’t be Travelers in disguise, too? He
thought of the red-headed woman. He would have sworn she was one of Acton’s people, but Owl had thrust her aside; protected
her, until she threw her life away to protect the man. Useless sacrifice. But if she had old blood, if the blonds beside him
had old blood, if so many of the inhabitants had that blood running in their veins… where did that leave his crusade?

Perhaps he could refine the spell. Set the barrier higher, so that only those with
enough
old blood would be protected. But how much was enough?

All day, he pretended to be a kind young stonecaster who had been caught in Carlion unawares. He delivered the old couple
and the baby to the woman’s brother’s cottage in a village on the boundary of Three Rivers Domain, left amidst their effusive
thanks, and found a room for the night at the local inn.

He sat in a corner of the common room and listened to the talk around him. It ranged from disbelieving to hysterical, from
terrified to belligerent. No one spoke of anything but the stories from Carlion. They didn’t realize where he had come from
and he kept silent rather than be deluged with questions. Halfway through the evening the door opened to let in a family:
parents and two young girls, just out of childhood, both with light brown hair like their father. They were carrying bundles
of cloths, with oddments sticking out of them: a candlestick, a tinderbox, an empty waterskin. He knew instantly that they
were from Carlion, and as soon as the innkeeper realized it, too, she bustled them off into the corner next to him and interrogated
the parents.

“We don’t know what happened,” the man said. “We were sleeping, and then the door banged back and these… these
things
, like ghosts but real, burst in on us. They had swords, just like warlords’ men!”

“I screamed,” one girl said.

“It was like they didn’t see us,” the mother added. “They looked us over but they didn’t see us. Thank the gods!” She began
to cry, taking off her headscarf to mop up her tears and revealing, not the black hair Saker had expected, but pure gold.
“They killed our neighbors. Both sides. Just slaughtered them in their beds. Half the town’s dead!”

The older girl started to cry, too, but the younger set her mouth and sat closer to her father.

“We’re not going back there!” the mother said wildly, and the younger girl nodded decisive agreement.

“It’s shagging cursed,” the girl said. The mother immediately scolded her for swearing. Saker saw the satisfaction on the
girl’s face and realized she had planned it that way, to stop her mother crying. She was of Traveler blood through her father,
he was sure, even if her mother wasn’t. But then why did the ghosts ignore the mother? He would have to smooth out any inconsistencies
in the spell next time.

He wondered where to go next. He wasn’t ready for Turvite. He would be, soon, but not yet. For Turvite, his army needed better
weapons. Mostly they had scythes and sickles. They needed swords. He wouldn’t find those in a free town. Inevitably, he thought
about a warlord’s fort. Fighting a warlord’s force would garner many weapons. His army wasn’t big enough to do that yet. But
if he moved through Central Domain, gathering bones, he could take his force against Sendat, and get all the weapons he wanted.

Saker nodded, forgetting for the moment the red-headed woman who had betrayed her blood. Central Domain. He would stay here
and aim for Sendat before autumn.

Then Turvite. He would succeed where the old enchanter had failed. He laughed to himself in the inn chamber. No one had ever
been as powerful. His head swam. Loss of blood, he thought. Yes, a time quietly collecting bones would be good for him as
well as for his plan. When they attacked Sendat, he would need lots of blood to raise his army.

O
NCE THEY CROSSED
the stream, the horses splashing through the shallow water, the Forest changed to a mix of trees, elm and oak and beech.
Now, Bramble felt, she was moving in the Great Forest of her imaginings, the complex, vivid forest alive with bird calls and
insect humming and the rustle of small animals and lizards. The trees were giants, particularly the beeches, a kind she had
never seen before reaching huge arms to the sky. It could take minutes to move from one side of their canopy to the other.
Here, the leaf fall from last winter was soft under the horses’ hooves, and the heady, fragrant scent of damp spring earth
was enough to make her light-headed.

As they went further along the track, there were more oaks and fewer other trees. Eventually they were riding through a forest
entirely made up of oaks — vast, ancient trees that shaded the forest floor almost as thoroughly as the pine trees had. But
this part of the Forest wasn’t gloomy. The green of the oak leaves and the way they shifted in the breeze let little pockets
of light dance across the ground between the trees, which meant there was grass and small plants covering the ground. There
were snowdrops, primroses and daffodils.

Her surroundings should have filled Bramble with happiness. But underneath the surface, she could still sense — something.
The sense of being
listened
to was very strong. Not exactly watched, the Forest had no eyes. But it was paying attention to them, and the sensation was
not pleasant. Somewhat like the pressure of the gods in her mind, but far more alien. The sense of time — endless, unchanging
time — was very strong, and made her feel like a mayfly, so short-lived that her life was worth nothing. She and her companions
were there on sufferance, and only because she was the Kill Reborn.

The Forest respected killing and its aftermath. The flutter of birds above, the buzzing of insects, the rustle of animals
in the undergrowth, these were all sounds of death as well as life. Each of those animals was hunting and being hunted. Bramble
had always accepted that she was part of a great intricate web of life and death, of prey and predator, but she realized now
that she had accepted it so easily because she had always been the predator.

She would stay that way, she decided. The prey fears, and she had learnt already from the hunter that, in the Forest, fear
was dangerous.

Before them the track ended, in a wide circle obviously cleared so wagons could turn, although shrubs and saplings were springing
up across the clearing. Beyond, there was only forest.

“Why would anyone bring a wagon all the way out here and then just turn around and go back?” Zel wondered.

“Not a wagon,” Cael answered. “A sleigh. In winter, the trappers organize for supplies to be brought out. They meet the sleigh,
and then it goes back.” He spoke with a little effort, his chest wound still paining him. Safred looked concerned, but said
nothing.

“So,” Bramble said. “Where to now?”

“The lake is east of north from Oakmere,” Safred said uncertainly, her eyes unfocusing as they did when she listened to the
gods. Then she shook her head in disappointment. “That’s all I know.”

Bramble pointed ahead and to their right. “That’s that way.”

“That’s not east of north,” Cael objected.

“No. We’ve swung around a bit, following the trail. But it’s east of north from Oakmere.”

“How do you know?” Zel asked. The question surprised Bramble. She had thought that a good sense of direction was a gift all
Travelers had. She had certainly inherited hers from her Traveler grandfather. It had only ever let her down once, in the
pine forest near the Lake, and even there she had been mostly on the right heading. Explaining her certainty was curiously
hard.

“I just know,” she said.

Cael shrugged. “All right, then,” he said. “Let’s go that way.”

Threading through the forest was much slower than riding on the track. There was more time to imagine eyes watching them.
Ears listening. Noses smelling. The sense of being listened to, being observed, was getting stronger.