Dies the Fire (68 page)

“Your hair is full of the stuff . . .
hey, kid! The message!
”

She was running a comb through the dense yellow mane when the adolescent returned.

“Mr. Hutton says to tell you there's a bad discipline problem with Waters, and you're needed pronto,” the boy said, still facing away.

“Tell him I'll be right there,” Havel said.

 

 

 

The crowd parted at the sound of hooves; Havel reined in, hearing murmurs of “the bossman” and “Lord Bear.” He slid from the saddle and someone took the reins; possibly Signe, but he wasn't looking around right now.

Several of the lanterns that hung before the family tents were lit; that and the fires gave plenty of light, but the people crowding around were flickers at the edge of sight, their faces uneasy.

Billy Waters stood, looking sullen and flushed, two men holding him by the arms—both his neighbors. Jane Waters sat by the front flap of their tent in a boneless slump, her face covered with the red flush of incipient bruises, tears leaking down her face; her two younger children huddled near her, torn between fear and need for their mother's closeness.

Reuben Waters was not far away, lying on his back while Pamela Arnstein worked on him. Her hawk-featured face was incandescent with fury; Havel felt it through his own anger as he knelt beside Waters's twelve-year-old son.

“He was just woozy,” she said. “I gave him something to make him sleep.”

She touched the boy's face gently, turning it towards the brightest firelight. Relaxation made the narrow foxy hillbilly-Scots-Irish face look younger than its twelve years.

“See here? He's going to have a shiner, and this tooth is loose. Punched twice, I'd say. Those are a grown man's knuckle marks. All he needs now is cold compresses and rest. And a different father!”

Havel nodded, walked over to Jane Waters, and crouched on his heels so that their eyes were level. He touched her chin with a finger, turning her left cheek to the light and studied the swelling marks of a man's hand.

“Jane,” he said. “Why don't you help Pam get your son to the infirmary tent?” She looked at him with dumb fear. “Jane, whatever happens, you've still got a place here—and your kids. Understand?”

He helped her rise, and composed his face when he realized it was frightening some of the onlookers. The stretcher-bearers took Reuben off, with his mother walking beside him.

“Angelica,” he went on. “You've got some of those cookies left, don't you?” At her nod, he went on: “I think it would be a good idea if you and Anne took the kids—everyone younger than Astrid—and fed them some cookies over by the chuck wagon, and tell 'em stories. Tell 'em about Larsdalen.”

Their destination was assuming mythic proportions; he hoped the reality didn't disappoint too much.

She nodded: “I'll get Sam to check Rueben over just in case and help with the kids.”

Rounding up the children wasn't hard; they all thought cookies and a tale by the camp's best storytellers was far more interesting than a frightening confrontation among the grownups.

“Get all the adults here, except the sentries,” Havel went on.

That took a few minutes. He ducked into the Waterses' tent—normally something never done without invitation—and rummaged. The bottle he'd expected was still three-quarters full. It was Maker's Mark, first-class Kentucky bourbon, expensive as hell even before the Change. There was another just like it, empty.

“All right,” he went on, when he brought the bottles out and held them up for the company to see. “Everyone here? Good. Now you, Fred Naysmith, you give me the details.”

The man holding Waters's left arm gulped, and stuttered. The Bearkillers' judicial proceedings were refreshingly simple, so far; a trial by a quorum of the adults, presided over by Lord Bear. Punishments were simple too. With fines and imprisonment impractical, they went quickly from “extra duties” through a mass kicking around that Pam called “the gauntlet” to “expulsion,” which was equivalent to a death sentence.

Naysmith licked his lips and spoke out: “I heard the Waterses arguing—sounded like Billy was yelling at Nancy.” That was the bowyer's eight-year-old. “Then she started crying and screaming at him to stop, and . . . well, we hadn't been listening too hard before, you know, Boss?”

He nodded understanding. There wasn't much privacy in camp; the tents were set far enough apart that ordinary conversation didn't carry, but shouts certainly did. A convention had grown up of pretending you didn't hear family arguments—one of the little forbearances that made the tight-knit group's life tolerable.

“But it got sort of scary. And I could hear Jane screaming at him to stop, too. Then he started hitting her—hitting Jane, that is—and then Reuben tried to make him leave her alone, and he started hitting the kid, real hard, yelling bad stuff, really bad. So Jake and I went over and dragged him out. He tried to slug us too, and he smelled and acted drunk, and we sent someone for you, Lord Bear.”

Havel looked around the circle of firelit faces; most of the men had close-cropped beards like his, and most of the women braids. Underlit from the flames, they all had a hard feral look, new since the Change. He held up the whiskey bottles again. There were resentful murmurs; pre-Change liquor was already extremely valuable as trade goods, like tobacco.

“This isn't from our stores. I think we can all guess how Billy got it from the townies over there.”

He uncorked it and took a slug, baring his teeth and exhaling as the smooth fire burned its way down his gullet.

“That's the real goods, and no mistake. The man who took Bearkiller equipment for this didn't cheat Billy the way Billy did the rest of us.”

More formally: “Anyone want to speak for this man? Anyone have a different version of what came down here tonight? Anyone know another way he could have gotten this liquor?”

There was an echoing silence; Waters didn't have many friends, and since he was obviously guilty as sin the few he did have weren't going to court unpopularity by swimming upstream. Being severely unpopular in a small community like this was unpleasant to the point of being dangerous, when you had to rely on your fellows for your life in a world turned hostile and strange.

Havel tossed the empty aside and handed the full bottle to someone, and it passed from hand to hand, with a little pawing and cursing and elbowing if anyone kept it tilted up too long—there was just enough for a sip for everyone who wanted one.

“One last time, does anyone want to speak for Billy Waters? It's any member's right to speak freely at a trial.”

More silence, and Havel nodded. “Hands up for not guilty. Hands up for guilty . . . anyone want to propose a punishment? Or shall I handle it?”

There was a rumble of
you're the boss
and
let Lord Bear decide.

He sighed. “Let him go,” he said. The two men stepped aside, and Havel moved forward.

“Waters, you sad and sorry sack of shit,” he said in a conversational tone, and then his open hand moved with blurring speed.

Waters went down as if he'd been hit across the face with the flat side of an oak board, but nothing was broken; Havel had calculated the blow with precision.

Waters cringed and tried to scramble back as the Bearkillers' leader stepped forward, moving with the delicate ease of a great cat.

“On your feet! Christ, you're getting the beating whatever you do. Take it like a man, Waters, not a yellow dog!”

Havel raised his voice a little after the older man crawled upright, holding a hand to the side of his face.

“Do you remember what I said to you when you joined the Bearkillers, Billy?”

The man nodded quickly. “Said I shouldn't go on no benders, Lord Bear. Look, Boss, I've been making the bows good, haven't I? I'm real sorry and it won't—”

“What I said was that if you went on a bender and slapped your wife and kids around, I would beat the living shit out of you the first time, and beat the living shit out of you and throw you out on your worthless ass the second time. Didn't I?”

Waters's mouth moved. The second time he got the
yes
out audibly. Then he licked his lips and spoke:

“I was just giving Nancy a spanking, Lord Bear—she back-talked me. A man's got a right to do that.”

Havel nodded. “Yeah, sometimes you have to give a kid a swat on the butt to get their attention, like using a rolled-up newspaper when you're house-breaking a puppy.”

He held up his right hand; his index finger rose to make a point. Billy Waters watched it with fascinated dread as it approached his face.

“Since you are such a
stupid
sack of shit, I will now demonstrate, using visual aids, that there is a big fat fucking difference in kind between a spanking and a punch in the face.”

Then he closed the hand into a fist and struck with a short chopping overarm blow. This time the sound was more like a maul striking wood.

Havel rubbed his right fist into the palm of his left as Waters rolled on the ground, moaning and clutching his face. Havel's knuckles hurt—the move wasn't one he'd have used in a fight, but the purpose here was punishment . . . and education, if possible.

Waters staggered up without an order this time, for example, which showed some capacity to learn.

“That's what it's like to be punched in the face by someone a lot stronger than you are, Billy. Did
you
like it?”

Waters swallowed and lowered a hand from his right eye; the flesh around it was already puffing up. He shook his head wordlessly.

“I'll bet punching Reuben out made you feel like a real man, didn't it, Billy?”

Havel struck again, with his left palm this time. The man spun to the ground and hugged it, rising only when Havel encouraged him with the toe of his boot.

“Now, where were we?” Havel said, when the bowmaker was back on his feet, swaying a little. He went on, his voice flatly cold: “Yeah, we were talking about how a real man acts. Reuben, now, he tried to defend his mother against long odds, which is a pretty good example. God knows where he learned it, since he didn't get the idea from
you
! I think we've established that a real man doesn't punch little kids in the face, though. Haven't we? I'm waiting for an answer, Billy.”

“Yes, Lord Bear.”

“Now let's move on to the subject of how a real man treats his wife. A real man doesn't slap even a ten-dollar hooker around, if he's got any self-respect, much less hurt his own woman. Much less ten times over the mother of his kids. A
real
man busts his ass to feed his family, fights for them if he has to, dies for them if he has to. And he treats his wife with
respect
every day of his life, treats her like a queen—the queen of the home she makes for their children.”

Havel struck again with both sides of his open hand, forehand and back. Waters slumped to his knees, blood pouring from his nose and the corners of his mouth where the lips had cut on his teeth.

“Chuck that bucket of water on him,” Havel said, without looking around.

Someone did, and awareness came into Waters's eyes once more. Havel bent, forearm on thigh, so that he could speak close to the man's face, more quietly this time.

“By now, you probably feel a bit hard-done-by, Billy. Just remember this: anytime you want, you can be treated with respect by me and everyone in the outfit. All you have to do is
earn
it! Now get out of my sight. Go puke out the booze and clean yourself up. I'm giving you this one last chance, for your kids' sake.”

Havel turned to the assembly as Waters scuttled away. His voice was hard and pitched to carry, but calm: “I cannot abide trash behavior. I will not tolerate it in the Bearkillers. Remember, we're supposed to look out for each other; so don't let this sort of thing get started. Lights-out in an hour, people. We'd all better get ready to turn in.”

The crowd dispersed, murmuring, as he walked back towards the command tent; most of the murmurs were approval. More than a few slapped him on the back; he answered with polite nods, but stayed wordless. Signe followed, leading their horses.

“Mike—” she said.

He turned with a wry smile. “Sorry,
askling,
but I'm not fit company for man or beast right now.”

The smile turned into a grimace. “I feel like I need a bath—and a strong drink, to get the taste of that out of my mouth.”

She smiled and leaned forward, kissing him with brief gentleness. “Well,” she said, “It's not as if either of us is going to fly off to the Côte d'Azur tomorrow, right? What say we make a date for the next nice sunset?”

He grinned suddenly. “I'll look forward to it.”

“And you'll treat me like a queen, hey?” she asked, smiling impishly.

He swept an elaborate courtly bow. “And so will everyone else,” he said. “If I have anything to say about it.”

When she'd left, he stood smiling his crooked smile for a moment.

“And maybe, just maybe, I will,” he murmured to himself.

For Ken Larsson was right; he had been very damned lucky indeed, so far. And . . .

“How did your dad put it, Signe? Yeah. People live by myths, but myths change . . . the Change threw 'em all up for grabs.
And the first king was a lucky soldier.”