boots as he splashed and spattered down it – not to lose the hounds, not to lose the horsemen. It was only the easiest way to go.
He could hurry along, but only twisted slightly to the left, like a very old man with swollen joints. If he didn't turn that way, his side knifed him and took his breath.
He tripped, fell to his hands and knees in icy water, then heaved himself up again and stumbled on. A comic figure, no doubt… and a person who seemed to have fled out of himself and his life into a more restful valley, where Boston-made children with foxes' tails came yelping to pace him along. They were curious little things, and came so close he could see each one very clearly, leaping beside him. And there were gray-feathered birds calling his name. He would have answered, but couldn't spare the breath, since – in the other, previous place – running remained very important… though the reasons for it were unclear.
Though it was true he ran, now, at less than a trot. A shamble, really, and was making poor progress. The problem was breathing; there wasn't enough air. And also the ribs there on his left side. There were other things… complaints, though he couldn't remember them, and none bothered him as much as his legs' cramped agony. That was the most bothersome thing…
He fell again, and with icy water splashing, it came to him freshly that this was a question of being caught and killed.
He got his feet – oh, how difficult that was – knowing the Made-children, the discussing birds, had been imagination. And a trumpet call agreed; the trumpet sang out,
Feeling oddly better, Bajazet stood looking behind him, and saw streaming down the last of a gentler slope, and out into the valley, a troop of fine cavalry – pennants streaming, chain-mail sparkling in the last of mountain light, then shading to soft silver in mountain shadow. Foresters, clinging to stirrup leathers, ran bounding beside.
The hounds, weary, were barely leading the king's big gray. Bajazet could see the dulled gleam of the Helmet of Joy – and thought, even at such distance, he made out the king's white face under its nodding weight of gold and jewelry… the spinning confusion of its dangling dried hearts.
Bajazet turned away, and was astounded to find himself running again – hobbling, at least – along the frail creek's bed. Running, though so very poorly, and as clear in his mind as if he studied meter for a poem… though now, a poem never to be written. What would its subject have been? – Certainly only one, the subject all poems nested in their bowels.
He stopped and stood swaying, taking deep agonized breaths, the creek's small water stroking his boots. Then turning carefully, because of his ribs, he drew rapier and dagger.
Eleven dogs. He could count them as they came splashing down the shallow stream. How sad, that such simple sweetness as theirs should be turned sour… Of course, the same might be said of the cavalrymen. Dogs and soldiers, their honor taken for the use of clever men. Men with much to answer for…
Now he saw the king's face clearly – and saw the king, coming galloping, see his. A glance shared by two of the blood of clever men, users of decent dogs and honest soldiers. The king's fury certainly in his face – but that other, also.
Bajazet supposed even this shallow water would slow him, fighting – as time now seemed to slow to single echoing heartbeats, with all motions ponderous though seen wonderfully clearly. But he liked the idea of dying in running water, as if the little creek might drift some streamers of his blood away to a sort of safety.
A man – an officer – had ridden up beside the king. Cooper gestured him sharply back and spurred along the creek, shouting. The dogs came leaping before him, seemed pleased with the water, soothing to worn pads.
Bajazet braced himself as heartbeats and time suddenly moved much faster – saw the first dog who'd reach him, and drifted the rapier's point that way. 'Don't forget the dagger.' The Master'd told him that many times, advice handed down from
The dog – a red-hound bitch – was up and in the air when a javelin came hissing, and saved her from the rapier's point.
Bajazet stood amid a storm of spears sleeting from left and right as the dogs died – were struck, pierced, knocked kicking in agony along the creek. Not one hound, not one had come to him… nor any javelin, either.
He was left standing alive amid screaming dying dogs as the king reined in, stallion skidding in a sheet of shallow water… And tufts, tops, and branches of the valley's greening brush – having been fastened to conceal and decorate a thousand painted men – rose in long green waves that rolled like surf down upon the king and his cavalry.
CHAPTER 5
Bajazet stood rooted in riffling water, saw the chain-mailed troop deploy to a single shouted order, dividing its double column to left and right – and on a single order after, charge to either side to meet the ambush directly.
It was instantly and perfectly done. Something in Bajazet approved of it – and caused him to take a few steps toward the fighting as if these were still his country's troopers, and his place with them, the long hunt forgotten.
A lean man with a scraggled beard – naked but for a necklace of withered human fingers, and with feather- patterned tattoos beneath the gleam of smeared animal fat – stepped into the creek and held the shaft of a short stabbing-spear across Bajazet's chest to halt him.
The man, who seemed a Sparrow tribesmen, smiled. What teeth he had were filed to points. 'Stand still,' he said, in book-English with a throaty rattle to it.'- to avoid an accident.'
Bajazet stood still, his drawn rapier and dagger drooping in his hands as vase-weary flowers might. The smiling man paid no attention to them.
The troopers had charged, struck the tribesmen pouring down… and were foundering in that flood of spears, broad-axes, bush-knives, and hatchets hurled spinning.
The tribesmen killed horses first, then the riders as they sank – sabers slashing – into the warriors' tattooed currents.
The officers and foresters had gathered around the king, were attempting to escort him back down the valley. But they melted… melted under a storm of steel that wore them away one by one, though lacing the tribesmen with blood. – Bajazet could still see the king, see the king's gray destrier in that shambles. He thought Cooper had his longsword out… was striking with it.
There were, no doubt, good reasons for Bajazet to have watched the end, to have seen the River's men, the River's new king – a traitor beyond question – brought down and butchered. But those reasons were apparently not good enough. He closed his eyes, stood blind, and only listened to the slowly fading sounds of shouts, shrieks of agony, the silvery ring of fighting-steel… And, after a long while, silence except for distant quiet conversation, and a wounded man begging for his mother.
… When he opened his eyes, the warning tribesman was gone, and Bajazet's legs – strong enough to have carried him many miles of forest and hills for many days – now became too weak to stand on, and he sat by the stream in sparse, damp spring grass, feeling sick with relief at this rescue – if it was to be a rescue. The hill tribes had no cause to love him for his own sake – perhaps less cause to love him for either of his fathers'.
The morning – its sky's clear vibrating blue barely streaked with yesterday's clouds – seemed extraordinarily important, its every detail perfectly etched, its breeze the perfection of air. He was, perhaps, to live… and so young, possibly live for years. He bowed his head in his hands and breathed… breathed, felt his heart stroking gently in his chest as if making him promises… promises of a future.
Gentle fingers touched, stroked the side of his face. 'Poor, tired…
Bajazet raised his head, and saw the narrow valley lying thick with dead and dying. A slaughtered horse, a black, dammed the little stream so it murmured, trickling to left and right.
'Not hurt with any new hurt?' The Made-girl knelt beside him, narrow head tilted in inquiry, watching him with lemon-yellow eyes.
