Moonrise

'Live on the ice, Who-was-a-prince. Live in the ice for the near six hundred years since Jupiter betrayed us, and the cold came down… then comment on what talents keep us warm and safely guarded.'

Bajazet thought of answers… then decided not to speak them. A sharp shoulder of the quarter moon had just edged above a hilltop, and by that light his accustomed eyes saw the Boston-woman – Patience – watching him with eyes darker than the night. She stood close, but there was no odor from her; she might have been the shrub- scented air itself.

'- Now, my questions, boy.'

'You've called me 'boy,' enough.'

The Boston-woman turned to break off a stem of brush, twirl it idly. The little leaves flashed silver in moonlight. 'Then what am I to call you? You're no longer Prince Bajazet – he died when you ran instead of dying. That 'boy' is dead as mutton… Wonderful Warm-time phrase, by the way.'

'I keep my name.'

'No, you should not. If the name lies, the man lies. What did your family – when you had one – what did they call you?'

'… Baj.'

'Then 'Baj' is who you are – and should call yourself even inside your head, to keep their love with you. It is your best name, as 'Patience' is mine – though not the best description of me.'

Bajazet said nothing, though he tried 'Baj' to himself… and it did seem to bring some comfort. Also, it would likely spare him more of her Who-was-a-prince's. Words so sadly true, revived pain enough to twist any name to a different one… With 'Prince Bajazet' lost, then better be only 'Baj' to himself and everyone, as the broken tribes had named themselves for song-birds.

'So, New-named…' The woman turned and walked away – seen quite clearly now the moon was risen – so he had not much choice but to follow, warding brush aside. 'As to your returning to Island… In all your running away, your scrambling through these hills as a Judas goat – very well, my Judas goat – did you ever pause to listen to the drums?'

'I heard cavalry trumpets chasing. Not drums.' He shoved thistle and sedge crackling aside.

'Well, the drums were there. Almost always, if you're still, and listen. I've heard them thumping… thumping up the Map-Mississippi all the way from drowned Old Orleans, like very distant thunder. The Sparrows say so, too.'

'They say what?'

She stopped, turned to face him. The moonlight seemed bright as morning before dawn; it shone on the rolling scrub as if on surf suddenly frozen still. '- They say, Baj, that old One-eye Howell Voss has left the governing of North Map-Mexico, and comes up from the Gulf on a galley – he and his dangerous wife – with Middle Kingdom's fleet already at his service, and officers of the Army-United pacing his ship's deck.' She tossed the switch of leaves away.

'- The drums echo the fishermen's cheers as that galley passes. Apparently they were happy enough with your brother, young Newton, and mourn his murder… Now, I suppose, Howell Voss will be their king, and Charmian the queen. Isn't it odd? I would never have thought it when I knew them, those years ago… and I'm very clever.'

'I'm glad to hear it. It makes a difference.'

'Difference enough? – say he succeeds.'

'Say he succeeds… I think there'll be vengeance enough, at least at Island. He and his wife and old Master Lauder will see to it.'

'Yes.' She nodded. 'I well remember unpleasant Master Lauder. And that being done – what of you?'

'Nothing of me.' Bajazet – 'Baj,' he supposed he would become – was tired of talking about it. Talking seemed to bring treachery and its tragedies back like swallowed vomit. 'I suppose I'd be welcomed. Welcomed for my Second-father's sake. I would have a home.'

'But not your home, anymore?'

'… Perhaps not.'

'Perhaps…' Patience shook her head. 'I wonder how comfortable a man might be, living his life with 'perhaps' as his home. Living with a family not his family – seeing all futures go to others.'

'If they fight Boston, I would do it.'

'Oh, Howell Voss will have a kingdom to rule – the Great Rule, from Map-Mississippi to the Ocean Pacific. For several years, he'll only hold New England at arm's length. You would be 'excess baggage,' – another fine copybook phrase – though treated however kindly.'

'Excess baggage…'

'Yes. Isn't it sad, Baj, how unfair the world is? I've often thought so.'

'So, only dreary truths from you, Lady – who seem to know so much.'

'If you'd prefer lies, you still are a boy.' She reached out to a shrub, tore free another leafy switch.

'I'd 'prefer' to have my brother back.'

'Your brother is where he and endless others have gone, and no returning.'

'If not that then, I'd prefer an end to talking.' Bajazet – 'Baj' would do well enough – turned and walked back the way they'd come, to let the Boston-woman follow or not. He could see the slight track they'd made, the disturbed foliage all silver and shadows.

She came behind him. 'It is a pleasure to be dirt-walking, after weeks of going weary in the air. Though the reverse also becomes true… It is more difficult to push the ground away beneath and behind you as one grows older – and I've grown older quickly. Was made to do so, I believe… Boston-talents are cautious makers.'

A tribesman – very tall, naked, densely tattooed – rose out of the brush before them like a partridge, but silently. He stared, his short spear's leaf-blade gleaming in moonlight… then turned away, down toward the valley's stream.

'No need, Baj.' Patience had seen him put his hand on his sword-hilt. 'He was sleeping away from their camp. He has an enemy, perhaps a Thrush whose village he's raided, who might come to him as he slept… The tribes will sometimes fight in alliance – except for Shrikes – but not at ease.'

They went in silence for a while, until the Made-persons' campfire glowed a bowshot away.

'So,' Patience said, coming up beside him. '- where does a young man go, then, to find justice for his injury?'

'I may go nowhere, if these tribesmen choose to kill me.'

She laughed out loud – a richer laugh than he expected. 'Baj, if the Sparrows had wanted you dead, you'd be dead already. And there aren't enough Thrushes here to decide it one way or the other… The hill-tribes respected your Second-father, the Achieving King – and what an… engaging man he was – though they did not love him. And fortunately for you, your first-father died before he could bring his Kipchaks campaigning to the East, and raise blood debts that only you could satisfy.'

'Good news.'

'Yes… Though except for the great pleasure of this victory – and their killing of the River's King (an unheard of, unimagined thing; Unkind-Harry now strutting under the Helmet of Joy) – the tribesmen might have decided to cut your throat, after all, and the throats of the three Persons that full-humans call Made-things, Moonrisers… And cut my throat, as well, if they could have caught me, though Harry has had notions, as used to be said, 'above his station.' The hill-men hate all Persons, though born of their own captive daughters.'

'Perhaps,' Bajazet – Baj – said, 'perhaps because those are born to their lost daughters.'

'Ah,' Patience touched his arm, '- there I heard the voice of Small-Sam Monroe… How lucky you have been in your fathers.' The night wind came stirring her long coat… his cloak.

'There seem to be tribesmen enough, in these hills and the hills north, to go up to Boston Town and demand their daughters back.'

''Yes,' Patience said, '- and they'd be tempted, Baj, but for the Guard. Boston is guarded by two – well, almost three thousand. The same who raid south of the ice, to take certain of the tribesmen's young women.'

'Three thousand is not such a number. There looked to be almost a thousand hill-men come here to fight.'