“Good.” Now all the heads turned back to the Queen, and the creature continued in Pack talk; “Like a dutiful creation, I have come to make peace with my Parent, dear Woodcarver.”
“Does he really talk like that?” Ravna hissed at the puppy on her shoulder.
“Hei, would I exaggerate?”
Woodcarver gobbled back, and Pilgrim picked up the translation, now in the Queen’s human voice: “Peace. I doubt it, Flenser. More likely you want breathing space to build again, to try to kill us all again.”
“I wish to build again, that is true. But I have changed. The ‘timid teacher’ has made me a little… softer. Something you could never do, Parent.”
“What?” Pilgrim managed to inject a tone of injured surprise into the word.
“Woodcarver, have you never thought on it? You are the most brilliant pack to live in this part of the world, perhaps the most brilliant of all time. And the packs you made, they are mostly brilliant, too. But have you not wondered on the most successful of them? You created too brilliantly. You ignored inbreeding and [things that I can’t translate easily], and you got… me. With all the… quirks that have so pained you over the last century.”
“I-I have thought on that mistake, and done better since.”
“Yes, as with Vendacious? [Oh, look at my Queen’s faces. He really hurt her there.] Never mind, never mind. Vendacious may well have been a different sort of error. The point is, you made me. Before, I thought that your greatest act of genius. Now… I’m not so sure. I want to make amends. Live in peace.” One of the heads jabbed at Ravna, another at the OOB down by Hidden Island. “And there are other things in the universe to point our genius at.”
“I hear the arrogance of old. Why should I trust you now?”
“I helped to save the children. I saved the ship.”
“And you were always the world’s greatest opportunist.”
Flenser’s flanking heads shifted back. “[That’s a kind of dismissing shrug.] You have the advantage, Parent, but some of my power is left in the north. Make peace, or you will have more decades of maneuvering and war.”
Woodcarver’s response was a piercing shriek. “[And that’s a sign of irritation, in case you didn’t guess.] Impudence! I can kill you here and now, and have a century of certain peace.”
“I’ve bet that you won’t harm me. You gave me safe passage, separately and in the whole. And one of the strongest things in your soul is your hate for lies.”
The back members of Woodcarver’s pack hunkered down, and the little ones at the front took several quick steps toward the Flenser. “It’s been many decades since we last met, Flenser! If you can change, might not I?”
For an instant every one of Flenser’s members was frozen. Then part of him came slowly to its feet, and slowly, slowly edged toward Woodcarver. The crossbow packs on either side of the meeting ground raised their weapons, tracking him. Flenser stopped six or seven meters from Woodcarver. His heads weaved from side to side, all attention on the Queen. Finally, a wondering voice, almost abashed: “Yes, you might. Woodcarver, after all the centuries
… you’ve given up yourself? These new ones are…”
“Not all mine. Quite right.” For some reason, Pilgrim was chuckling in Ravna’s ear.
“Oh. Well…” The Flenser backed to its previous position, “I still want peace.”
“[Woodcarver looks surprised.] You sound changed, too. How many of you are really of Flenser?”
A long pause. “Two.”
“… Very well. Depending on the terms, there will be peace.”
Maps were brought out. Woodcarver demanded the location of Flenser’s main troops. She wanted them disarmed, with two or three of her packs assigned to each unit, reporting by heliograph. Flenser would give up the radio cloaks, and submit to observation. Hidden Island and Starship Hill would be ceded to Woodcarver. The two sketched new borders, and wrangled on the oversight the Queen would have in his remaining lands.
The sun reached its noon point in the southern sky. In the fields below, the peasants had long since given up their angry vigil. The only tensely watchful people left were the Queen’s crossbow packs.
Finally Flenser stepped back from his end of the maps. “Yes, yes, your folk can watch all my work. No more… ghastly experiments. I will be a gentle gatherer of knowledge [is this sarcasm?], like yourself.”
Woodcarver’s heads bobbed in rippling synchrony. “Perhaps so; with the Two-Legs on my side, I’m willing to chance it.”
Flenser rose again from his seated posture. He turned to help his crippled member back on the cart. Then he paused. “Ah, one last thing, dear Woodcarver. A detail. I killed two of Steel when he tried to destroy Jefri’s starship. [Squashed them like bugs, actually. Now we know how Flenser hurt himself.] Do you have the rest of him?”
“Yes.” Ravna had seen what was left of Steel. She and Johanna had visited most of the wounded. It should be possible to adapt OOB first aid for the Tines. But in the case of Steel, there had been a bit of vengeful curiosity; that creature had been responsible for so much unnecessary death. What was left of Steel didn’t really need medical attention: There were some bloody scratches (self-inflicted, Johanna guessed), and one twisted leg. But the pack was a pitiable, almost an unnerving, thing. It had cowered at the back of its pen, all shivering in terror, heads shifting this way and that. Every so often the creature’s jaws would snap open and shut, or one member would make an aborted run at the fence. A pack of three was not of human intelligence, but this one could talk. When it saw Ravna and Johanna, its eyes went wide, the whites showing all around, and it rattled barely intelligible Samnorsk at them. The speech was a nightmare mix of threats and pleas that they “not cut, not cut!” Poor Johanna started crying then. She had spent most of a year hating the pack these were from, yet—'They seem to be victims, too. It’s b-bad to be three, and no one will ever let them be more.”
“Well,” continued Flenser, “I would like custody of what remains, I -”
“Never! That one was almost as smart as you, even if crazy enough to defeat. You’re not going to build him back.”
Flenser came together, all eyes staring at the Queen. His “voice” was soft: “Please, Woodcarver. This is a small matter, but I will throw over everything,” he jabbed at the maps, “rather than be denied in it.”
“[Oh, oh.]” The crossbow packs were suddenly at the ready. Woodcarver came partly around the maps, close enough to Flenser that their mind noise must collide. She brought all her heads together in a concerted glare. “If it is so unimportant, why risk everything for it?”
Flenser bumped around for an instant, his members actually staring at one another. It was a gesture Ravna had not seen till now. “That is my affair! I mean… Steel was my greatest creation. In a way, I am proud of him. But… I am also responsible for him. Don’t you feel the same about Vendacious?”
“I’ve got my plans for Vendacious,” the response was grudging. “[In fact, Vendacious is still whole; I fear the Queen made too many promises to do much with him now.]”
“I want to make up to Steel the harm I made him. You understand.”
“I understand. I’ve seen Steel and I understand your methods: the knives, the fear, the pain. You’re not going to get another chance at it!”
It sounded to Ravna like faint music, something from far beyond the valley, an alien blending of chords. But it was Flenser answering back. Pilgrim’s translating voice held no hint of sarcasm: “No knives, no cutting. I keep my name because it is for others to rename me when they finally accept that… in her way, Tyrathect won. Give me this chance, Woodcarver. I am begging.”
The two packs stared at each other for more than ten seconds. Ravna looked from one to the other, trying to divine their expressions. No one said anything. There was not even Pilgrim’s voice in her ear to speculate on whether this was a lie or the baring of a new soul.
It was Woodcarver who decided: “Very well. You may have him.”
Peregrine Wickwrackscar was flying. A pilgrim with legends that went back almost a thousand years—and not one of them could come near to this! He would have burst into song except that it would pain his passengers. They were already unhappy enough with his rough piloting, even though they thought it was simply his inexperience.
Peregrine stepped across clouds, flew among and through them, danced with an occasional thunderstorm. How many hours of his life had he stared up at the clouds, gauging their depths—and now he was in them, exploring the caves within caves within caves, the cathedrals of light.
Between scattered clouds, the Great Western Ocean stretched forever. By the sun and the flier’s
