Joboam shook the water from his hands, wincing as he did so. 'I'm not. But it doesn't matter,' he said quietly. 'Even if the boy comes back, it doesn't matter. Things are changing. The healer and her son won't be tolerated any longer. Folks have been asking where all this bad luck comes from. They think they know. And Capiam's herdfolk are tired of a leader who doesn't keep them from harm. They look to me now. Even if I killed you, no one would say it was without cause. You are part of the ill luck that has befallen us. It was you who first met the healer and her demon son, you were joined to Elsa when she died. You found the najd and brought him to our village, you brought Kerlew back just when we were well rid of him. I could strike you down now and no one would mourn you.'
'Try it,' Heckram invited. He drew his knife.
'No!'' Tillu cried, but he stepped clear of her. Joboam wavered an instant before Heckram's rigid grin. Then he snatched up his own knife and came forward, hunched like a bear, snarling like a wolverine.
'Ketla wants you, Joboam. The healer's son, mad Kerlew, threatens Capiam!' The words tumbled from Pirtsi as he pushed in the door. Heckram and Joboam both turned to him while Tillu stood frozen. 'You? Here?' He exclaimed in wonder as his eyes darted from Tillu to Heckram. In an instant more, his eyes had taken in the drawn blade, the attitudes of the two men. He backed hastily, his eyes darting from one to the other. In the entry he hesitated. 'The boy holds a knife to Capiam's throat!' He flung the words as he fled.
'Good!' Joboam breathed recklessly.
Tillu ran from the hut. Heckram looked from her to the waiting Joboam. 'Soon!' he promised him, and spun to follow her.
'Coward!' He heard Joboam's roar of frustration behind him, heard something flung to strike the tent's inner walls. The name burned, but he knew well that if Kerlew killed Capiam, Joboam would be pleased. Nothing could save the boy then. Or Tillu or himself. He stretched his long legs, caught up and passed Tillu, and then Pirtsi. Thin hysterical screams guided him to the herdlord's tent. He pushed through the folk that ringed it, ignored his name called out with distaste and anger. He burst into the tent, crashed against men who gripped him and held him back. He didn't struggle against them, but stared in disbelief.
Ketla crouched wailing. Her hair was tangled, her night garment wadded around her. Sickness and grief had wasted her, so that her skin hung in folds from her arms and cheeks. Her weakness was evident as she backed feebly against a travelling chest that blocked her escape. Her wailing was like a babe's thin cry.
Between her and the tent entry, straddling her husband's chest, was Kerlew. The change in the boy was startling. He wore only a twist of whitened leather around his loins and Carp's najd's pouch around his neck. His long fast had worn his body to bones and muscles. Thin as death he crouched over the herdlord, and his long bony hand held a white knife before Capiam's fever-sunken eyes. The boy's eyes burned.
'Kerlew!' Heckram cried, but the boy paid no heed. He let the bone knife droop until its point rested against the pulse in Capiam's throat. The gathered folk sighed fearfully.
He looked up, his pale brown eyes roving across them.
'I said,' he announced in a strangely calm voice, 'that I want all the tent walls slashed, and the sides thrown open to the wind. I want all the herdfolk gathered.' He tapped the point of the knife against Capiam's throat. 'Can no one hear me?'
'Do it!' Capiam wheezed. His voice was hoarse with fear and sickness, but it still carried command. Heckram felt more than saw Tillu's barreling charge into the tent.
She wormed in beside him, ignoring the clutching hands that would have held her back. 'The healer!' someone gasped, and someone else filled in angrily, 'She heals with death!' A rake of Kerlew's eyes silenced them, and men moved to the tent walls.
The long ripping sounds of knives against thick leather, and then the sides of the tent were peeled back, letting light into the dimness. Ketla blinked helplessly in the brightness, and then cried out in relief as someone helped her gently out of Kerlew's reach. He didn't care. He continued to crouch, straddling the herdlord and watching the people as they gathered in a great circle around the opened tent. He whispered something, and the muttering of the folk instantly died.
His hazel eyes scanned the crowd again; his head turning slowly, meeting every glance unflinchingly. He smiled a pleased smile. He spoke so softly that all strained to hear. 'If you wish to live, you must listen.'
'Kill him now!' It was Joboam, striding up to take command: He was dressed finely, a snug vest of bleached leather making him seem even huskier than he was. His hair was carefully smoothed and his eyes clear. His open confidence put him in charge and men turned to him.
'As you wish,' Kerlew said sweetly, lifting the knife. 'I kill him now, as Joboam so wisely commands.'
'Not the herdlord!' Joboam bellowed. 'The boy! Kill the boy!'
Men shifted uneasily, but no one dared obey. Kerlew lifted the knife swiftly, touched the tip to the hollow of his own throat, then to Capiam's, then his again, then to rest on Capiam's. He spoke only to Capiam, leaning forward to meet his eyes. 'You see,' he said, 'It is as I told you. He wants us both dead. Speak to them, now, or they will make his wish true. Tell them.'
'Stay back!' Capiam gasped. 'Stay back. Hear what the boy has to say.' Sweat dribbled down his face, and the look he gave Joboam was not a fond one.
'It is as I was telling you before Ketla awoke and made such a fuss.' Kerlew spoke conversationally, his words still slow as they had ever been. 'I have been to see the old najd up the cliffs. Long has he looked down upon the herdfolk, his own folk, and he is wise in many things. He has taught me when to speak, and when to keep silent. Now, he says, is the time to speak.' The boy turned unforgiving eyes upon Joboam. 'I know things.'
'He lies!' Joboam declared. Too quickly.
'Your hands do not.' Kerlew spoke softly, keeping the crowd gaping after his words.
'You have carried sickness to the herdfolk, Joboam. You planted the seeds, but it has blossomed in your hands. Look at them.'
He did not. He folded his arms slowly on his chest, disdaining to obey. But his face paled.
Kerlew stared at him for a long moment. Then he laughed, his high, ungraceful laugh, shattering the stillness. He stopped just as suddenly. 'Capiam,' he wheedled softly. 'Listen to me. Joboam will not hear my words. But you and your herdfolk will.
You will hear me and live and in days to come will call me one of your own. I will be herdfolk,' he promised, and paused. No one breathed. Heckram stole a glance at Tillu.
Her face was sallow and she held herself stiff and tight. He wished he could touch her for an instant. Then her eyes darted to his, and they were together without touching. He felt her fear.
'I know much. Shall I tell you all? I think so.' Kerlew looked around, enjoying the audience. Then back to Capiam. 'Listen. Here are riddles for you. Find the answer and you will be wiser. Who brought plague to the herdlord's family? Who traded a boy's life for a dead rabbit? Who would trade your life for your position over the herdfolk?'
A puzzled silence followed his words. He had their attention. The knife at Capiam's throat did not hold them as tightly as a tale well begun. He let his eyes swing slowly over them. Then he giggled, an incongruous sound. 'No one knows?' He suddenly flashed the knife aloft, and then whisked it back to rest against Capiam's throat. 'The Knife knows,' he said softly. He smiled slyly at Joboam. 'Doesn't it, Joboam?'
'He is mad!' Joboam exclaimed angrily. He turned to leave.
'Don't go yet, Joboam. Or folk will think you are not interested. They will think you already know the answer to the riddles.' Kerlew's voice was sweet, pitched to carry well.
Joboam turned back, snarling. Kerlew smiled at him. 'Oh, you do wish to hear? Very well, then.' For a long moment he crouched silently over Capiam. The herdlord's face was lined and gray; the merciless light of the clear day illuminated the illness that devoured him. Kerlew ran his free thumb up and down the back of the knife. When he spoke, it was on a new topic. 'Did I ever show you my knife? Heckram gave it to me, but he didn't make it. No. Elsa made it and gave it to him. The bone for it grew inside Elsa's reindeer. Elsa it was who took the bone from the reindeer, took it and shaped it and etched it with figures. Elsa's knife, when all is done, from Elsa's hands. And it knows who killed Elsa.' The last words he whispered, leaning closer to Capiam. The herdlord's eyes were wide. In the back of the crowd a baby whimpered and was hushed.
He leaned closer. 'Knife says it was ...' and then he dipped his head down so that his long hair fell past his face and his mouth brushed the herdlord's ear. No one else heard what he uttered in that instant before he sat up
