“He wants to hunt,” I said.
“We give him meat,” Serra said. “Ron cuts him big hunks of cow, still bleeding. He barely sniffs it.”
“He needs to take it,” I said. “Not be given it.”
“That’s silly.” Her fingers ran along mine, starting fires.
“It’s in his nature.” I looked away. I didn’t think I could win a staring competition with Macedon even if I had time to try.
“You should let him go,” I said.
Serra laughed, a note too shrill for comfort. “And what would he hunt? We should let him eat children?”
A distant scream saved me answering. A distant scream and a tongue of flame reaching up above the tent tops. A dead cook-fire close by suddenly lit. The flame flared, sucked in like a drawn breath, and became a little man made all of fire, a homunculus no taller than a chicken. It glanced around for a heartbeat then tore off in the direction of the scream leaving the fire-pit black and smoking and a line of charred footprints behind it.
Serra opened her mouth, ready to scream or shout, decided on neither, and took off after the flame-man.
My gaze returned to the lion, who seemed wholly unmoved by the excitement.
“Do you think Taproot will still want Gog in his freak-show now?” I asked.
The lion gave no answer, just watched me with those amber eyes.
The lions the Nuban had told me of were magnificent beasts, lords of the plains. He understood why men who had never seen one might fight beneath their likeness on a banner. When he spoke of lions on cold nights camped along the roadside, I had sworn to walk those same sun-scarred plains and see them for myself. I hadn’t imagined them caged, mangy, hopping with fleas beside a two-headed goat.
A single nail pinned the cage door, secured with a twist of wire.
I had pulled a single pin to set the Nuban free years ago, worlds ago. I pulled a pin and he took two lives in as many moments.
That Jorg would have pulled this pin too. That Jorg would have pulled this pin and not given a moment’s thought to children clustered around a sword-swallower, to the livelihoods of dancers and tumblers. To townsfolk or to Taproot’s revenge. But I’m not him. I’m not him because we die a little every day and by degrees we’re reborn into different men, older men in the same clothes, with the same scars.
I didn’t forget the children or the dancers or the tumblers. But I pulled the pin. Because it’s in my nature.
“For Kashta,” I said.
I swung the door open and walked away. The lion would stay or leave, hunt or die, it didn’t matter, but at least he had a choice. As for me, I had a bridge to cross.
I set off after Serra to see what damage Gog had done.
Brother Sim looks pleasing enough, a touch pretty, a touch delicate, but sharp with it. Under the dyes his hair is a blond that takes the sun, under the drugs his eyes are blue, under the sky I know no one more private in their ways, more secret in their opinions, more deadly in a quiet moment.
17
Four years earlier
When you journey north, past the River Rhyme, you start into the Danelands, those regions still unclaimed by the sea where the Vikings of old came ashore to conquer and then settle among the peoples who bowed before the axe. There are few Danes who will not claim Viking blood, but it’s not until the sea bars your path that such claims take on weight and you start to feel yourself truly among the men of the wild and frozen north.
We crossed the bridge at Remagen leading our horses, for in places the metal weave of the deck had holes punched up through it, some the width of a spear, some wide enough to swallow a man. Nowhere did rust have a hold on the silver metal, and what had made the holes no one could say. I remembered the peasant in his house of gravestones back by Perechaise, unable to read a single legend from them. I shouldn’t have sneered. We live in a world made from the Builders’ graves and can read almost none of the messages they carry, and understand fewer still.
We left Remagen without trouble and rode hard along the North Way so that trouble wouldn’t catch us up if it followed. Farms, forests, villages untouched by war, good land to ride through with the sun on your back. It set me in mind of Ancrath, cottages golden with thatch, orchards in bloom, all so fragile, so easy to erase.
“Thank you for not burning up too much of the circus, Gog,” I said.
“I’m sorry for the fire, Jorg,” Gog said behind me.
“No great harm done,” I said. “Besides, the stories they tell about it will bring more people to the show.”
“Did you see the little men?” Gog asked.
“The midgets?” I asked.
His claws dug in. “My little men, from the fire.”
“I saw them,” I said. “It looked like they were trying to pull you in.”
“Gorgoth stopped them,” Gog said. I couldn’t tell if he was happy or sad about that.
“You shouldn’t go,” I said. “You need to learn more. To know how to be safe. To know that you can come back. That’s why we’re going to Ferrakind. He can teach you these things.”
“I think I’ve seen him,” Gog said. At first I didn’t think I’d heard right above the thud and clatter of hooves.
“I can look into one fire and see out of another,” Gog said. “All sorts of things.” He giggled at that and for a moment he sounded like William, laughing on the morning we climbed into
