Pyxeas smiled. ‘Though I’ve never made the journey myself, we Northlanders have been crossing the Western Ocean for millennia. We will guide you.’
Hastayar seemed baffled. ‘And when we have crossed the ocean — what then?’
‘There are new lands waiting for you,’ Carthalo said. ‘Whole continents, where you can build your next Hattusa.’
Himuili scowled. ‘Lands with people in them already, that’s what I’ve heard.’
‘But with room for more,’ Pyxeas insisted.
And Nelo, looking at him, wondered if that was the first time he had ever heard his great-uncle tell a flat lie.
At length the group walked on, heading for the great buildings at the summit of the Byrsa, and the formal sessions.
Nelo walked with Pyxeas. ‘You didn’t tell the truth,’ he said accusingly. ‘You told the Hatti that the western continents have room. No, they don’t. Especially now the winters are taking their grip, for they must be suffering over there as we are over here.’
‘Well, true, that was a lie I told the Hatti. But I balanced it by telling the Carthaginians a lie too.’
‘What lie?’
‘That the Hatti will never have the secrets of the fire drug. As soon as their great fleet of ships is ready to sail, I intend that they should be given the secrets of the drug. With that advantage none of the peoples of the western lands will be able to resist them.’
Nelo stared, shocked. ‘Why would you do such a thing?’
Pyxeas sighed. ‘It was a difficult decision to make. Of course it is difficult. The suffering that will follow from this act, the thousands that will die. I — we, for the other Northlander elders in exile concurred — we are playing games on a continental scale. But we have to be rid of the Hatti, you know.
‘I can’t believe you will give away precious Northlander lore.’
‘But the Hatti would probably soon steal it anyway. And besides, the fire drug knowledge is nothing. A shiny bauble, a whiz-bang toy that distracts small minds, like those of princes and generals. Once, you know, the great treasure of Northland was flint, a particularly fine lode that was mined from Etxelur. That was what men crossed the world for! Now nobody cares for flint at all. But since the age of Ana our true treasure has been Northland’s deep and ancient collective memory, our profound understanding of the world and its cycles — even as those cycles scatter us across the globe. Which is why I must return to Northland, by the way.’
‘What?’ Nelo stopped and stared at him. ‘Uncle, are you mad? The weather was bad enough last year when I travelled down with my mother. It may not even be possible to make the return journey now. Your journey to Cathay nearly killed you!’
‘Ah, but I live on.’
‘Now you want to do it again?’
‘I must, Nephew. I brought back much lore from Cathay. I have since reached certain conclusions. . I must consult any scholarship that survives at Etxelur, and I must reach the Wall Archive before it is lost to the ice altogether. For we must build an Archive in New Etxelur, wherever it is founded, and we must stock it with the heritage of the past. To preserve the
Snow swirled down, thicker, heavy flakes that beat like chill butterflies against their faces. They walked on, side by side.
‘I will come with you,’ Nelo said impulsively.
Pyxeas studied him. ‘Are you sure? I have Avatak.’
‘He is a good man. He will be better with me at his side. There is nothing for me here.’
Pyxeas, limping as he climbed, clapped Nelo on the shoulder. ‘Very well. But make sure you secure your drawings first. They must be preserved too. That mad Roman was right, that they are a true first-hand record of the last war in history. .’
Talking, arguing, they climbed the hill, cloaks clutched tight around their bodies. The snow fell thicker, settling on the rooftops of Carthage.
72
As soon as the epochal deal was done with the Hatti, the party that would take Pyxeas back to Northland prepared for their departure.
Rina tried to help. At least she could do that much, given that she had failed to get the old man to abandon this foolish idea and stay in the comparative safety of the city.
Avatak would go, of course, the old man’s constant companion. As a Coldlander he possessed the skills needed to survive in a world gripped by the longwinter, if anybody could. And, Rina suspected, he was the only man Pyxeas really trusted. Himil wanted to go, which was a surprise. Once a servant to Jexami, he was now a capable young man with enterprises of his own in a much-changed Carthage — and who seemed to feel some loyalty for Rina, because of Alxa. He still had to support his own family. ‘But,’ he said, ‘everybody says the world is shutting down because of the longwinter. I want to see a bit of it while I still can. Something to tell my own kids.’ Rina saw he would certainly be useful in the early stages of the journey; he knew Carthage and its dependencies and allies as none of the rest did.
And then there was Nelo, artist-soldier, who had had enough of Carthage, he said, and wanted to go home. Rina felt it was good for Pyxeas to have family with him on this jaunt — and Nelo, in the course of his time in Carthage, had certainly toughened up.
But Nelo was Rina’s son, her only surviving child.
She could not dissuade him. And, thinking it over, she gave him a special commission — a small case to carry, containing the cremated remains of the Northlanders who had died here in the months and years since the great flight from the north, all she could assemble. They could be interred with their ancestors in the Wall growstone, ready to continue the millennia-long fight against the sea. Thus she discharged her debt to the dying Jexami.
The most basic question was how they were to travel, and by what route. It was clear that Pyxeas could not walk far. Himil the Carthaginian wanted to go by sea, probably sailing north along the shore of the Western Ocean as far north as they could, putting in to surviving ports to reprovision. Avatak the Coldlander wanted to go overland, through the heart of the country, then across the Northland ice all the way to the Wall. They would carry most of what they needed; they would hunt on the way. Nelo had no opinion.
Rina asked around Carthage for advice; this was a city of travellers and traders after all. In the end she talked to the innkeeper called Myrcan — not for the first time, for it was in his dingy bar that she had had one of her last meetings with her daughter, and she had come back many times since, as if in search of the echo of Alxa.
‘People tell me the truth,’ he said. He poured her a cup of wine. ‘Make the most of this, by the way, the last really good vintage we got before the weather turned to shit. Pardon my language.’
‘I’ve heard worse,’ Rina said drily.
‘The truth. Every traveller is expected to file a report with the suffetes. It’s not just scholars who need to know what’s becoming of the world. And when they’ve reported to the suffetes most of them come here, and report to me — or rather, to the best listener in the world,’ and he rapped a fingernail against the neck of the wine flask.
‘Well, I want the truth, as best you have it,’ she said grimly.
‘Then tell your uncle he must travel overland. That Coldlander boy is right. The interiors of the countries are emptying out. This has been going on for years. By now the people have either fled south or to the coast. So if you
