But to Harruel’s disgust Konya now was preoccupied with this Seekers thing of Hresh’s. He spent all his time wandering in the ruins of the city, prowling for useless incomprehensible objects, instead of training and strengthening himself as a proper warrior should. And he let Harruel know that he intended to go on doing that.
“We’ll take care of the Helmet People well enough, if they come back. What’s to fear? We’ll just send Hresh out to hit them with his second sight. But meanwhile we’re recovering amazing things in the ruins.”
“You are recovering trash,” Harruel said.
Konya shrugged. “Hresh thinks they have value. He says that these are the treasures of the prophecy, which will help us to rule the world.”
“If we are all slain by the Helmet People, Konya, we’ll rule nothing but our graves. Come and help me keep watch over the city’s frontier, and forget this foraging in that dismal rubble.”
But Konya would not yield. Harruel thought for a moment of ordering him, as his king, to march on patrol with him. But then he realized that he was not yet king of anything or anyone, except in his own mind. It might be unwise to test the depth of Konya’s loyalty more severely just now. Let Konya go grubbing with Hresh for those shiny baubles; he would come to his senses soon enough.
The young warrior Sachkor was more willing to be swayed by Harruel. He was earnest and devoted, and had no interest in becoming a Seeker. Now that he had reached mating age — he seemed to have his eye on the girl called Kreun, who had also just come into her maturity — Sachkor was looking about for some way to distinguish himself in the tribe, to gain Kreun’s attention. Attaching himself to Harruel could perhaps be the way. Harruel had his doubts about Sachkor’s value as a warrior, for he was slender and did not seem very strong; but at least he was fast afoot and could be useful as a messenger.
“There are enemies hiding in the hills,” Harruel told him. “They have red eyes and wear evil-looking helmets on their heads, and one of these days they’ll try to kill us all. We must be on constant guard against them.”
Sachkor now accompanied Harruel each morning into the hill country. He seemed overjoyed to have some sort of meaningful duty to perform, and sometimes his spirit grew so buoyant that he went running wildly up the forested slopes in an exuberant outburst of speed. Harruel, bigger and heavier and older and not nearly as fleet, found this irritating, and ordered Sachkor to stay closer to him. “It’s unwise,” he said, “for us to become separated out here. If we’re attacked we must stand together.”
But they were never attacked. They saw some strange beasts, few of which appeared unfriendly; of Helmet People there were none in evidence. Still they went forth searching every day. Harruel grew weary of Sachkor’s callow babble, which centered mainly about the praise of Kreun’s thick dark fur and long elegant legs. But he told himself that a warrior must be willing to endure all manner of discomforts.
Harruel made a few more recruits among the idle young warriors: Salaman and Thhrouk. Nittin, not a warrior at all but rather one of the breeder males, also joined. He was sick of spending his days among infants, he said. And there was no reason to maintain the old caste structure of the cocoon out here, was there? That startled Harruel at first, but after a moment he came to see merit in Nittin’s offer. Ultimately, when he challenged Koshmar for control, he would need the support of as many different factions of the tribe as he could get. Nittin, with his connections among the women and other breeder males, opened new possibilities.
An attempt to recruit Staip, though, came to nothing. Staip, half a year older than Harruel, was strong and competent, but a colorless man who seemed to Harruel to have no spirit at all. He did as he was told and the rest of the time he did nothing. Therefore Harruel thought he would be easy to gather in; but when he spoke to Staip about the Helmet Man and the threat he represented, Staip merely looked at him in a blank way and said, “He is dead, Harruel.”
“That was only the first one. There are others in the hills, making ready to pounce on us.”
“Do you think so, Harruel?” Staip said, without interest.
He could not or would not grasp the importance of maintaining patrols; and after a time Harruel threw up his hands in fury and strode away.
With Lakkamai, the fourth of the senior warriors, Harruel had a similar failure. The silent, moody Lakkamai seemed barely to pay attention when Harruel approached him. Impatiently he cut in before Harruel had even finished. “This is no concern of mine. I will not go clambering around the mountain with you, Harruel.”
“And if enemies hide there, preparing to do us harm?”
“The only enemies are in your troubled mind,” said Lakkamai. “Let me be. I have things of my own to do, and they are things that must be done in the city.”
Lakkamai walked away. Harruel spat after him. Things of his own to do? What could be more important than the defense of the tribe? But Lakkamai plainly would not be swayed, nor would any of the other older men. It seemed that only the young ones, full of surging juices and unfocused ambitions, were willing to pledge themselves to the task. Well, so be it, Harruel thought. So be it. They are the ones I will need when I set out to build my new kingdom, anyway: not Staip, not Lakkamai, not even Konya.
Koshmar had by now discovered that several of the men were going on mysterious excursions into the hills every day under Harruel’s supervision. She sent for him and asked for an explanation.
Harruel told her exactly what he had been doing and why, and braced himself for a hot dispute.
But to his surprise there was none. Koshmar nodded calmly and said, “You’ve served us well, Harruel. The Helmet People may be the greatest danger we face.”
“The patrols will continue, Koshmar.”
“Yes. So they should. Perhaps some of the other men will want to join. All I ask,” she said, “is that when you organize a project of this sort, you let me know what you’re up to. There are some who thought you might be training an army of your own in the hills, with some plan to attack the rest of us and — who knows? — impose your will on us.”
Harruel glared in fury. “Attack the tribe? But that’s madness, Koshmar!”
“Indeed. I thought so too.”
“Tell me who’s been spreading such lies about me! I’ll have him skinned and stuffed! I’ll turn him into a footstool! An army of my own? Attack the tribe? Gods! Who is the slanderer?”
Koshmar said, “It was only a foolish whisper, and put forth simply as a guess. When it was told to me, I could only laugh, and then the teller laughed too, and admitted that there wasn’t much likelihood of a thing like that. No one has slandered you, Harruel. No one doubts your loyalty. Go, now: get your men together, take up your patrol. You do us all a great service.”
Harruel walked away, wondering who had put such thoughts in Koshmar’s mind.
Konya was the only one who had heard him speak of his ambition to push Koshmar from power and take control of the tribe under the name of king. And Konya had refused to join him on his patrols. Even so, Harruel found it impossible to believe that Konya could have betrayed him.
Who, then?
Hresh?
There had been that time long ago, Harruel remembered, when Hresh had first been made chronicler and he had gone to the boy with his questions about the meaning and history of kingship. Afterward Harruel had decided it could be dangerous to direct Hresh’s attention to such matters, and he had never broached the topic with the boy again. But Hresh had a peculiar, simmering sort of mind. Things stewed in it a long while, and he drew profound connections between them.