“You’ve lost me again. Who are the Noyat?”
“Told you there were tribes farther north, didn’t I? The Noyat are one of them. They’re pushing south into what was Merikit territory before that fool Chingetai forgot to close the back door. Sworn enemies, they are, with a touch of the shadows in their blood from living so close to the Barrier. The Merikit figure Chingetai is largely to blame for the whole mess. So he is, too, for trying to change the rules, just when that damned cat judge of yours shows up to make an issue of it.”
Jame wriggled unhappily. In turn, the blind Arrin-ken known as the Dark Judge wouldn’t have gotten involved if he hadn’t been so eager to judge her, an as-yet-unfallen darkling. That relative innocence in conjunction with her link to That-Which-Destroys must be driving him crazy, all the more so as he couldn’t get at the true source of evil across the Barrier in Perimal Darkling.
The chief waved his arms and bellowed, “I said, ‘Now the hunt begins!’ Days of daring deeds, nights of drunken song. Blood we crave, rich fat on the bone. Air, carry to us the black swans of winter. Water, bring us your teeming young. Earth, yield your bountiful beasts. All hail the Earth’s Favorite, the Lord of the Hunt!”
With that he paused, as if expecting a response. Everyone glared at him. Glaring back, he sat down. Jame noted for the first time that instead of the usual Burnt Man’s soot, he was wearing only his own wealth of dark tattoos under a mat of black hair.
“He didn’t mention fire.”
“Burny’s none too popular just now. Funny thing, but people didn’t take kindly to him trying to drop a mountain on them. Just the same, it’s a bad time of the year to quarrel with fire. He may not have a big role in these rites, but I don’t see them succeeding without him. Look how poorly the torches burn. No fire in the village has behaved properly since the solstice.” She settled herself, with cracking joints and a redolent fart. “Now for the mock hunt.”
Boom-wah went the drums.
Ching. Tungit freed a bell from his ankle and tossed it into the air. Ching-ring-ring.
One of the hooded men caught it. Sonny Boy dove for him, only to miss and fall sprawling, to laughter from the crowd. What followed was a spirited if lop-sided game of keep-away. The bell flew back and forth, always just out of the boy’s reach. The players became almost airborne in their sport, leaping and swooping, spinning on a toe with wide-flung arms. Higher they sprang, and higher. Who could catch them now? The black feathers of their hoods covered their faces, spread down their arms. Not hands but golden beaks caught the flashing bell, not arms but snakelike necks whipped it back into play.
In frustration, the boy tackled the last to throw it and knocked him out of the square.
Although the Merikit missed the torches, his sudden return to normal space caused his feathers to ignite, wreathing his head in flame. For a moment, he seemed to be struggling with a great, black swan with blazing wings. Then it rose, taking him with it. They heard his scream, high above, followed by the crunch of his fall.
Sonny Boy crowed in triumph However, he had lost the bell, which Tungit had risen to snag out of the air.
Ring-ching-ching. Back on his ankle it went and the crowd growled. So much for the black swans of winter. And the ducks, and the geese, and the plump plovers with their acidic spit.
Jame tugged the Earth Wife’s sleeve. For a moment, the startled face that turned toward her was that of the shaman who was playing Mother Ragga’s role in these ceremonies. His gaze swept fearfully over her, unseeing, then back to the square. As he settled, his narrow back swelled into the Earth Wife’s.
“Don’t do that,” she hissed. “You nearly gave this poor old lean-shanks a heart attack.”
“But did you see? Fire is here, outside the square, and he’s just claimed the Falling Man’s servant.”
“Oh yes,” said the Earth Wife grimly. “I saw.”
The two remaining men removed their peaked hoods. Under them they wore the scooped-out lower halves of fish with absurdly flopping tails.
Boom-wah-wah.
The straw-thatched shaman threw a handful of powder into the basin. When the thrashing had subsided, one by one he drew out six glittering, half-drugged fish and tossed them to the Merikit who were now the Eaten One’s servants. Jame had expected the usual catfish, but these looked more like trout, although with a strange swelling near the anus.
“Are those . . . ?”
“Oh, yes,” said the Earth Wife, a wicked grin in her voice. “The fisherman’s bane. Slimers.”
Gripping a fish-spear and a small net, the boy stepped onto the well cover. It rocked gently under his weight. He froze and so did Jame, remembering what lay beneath. On Summer’s Eve, Sonny had pitched her down that well in a last, desperate effort to save himself. Inside, it was the muscular, red throat of the River Snake, ringed with downward-turned teeth, ever hungry. Only her claws had allowed her to scramble out, and that barely in time.
The two Merikit began to toss the fish back and forth over the well-mouth, catching them skillfully by the gills. This at last won applause from the audience. It was certainly one of the best juggling acts Jame had ever seen, including one in Tai-tastigon done bare-handed and blindfolded with ball vipers.
Sonny Boy watched the fish fly overhead. Out of water, they must be dying, and with that stress their abdomens swelled even more. He speared one in mid-flight, and got a face full of the rancid oil that it had secreted in self-defense. Another one, netted, virtually exploded at his feet, spraying both him and the nearest Merikit. Abruptly the juggling turned into a fish fight. The two hurled their catch at the boy and he slung back any that failed to split open on impact. The wooden well cover and the flagstones around it became slippery with piscine discharge. One of the Merikit stumbled onto the edge of the cover. It tipped, then flipped over as the boy jumped off the far side. The Merikit fell down the well shaft in a silence worse than any scream. A massive belch followed, lifting the lid a foot into the air, then letting it drop.
Whump.
. . . wah-wah? murmured the drums tentatively.
“Now what?” Jame whispered to the Earth Wife.
“At least the fishing should be good this autumn, and water is a useful ally, in moderation. Next, my turn.”
As she spoke, the remaining Merikit brushed past her and rushed down the steps. Unfortunately, he didn’t see Jame and she didn’t have time to get out of his way. They collided and tumbled down onto the earthen floor, Jame contriving to land on top. However, her accidental adversary didn’t move.
“I think you’ve knocked him out cold,” said Gorbel, limping out of the shadows with a ruined boot in his hand.
“What are you doing here?”
He shrugged, as if to say, Where else? “I woke up, you were gone, and so was the wall. I followed.” He sat down with a grunt in the chair by the hearth. “You dragged me out here. You can drag me back.”
By the firelight cast down the stairs, Jame saw that the Caineron was dirty, disheveled, and panting. Moreover, his swollen bare foot left bloody prints on the floor from wounds still oozing after the brutal extraction of the willow roots.
Sonny Boy could be heard outside in the square, shouting shrill, incoherent defiance.
Jame checked the Merikit. Yes, he had brained himself on one of Mother Ragga’s miniature mountain ranges. “Why did he bolt down here? Was he running away?”
“Maybe. More likely he came to fetch his mumming gear. It should be around here someplace.”
After a brief search, Jame followed the glow of moon-opal eyes to a corner where Jorin cowered. Mislaid objects are always to be found under the cat. Shifting the ounce, who managed to make himself at least twice his normal weight, Jame found a pile of clothing topped by an enormous, outlandish mask.