‘God’s teeth,’ he muttered, ‘but you get some weather out here.’
No one answered. Nothing to say, or too drained to say it, or perhaps they could not hear him for the hammering of the passing cattle and the hail battering the waxed canvas just above their heads.
The path the herd had taken wasn’t hard to follow—a stretch of muddied, trampled earth veering around the camp and spreading out beyond as the cattle had scattered, here or there the corpse of a dead cow huddled, all gleaming and glistening in the bright wet morning.
‘The good people of Crease may have to wait a little longer for the word of God,’ said Corlin.
‘Seems so.’ Shy had taken it at first for a heap of wet rags. But crouching beside it she’d seen a corner of black cloth flapping with some white embroidery, and recognised Ashjid’s robe. She took off her hat. Felt like the respectful thing to do. ‘Ain’t much left of him.’
‘I suppose that’s what happens when a few hundred cattle trample a man.’
‘Remind me not to try it.’ Shy stood and jammed her hat back on. ‘Guess we’d best tell the others.’
It was all activity in the camp, folk putting right what the storm spoiled, gathering what the storm scattered. Some of the livestock might’ve wandered miles, Leef and a few others off rounding them up. Lamb, Savian, Majud and Temple were busy mending a wagon that the wind had dragged over and into a ditch. Well, Lamb and Savian were doing the lifting while Majud was tending to the axle with grip and hammer. Temple was holding the nails.
‘Everything all right?’ he asked as they walked up.
‘Ashjid’s dead,’ said Shy.
‘Dead?’ grunted Lamb, setting the wagon down and slapping his hands together.
‘Pretty sure,’ said Corlin. ‘The herd went over him.’
‘Told him to stay put,’ growled Savian. That man was all sentiment.
‘Who’s going to pray for us now?’ Majud even looked worried about it.
‘You need praying for?’ asked Shy. ‘Didn’t pick you for piety.’
The merchant stroked at his pointed chin. ‘Heaven is at the bottom of a full purse, but… I have become used to a morning prayer.’
‘And me,’ said Buckhorm, who’d drifted over to join the conversation with a couple of his several sons.
‘What do you know,’ muttered Temple. ‘He made some converts after all.’
‘Say, lawyer!’ Shy called at him. ‘Wasn’t priest among your past professions?’
Temple winced and leaned in to speak quietly. ‘Yes, but of all the many shameful episodes in my past, that is perhaps the one that shames me most.’
Shy shrugged. ‘There’s always a place for you behind the herd if that suits you better.’
Temple thought a moment, then turned to Majud. ‘I was given personal instruction over the course of several years by Kahdia, High Haddish of the Great Temple in Dagoska and world-renowned orator and theologist.’
‘So…’ Buckhorm pushed his hat back with a long finger. ‘Cuh… can you say a prayer or can’t you?’
Temple sighed. ‘Yes. Yes, I can.’ He added in a mutter to Shy. ‘A prayer from an unbelieving preacher to an unbelieving congregation from a score of nations where they all disbelieve in different things.’
Shy shrugged. ‘We’re in the Far Country now. Guess folk need something new to doubt.’ Then, to the rest, ‘He’ll say the best damn prayer you ever heard! His name’s Temple, ain’t it? How religious can you get?’
Majud and Buckhorm traded sceptical glances. ‘If a Prophet can fall from the sky, I suppose one can wash from a river, too.’
‘Ain’t exactly raining… other options.’
‘It’s rained everything else,’ said Lamb, peering up at the heavens.
‘And what shall be my fee?’ asked Temple.
Majud frowned. ‘We did not pay Ashjid.’
‘Ashjid’s only care was for God. I have myself to consider also.’
‘Not to mention your debts,’ added Shy.
‘Not to mention those.’ Temple gave Majud an admonishing glance. ‘And, after all, your support for charity was clearly demonstrated when you refused to offer help to a drowning man.’
‘I assure you I am as charitable as anyone, but I have the feelings of my partner Curnsbick to consider and Curnsbick has an eye on every bit.’
‘So you often tell us.’
‘And you were not drowning at the time, only wet.’
‘One can still be charitable to the wet.’
‘You weren’t,’ added Shy.
Majud shook his head. ‘You two would sell eyeglasses to a blind man.’
‘No less use than prayers to a villain,’ put in Temple, with a pious fluttering of his lashes.
The merchant rubbed at his bald scalp. ‘Very well. But I buy nothing without a sample. A prayer now, and if the words convince me I will pay a fair price this morning and every morning. I will hope to write it off to sundry expenses.’
‘Sundry it is.’ Shy leaned close to Temple. ‘You wanted a break from riding drag, this could be a steady earner. Give it some belief, lawyer.’
‘All right,’ Temple muttered back. ‘But if I’m the new priest, I want the old one’s boots.’ He clambered up onto one of the wagons, makeshift congregation shuffling into an awkward crescent. To Shy’s surprise it was nearly half the Fellowship. Nothing moves people to prayer like death, she guessed, and last night’s demonstration of God’s wrath didn’t hurt attendance either. All the Suljuks were there. Lady Ingelstad tall and curious. Gentili with his ancient family. Buckhorm with his young one. Most of the whores and their pimp, too, though Shy had a suspicion he was keeping an eye on his goods rather than moved by love of the Almighty.
There was a silence, punctuated only by the scraping of Hedges’ knife as he salvaged the dead cattle for meat, and the scraping of Savian’s shovel as he put the remains of the Fellowship’s previous spiritual advisor to rest. Without his boots. Temple held one hand in the other and humbly turned his face towards the heavens. Deep and clear now, with no trace of last night’s fury.
‘God—’
‘Close, but no!’ And at that moment old Dab Sweet came riding up, reins dangling between two fingers. ‘Morning, my brave companions!’
‘Where the hell have you been?’ called Majud.
‘Scouting. It’s what you pay me for, ain’t it?’
‘That and help in storms.’
‘I can’t hold your hand across every mile o’ the Far Country. We been out north,’ jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
‘Out north,’ echoed Crying Rock, who had somehow managed to ride into the encampment from the opposite direction in total silence.
‘Following some Ghost signs, trying to guide you clear of any nasty surprises.’
‘Ghost signs?’ asked Temple, looking a little sick.
Sweet held up a calming hand. ‘No need for anyone to shit their britches yet. This is the Far Country, there’s always Ghosts around. Question is which ones and how many. We was worried those tracks might belong to some o’ Sangeed’s people.’
‘And?’ asked Corlin.
‘’Fore we could get a sight of ’em, that storm blew in. Best thing we could do was find a rock to shelter by and let it blow along.’
‘Hah huh,’ grunted Crying Rock, presumably in agreement.
‘You should have been here,’ grumbled Lord Ingelstad.
‘Even I can’t be everywhere, your Lordship. But keep complaining, by all means. Scorn is the scout’s portion. Everyone’s got a better way of doing things ’til they’re called on to actually tell you what it might be. It was our surmise that among the whole Fellowship you’d enough stout hearts and level heads to see it through—not that I’d count your Lordship with either party—and what do you know?’ Sweet stuck out his bottom lip and nodded around at the dripping camp and its bedraggled occupants. ‘Few head of cattle lost but that was quite a storm last night. Could’ve been plenty worse.’