He was waxing enthusiastic. His sister leaned forward, a frown on her dark comely face.
"What is that doing here, Captain?" she said, toying with the long single braid of her hair. "These wild men, they can't even take apart a pair of old garden shears to make knives. Make shetes?"
She made a complex dismissive sound that involved gargling and spitting.
"Yeah, that's the question," Ingolf said. "So they must have stolen it off the body of someone in from the Mid west like us. I don't think I know of more than three or four other expeditions that've gotten east of the Ohio."
"There could be more that we don't know of, more so if they were small and done quietly," Singh said. "If they died here, who would hear anything?"
Ingolf grunted skeptically. "News travels slowly, but it does get around," he said. "And it would take a big outfit, well found, to get this far."
He took the shete back, reversed the blade and held it out to Kaur. "This is a little light for my arm, but it should be about right for you."
Her eyes lit as she took the blade and ran through a series of cuts and thrusts, feet moving like a dancer's as she whirled and lunged. "Yes! Thank you, Captain. This is a very fine weapon, better than mine or my spare."
"And see if anyone else knows what those marks on the blade are," he said.
Kuttner was standing by his bedroll. Ingolf got out his pipe and fixings and lit it with an ember held in a green twig as he sat and leaned back against his saddle. He didn't smoke much. If nothing else, tobacco was too hard to find outside the Republic of Richland, or too bad if you did-good leaf and fine cheeses and apple brandy were his home country's main exports. But sometimes it was an aid to thought.
And hopefully it might discourage the mosquitoes, or at least Kuttner, who he'd noticed hated the smell. He dragged the smoke across his tongue and blew a ring into the darkness, watching it catch faint light from the lan terns and coals of the fire and enjoying the mellow scent.
"Why did you give the shete to the woman?" Kuttner asked at last.
Noticed he doesn't like Kaur. Doesn't like Singh ei ther, but he really doesn't like Kaur. Doesn't seem to like women in general much, at least none of the ones with us, but I don't think he's queer, either.
"It's the right weight and length for her. You've seen her fight," Ingolf said reasonably, then described the etchings. "You ever seen anything like those marks?"
Firelight was good for playing poker; the shadows cast on a man's face made it harder to lie. He could see the slight hesitation in Kuttner's response, and the way his eyes flicked aside for a moment.
"Not really. I think I've heard that someone uses those symbols in the far West, but no details-there isn't much trade that way."
Ingolf nodded; it was true enough. Iowa had plenty of cattle and wheat from its own fields, and the metals trade mostly went up and down the Mississippi and its right-bank tributaries. But there was something…
He's not telling all he knows, that's for sure.
A dozen of them rode into Innsmouth the next morning, as soon as the sun was high enough-too many shadows were convenient for ambushers. They came out of the forest, and into what had been the town proper; their hoofbeats echoed off the walls that flanked the broken pavement. This part didn't have many tall buildings; most of them had burned out at one time or another, their soot-charred windows like eyes in a skull. Bare black frames occupied half a street where the vacant spots weren't covered in second growth of saplings and sumac and brambles. Then they were back among brick structures that still stood.
It looked like the final collapse here hadn't come at once the way it had in Boston; there had been an effort to get the streets clear by pushing the vehicles off, and peeling, faded paint on a big warehouse-looking building read, EMERGENCY FOOD DISTRIBUTION CENTER.
That one had been inhabited more recently; you could tell by the stink, stronger than the silt-salt of the nearby sea, and the flies. And the crude wooden rack outside with the rows of skulls was a giveaway.
Dead giveaway, he thought mordantly. But it feels dead now, uninhabited.
"Check it out," he said.
They waited, bows ready, eyes traveling to the roofs on either side; the horses shifted nervously under them. Singh and Kaur swung to earth with their shetes in their hands; when they came back out they both looked disgusted, but relaxed and with the steel sheathed.
"Nothing, Captain," the man called. "They were here, but they cleared out last night. I think you were right-they fought among themselves a little when they got back from rushing us."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing living, and nothing I wish to remember having seen," Singh said, and spit.
Considering some of the things he'd seen Singh do himself in the war, he decided he really didn't want to look inside-no point in putting things like that in your head unless you had to. Instead they cantered down to the water's edge. There they found what they wanted; an old time warehouse for boats, where they were stacked up several layers high in metal racks. He'd seen that be fore in the ruined cities on the Lakes, and the guide-books listed several here.
The ground floor was smashed remnants where small animals scurried amid the tendrils of shade-loving vines, hiding as the humans dismounted and looked the place over; storm surges had come up the town's narrow cen tral harbor several times in the past decades. Beams of sunlight lanced down from holes in the rippled plastic of the roofing, catching on a chain, turning the bulks of cabin cruisers and catamarans into shadowy vastness. Birds flew in and out, tending to their nests.
Ingolf sighed and did some climbing-not easy in armor, but he certainly wasn't going to take it off. His limbs felt heavy after little sleep and a bad fight last night, but he was used to working while he was exhausted; it was a requirement in both the trades he'd followed since he left home. A lot of the boats were made of the old time material called fiberglass. He was familiar with it; some bowmakers used it instead of horn on the belly of a saddlebow, though it was getting rare back in civilized country. It had the advantage of not rotting if kept out of the sun, and at last he found a good sailboat with a folding aluminum mast.
"This one'll do," he called down.
More birds flew up at the echoes. Everyone in the Villains was used to working with pre-Change ma chinery, and more than one of this group had dealt with boats before, on the Lakes. It was still long hours of nightmare work to get the rusted slideway work ing, with only the spells of watch duty to break the hot monotony. He had barked knuckles and a sweat bath worse than the usual summer in-armor by the time the boat was in the wheeled cradle on the ground. Scavenging had found them enough Dacron and cord to rig the simple lug sail.
As the others were stowing the supplies, Jose drew him aside and spoke softly, with a glance at the Bossman's agent.
" Capitan, this cabroncito wants to go to that Nan tucket place really bad, let him go. So he's close to the Bossman, close enough his farts don't make no sound anymore, but that don't make him no friend of ours."
Ingolf smiled at the other man's worry. "And which friend of ours would I pick to send with him, to do something I'm afraid of, Jose?"
The Tejano blew out his lips in a gesture of frustration. "OK, I know what you mean. I still don't like it."
" I don't like it. Doesn't mean it doesn't have to be done."
Then Jose grinned, a quick white flash. "So now I complain how you take Kaur and Singh both. I'd feel better here with them to spot for us if the wild men sniff around. They're the best sneakers we got."