“Perhaps,” Ngangata conceded. “But did you hear what they were yelling as they attacked?”
“I don't remember them yelling anything.”
“They called us shez. Shez are demons who bring disease. This is not an ordinary sort of insult.”
“Oh.” Perkar watched Ngangata kneel by the side of the injured man. The warrior was still alive, though breathing shal-lowly. Perkar walked back toward the stream, searching for deadwood, trying to keep his feelings from crowding out reason. What could Karak—or Blackgod, or whatever his true name might be—what could he offer to “set everything right”? The Raven was glib and clever, had a way of making the absurd seem reasonable. Yet one thing he said rang powerfully true to Perkar. Why would Karak care about Aim? Karak had changed his whole destiny—or at least given him the means to change his own destiny and follow a certain path. Why would a god take such an intimate interest in him?
He glanced back, to see that the Raven was leading his mount to where Ngangata still knelt over the injured man. Perkar pushed a little farther into the thin trees, trying to remember what he could about Karak while also searching for firewood.
Ngangata had reminded him that Karak was an aspect of the Forest Lord. The Forest Lord had other aspects—the Huntress, for instance, and the great one-eyed beast who had carried on the actual negotiations with the Kapaka—but Karak seemed to be the most deviant, the most free-willed of those avatars. And Karak himself was said to be of ambiguous nature, the Crow and the Raven. The Crow was greedy, spiteful, a trickster who took pleasure in causing pain. Raven—the songs spoke of Raven as a loftier god, one who went about in the beginning times shaping the world into its present form. Some said that he had actually drawn the original mud from beneath the waters to create the world. Others claimed that he stole the sun from a mighty demon and brought it to light the heavens. Perkar had paid little attention to such stories; the faraway doings of gods distant in both time and space had never been as important to his people as the gods they knew, the ones who lived in pasture, field, forest—and, of course, stream.
Now he was camping with a god said to have created the world, and he could not remember which stories about him were supposed to be true and which were told merely to entertain children on dark winter evenings.
“Tell me about Karak, Harka,” he said.
“About Karak or about the Blackgod? ”
“They are the same, are they not?”
“Mostly. But different names always make a difference. ”
“Did he really create the world?”
“I wasn't there.”
“Don't evade.”
“No one created the world. But I think the Raven may well have created dry land. ”
“I can't believe that.”
“Why is it important? What does this have to do with the present? ”
Perkar sighed. “I don't know. I just … what does he want with me?”
“ I think that he will tell you, soon enough, ” Harka replied. “Just keep your wits about you. Listen to everything he says, so that you can go over and over it later. The Raven gets things done. He is the Forest Lords wit, his cunning, his hand. He goes about making things and unmaking them. The Crow always tries to twist around what the Forest Lord commands, make it into something different, and even when the Crow and Raven are in accord, the Crow works through treachery, deceit, and chicanery. Still, they say, if you pay close attention—very close attention—you can hear the Raven telling you how to defeat the Crow. ”
“It makes perfect sense. You've done it yourself—made excuses for doing things you knew you shouldn't do. Planning to check on the cattle because your father wanted you to, but finding just enough other things to keep you busy so that you didn't have time to. ”
“That doesn't seem like the same thing,” Perkar answered doubtfully. “But I will think on it.”
By now he had an armload of deadwood and so, with many misgivings, turned back toward Ngangata and Karak.
He got the fire started in silence, as Ngangata erected the tent. The Mang warrior had regained consciousness and regarded them with a mixture of bleary resignation and hostility. Karak merely sat, silent, watching them. Perkar decided that if the god was going to speak, it would be in his own time; he would not beg him to talk, certainly.
“What are you called?” he asked the warrior instead.
The man narrowed his eyes. “You are not my friend, and you are not kin to me.”
“I didn't ask for your name” Perkar persisted. “Just something to call you.”
The man regarded him sullenly for a moment more. “Give me a drink of water,” he finally said, “and I will give you something to call me.”
Wordlessly Perkar handed him a water skin. The warrior drank deeply.
“Does your leg hurt?” Perkar asked.
“It hurts.” He took another drink of water, then threw the skin back at Perkar, who caught it deftly. “You may call me Good Thief.”
“Good Thief,” Perkar repeated. “Fine. Good Thief, why did you attack us?”
“To kill you.” The warrior sneered. Across the fire, the Black-god chuckled in appreciation.
“Well, you failed in that,” Perkar apprised him lightly.
“Yes. Because we did not believe,” the man retorted bitterly. “We thought the gaan was exaggerating.”
“A shaman?”
“He saw you in a vision. He said you were a disease upon the land. He said you brought the war with the Cattle People.”
Perkar stared. “What?”
“Yes, but he said you were also demons, that only by singing and drumming could you be killed. Only by fighting you with gods.” He turned to gaze at his companion's corpse, at the messy ruin of the horse. “We should have listened, but we wanted your skins. We were fools.”
“You came after us, specifically after usT Perkar pressed, frowning, poking at the fire with a branch, unwilling to meet the Mang's accusing eyes.
“The Brush-Man and the Cattle-Man, traveling together at the stream. The gaan saw you in a vision.”
“Saw us in a vision,” Perkar echoed dully.
The Blackgod sidled up to the fire, sat closer. Ngangata, finished with the tent, joined them, as well.
“You see,” Blackgod said. “You have many enemies, Perkar. Enemies you don't even know about. You need my advice.”
“What do you know about this?” Perkar demanded.
“In the west, there is a Mang shaman. He has been given a vision and seeks your death.”
“Given a vision by whom? By what god? You?” Perkar snapped.
“Oh, no,” Raven answered. “Sent by another friend of yours, the Changeling.”
“The Changeling,” Ngangata interjected placidly, “is not so sentient.”
“Oh, well, certainly you know more about gods than I do. Certainly you know the Changeling better than I, his brother.” Raven grinned evilly, “Listen to me. All you know is altered, for the years have moved. Once the Changeling was the most cunning of us all. Once he was stupider than a beast. Now—well, now he has awakened sufficiently to send dreams to a shaman. To do other things, as well.”
“Why? And why does he provoke them to kill Ngangata and me?”
“That is simple enough,” the Blackgod said, his voice laden with dark glee. “He knows that you have the means to destroy him.”
VI Old Friends
GHE stopped outside of the library door and fingered his neck again, felt the ridge of flesh beneath the high collar, hoping no one would find it suspicious. High collars came in and out of fashion in the palace. They were currently out, but then, he was supposed to be Yen, a merchant's boy who joined the engineer corps of the priesthood. Merchants' sons were known for ambitious but uninformed fashion sense.
He fingered through his memory, as well, retracing his fictional Ufe as Yen, trying to remember all that he had done and said. It would be both embarrassing and dangerous if Ghan were to catch him in a he. Fortunately, he had rarely spoken directly to Ghan, but instead to Hezhi. What he didnt know was how much Hezhi had told Ghan about Yen.