“You know where it lies—in the mountain at the heart of Balat. And I will leave you roadmarks in any event. But have a care—do not travel upon him to reach it. You must go overland.”
“Even I know that,” Perkar muttered.
Karak squatted before him, so that his beak nearly touched Perkar's nose. The Blackgod smiled fondly, reached over and tousled Perkar's hair, the way one's grandfather might.
“Of course you do, pretty thing, little oak tree. I just remind you.”
Before Perkar could reply—or even flinch from the god's touch—Karak suddenly curled in upon himself, knotted into a tight white ball, and bloomed into flame, like a dried rose consumed by fire. He uncurled his body as the heat licked up from him, black again, completely a bird. A Raven larger than any man. The Raven hopped back from Perkar, regarded him with its head cocked.
“Just reminding you,” the Raven said, and strutted over to where Ngangata and Good Thief lay. Both had begun to stir, to watch the exchange between Perkar and Karak with dull eyes.
The Raven stooped over Ngangata, and ice formed in Perkar's chest. He desperately willed his hand to reach for Harka, commanded his legs to bring him erect. He could not govern his limbs; they refused him.
Karak regarded Ngangata for what seemed an eternity, and Ngangata stared back at the god, his expression set and unreadable. Then the god hopped on, to where Good Thief lay.
“Hello, pretty thing,” the Blackgod cooed.
Good Thief looked not at Karak but at Perkar. His eyes held a desperate mixture of fear and anger.
“My horse,” he shouted. “His name is Sharp Tiger. Look after my horse, Cattle-Man.”
It was not a command, it was a plea. It was the last thing Good Thief said; Karak's talons dug into his belly, black wings opened and boomed, and the god was rising up, the Mang dangling helplessly, his eyes still fixed on Perkar.
He watched the god and his prey until they dwindled to a speck, were gone.
* * *
PERKAR barely had enough energy to help Ngangata into the tent—the fire was scattered, the night chill sinking into their bones. The tent was warmer but still uncomfortably cool, and the two huddled together, not speaking. Perkar thought of talking to Harka, but that seemed useless, somehow, and instead he lay there, remembering Good Thief's face growing smaller. He certainly did not believe he would sleep, but suddenly it was morning, light glowing in through the tent skin.
Ngangata was still asleep, and Perkar did not disturb him. Instead he got up and pushed as quietly as he could through the tent flap. The sun was already well up, feathering the rolling clouds above with shades of gold, pink, and gray. Blue sky peered through cheerfully.
Perkar—not cheerful at all—gathered wood and started a fire. He found the corpse of the dead archer, his back open in long stripes, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. He dragged the stiff body to where its companion lay, and there he sang a song for the dead, offering what little wine he had to them. He did not know their names, of course, except for Good Thief, but there was an appropriate song for dead enemies, and he sang all of it. After that, he began to search for stones to cover the bodies.
After a long search, he found only a few fist-size stones. He looked down at the horse and the man, wondering how best to deal with them. Not far away, Sharp Tiger whickered, further reminding Perkar of his obligations.
“Let the sky have them,” a voice croaked from behind him. Perkar turned to see Ngangata, bleary-eyed, standing near the tent.
“They were valiant enemies,” Perkar told him. “They deserve some consideration.”
“Let the sky have them,” Ngangata repeated. “They are Mang; that is their custom.”
Perkar puffed out a long, steaming breath. “You mean leave them here for the wolves?”
“Yes.”
“There should be something more we can do than that.”
“For dead bodies? No. Offer to their ghosts later, if you still feel guilty. Now we should leave this place before their kinsmen arrive.”
“How did they know to come here, in the first place?”
“Their gaan saw us, no doubt.”
“Then he will see us wherever we go.”
Ngangata shrugged. “If we are moving, there will be no place to see.”
Perkar nodded reluctantly. “I have to take Good Thief's horse.”
Ngangata gave Perkar a somewhat painful flash of a grin.
“That is a Mang war horse. No one but his rider may approach him.”
“Good Thief asked me to. It was his last request.”
Ngangata raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I will pack the tent,” he said.
Perkar stared at his fallen enemy for a few more heartbeats, then turned his attention to Sharp Tiger.
The stallion eyed him dubiously as he approached. Sharp Tiger seemed a fitting name; though most Mang horses bore stripes upon their flanks and hindquarters, his were pronounced and black, laid upon a tawny field. His mane was jet. Of course, his name would have nothing to do with his appearance. Mang horses were named after dead Mang warriors, just as Mang warriors were named after dead horses. Perkar wondered, as he approached the beast, whether a man or a mount had first borne the name in the long ago.
Sharp Tiger watched him draw closer, eyes flaring; he dipped his head up and down restlessly.
“Shununechen, ” Perkar said gently, as he had heard Mang say to mounts not belonging to them. “Smell me, cousin.”
Sharp Tiger allowed him closer, until he could place his cupped hand near the animal's nostrils. The beast sniffed him uncertainly.
He was still saddled, the bit still in his mouth. Perkar sadly realized that he hadn't even unsaddled T'esh for the night; he could see him grazing some distance away, nearer the stream. This was no way to treat such beautiful mounts.
But then, neither was cutting the legs out from under one, he reflected, gritting his teeth.
“Are you going to let me on, cousin?” he asked Sharp Tiger. His plan had been merely to lead the horse behind T'esh, but now he had an inexplicable urge to ride him. Ngangata, of course, was right. This horse would never let anyone but Good Thief upon his back. Still…
He put his foot in the stirrup, and Sharp Tiger stood there, passively. It wasn't until he tried to swing his other leg over that the beast reacted.
Perkar was suddenly in the air, propelled upward by Sharp Tiger's explosion of movement. He thudded to the ground and rolled. Sharp Tiger came after, lashing down with his fore-hooves. Only Harka's preternatural sense of danger saved Perkar from the stallion's hard, sharp weapons; he was only lightly grazed on one arm before he fought clear and returned to his feet. Sharp Tiger ceased his attack as abruptly as he began it and watched Perkar with clear, dark eyes.
Perkar smiled wryly at his own stupidity.
“Very well,” he said. “Then will you let me lead you?”
Sharp Tiger stood, quiet now. When Perkar cautiously took his reins, he followed without complaint.
Not much later, with the tent packed and Ngangata mounted, they set out toward Brother Horse's village. Perkar rode with his thoughts, and one eye on the cloudswept sky, the fear and memory of black wings clear in his mind.
IX The Reader of Bones
GHE took himself down to the docks to think.
Almost, he feared the sunlight. Tatters of stories remained in his mind, fantasies spun in the dark alleys of his youth by the poor and the fearful in Southtown. Creatures like himself stalked those tales, ghouls who fed on the lifeblood of the living, who shunned the bright eye of the sky lest it wither them away, reduce them to droplets of polluted and stained River water. In the daylight, such things remained in their deep crypts below the city, in the bottomless depths of the River…
But the sunlight did him no harm. In fact, it cheered him, as did the brightly clothed merchants bustling about the quays, the pungent stink of fish, the sweet incense of fortune-tellers, the savory scent of meat grilling on the charcoal braziers of food vendors. He stopped at one of the last, paid a dark young girl with a pox-scarred face a copper soldier for two skewers of garlic lamb and a thick, spongy roll of tsag ' bread. He sat on a dock with his legs dangling out over the River, eating his meal and watching the gulls worry about the barges, the thick-armed men unloading cargo from the Swamp Kingdoms, from up-River and from far-off Lhe.