All he had to do was keep working in the direction of the current. Eventually he’d find a settlement, or a town, or something that took advantage of the waterway. If he were in luck, it would be big enough and well connected enough to have a telegraph station.
He found his wallet was still in his inner jacket pocket. Failing a telegraph station, he’d hire a local to drive him to the border, or ferry him. He’d even buy a horse if he had to.
He touched the Beccaria Cage for luck, then set off.
Aubrey had camped out enough not to be spooked by the noises of the night. As he slogged along the bank, pushing through reeds and skirting huge thickets of blackberries, he tried to reconstruct the map of the area in his mind. Dense forest was what he could remember, and he couldn’t argue with that level of accuracy. The Stallaard River was the main waterway in the region, but he thought that it was rather north of the train line. He tried to work out from the moon’s position which direction he was heading, but he couldn’t remember the formula. Was it forty degrees right of the moon at midnight or left of the moon at some other time he couldn’t remember anyway?
This poser kept him occupied for some time as the land fell way steadily and the stream on his left-hand side grew noisier and noisier. Without noticing it, he’d picked up a handy stick. When the way underfoot became rocky, he was grateful for it, using it as a staff to help his passage.
Footing and direction kept him busy enough so that he didn’t notice the man standing in his way until he almost bumped into him.
Aubrey stopped dead and stared. The man was gigantic. In the moonlight and shadow, it looked as if he were carved out of rock, roughly, with great slabs for a face. If ever I’ve seen a brigand, Aubrey thought, this is one. In fact, he decided this was such a good example the man deserved to be stuffed, mounted and put on display in a museum with a neatly lettered card saying ‘Brigand’ underneath.
‘What kept you so long?’ the giant growled in rough Gallian. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’
Aubrey almost laughed. Being mistaken for someone else was becoming almost commonplace. ‘I had a fall.’
The giant looked down at him. ‘A fall? You seem all right.’
‘It could have been worse.’
The giant decided that this was an appropriate response. ‘This way.’ That was the last Aubrey heard from him for some time.
The noise of rushing water grew louder as the giant guided Aubrey through what had become a rough and ready path between clefts in the rock. The stream had grown up into a wild and rushing river. Soon, they were deeper in the gorge, a chasm where the night sky far above was a narrow sliver, its darkness considerably lighter than the blackness around them. The giant picked his way carefully but confidently, pausing and extending a massive hand to help Aubrey in tricky sections. He kept his silence, only breaking it with a grunt now and then to draw Aubrey’s attention to a slippery section, or loose shale underfoot or any one of a hundred perils concealed by the shadows that didn’t seem to inconvenience him in the slightest.
After five minutes, they began to climb up the side of the gorge. Aubrey divided his time between concentrating on his guide’s broad back, making sure he was secure on the narrow ledge, rehearsing a few spells that might be useful, and trying not to think about the fall that was waiting for him on his left. He’d had quite enough neardeath plummeting for one night.
Caves, he thought glumly when he glimpsed a flicker of light in the rock wall. I should have known we were going to end up in a cave.
He shrugged, nearly overbalanced, steadied himself against the rough rock on his right. He hoped that the caves were the dry and cheery sort, well ventilated, with none of the dankness that made grottoes so depressing, despite what the poets say.
The entrance was four or five yards wide, and tall enough for the giant to enter with only the slightest bowing of his head. He stood just inside and beckoned Aubrey forward.
For a moment, Aubrey was indecisive, then he stood straighter. It wouldn’t do to appear hesitant. He reminded himself that the brigand’s friends – whoever they were – were expecting someone, so he needed to be that someone. Someone bold enough to turn up in the middle of nowhere for a rendezvous. Someone confident enough to be out in the wilderness alone. Someone to be taken seriously and not dispatched immediately.
Having decided all that, he strode into cave looking right and left, and stood, hands on hips. ‘Now, who’s in charge here?’ he demanded into the murky firelight, while his eyes adjusted.
The cave smelled not of damp, but of the soot and ash that came from the large fire in the middle and from the lanterns and torches that were sitting on rock ledges or jammed into crevices. This gave the effect of a marquee filled with party lights, but those assembled, staring at Aubrey, scowling and suspicious, looked as if they’d be rather out of place at a summer evening soiree.
He could make out a dozen, maybe a score of them. Dark haired and dark eyed, they had a wild and abandoned look about them. He cast his gaze around the cave – slowly, confidently, with a touch of impatience – and they studied him with weather-beaten faces. Their clothes were a mixture of browns and greens, looking remarkably durable. Each one of them had firearms, cudgels or knives close at hand – tools of the trade, Aubrey guessed. The brigands were sitting on rough stools or benches, a few standing and leaning against the cave walls as smoke whirled past them and up into the black heights, drawn by a natural chimney that was no doubt one of the attractions of the place.
The only ones without extravagant black moustaches were the three women. Their eyes were just as flinty as the men and Aubrey had no desire to cross them, not the way one of them was honing a long and obviously much-used knife. She looked at him speculatively and he wasn’t reassured. It made him feel like a Sunday roast just before carving.
These had to be the brigands his father had mentioned, and Aubrey’s situation became more than simple survival. He now had a duty to observe, investigate and report.
‘In charge?’ came a voice in rough Gallian that was overlaid with a Goltan accent. It was followed by the sound of spittle sizzling in a fire. ‘I am in charge, for my sins. Who did you expect?’
Aubrey bit his tongue. He’d had an overwhelming impulse to say, ‘No-one, really. I’m a stranger here and you’ve got the wrong person entirely,’ but he managed to clamp down on it. ‘And you are?’ he said with what he hoped was professional wariness.
The man stalked out of the shadows. He was tall and rangy, with a neatly pointed beard to complement his drooping moustache, and with a melancholy, brooding aspect about him. ‘Rodolfo.’
‘Just Rodolfo?’
‘Rodolfo is enough.’ Rodolfo pushed back his wide-brimmed hat and studied Aubrey. ‘You’re younger than I expected.’
‘I’m not responsible for your expectations,’ Aubrey said, ‘and I can’t do much about my youth.’ He eyed the cavern sceptically. ‘But I’m old enough to find this place disappointing.’
The brigands muttered at this. Aubrey felt a trickle of sweat slide down the back of his neck as he heard the sound of knives being drawn. And did that ‘click’ come from the safety catch of a Tolmeyer Military Pistol?
Rodolfo squinted at him. ‘You are Castellano?’
Aubrey was exquisitely aware of the number of hand weapons in the immediate vicinity, but he knew that he had to stake his claim to being taken seriously. So he went for something that he imagined would be impressive to a band of brigands. He couldn’t pretend to be Castellano – he knew nothing of the man and would be tripped up in seconds. Reaching for an alternative, he remembered playing the part of Captain Green in Those Darkest Hours at Stonelea School. Green was a mercenary and a bully, but a highly intelligent one. He was perfect.