Thorn frowned. "The Myghtern?"
The chief winced. There was a murmur about the circle, then silence. "Do not . . . talk of that man."
"Why?" he asked. But it was beginning to fit together. After years of petty squabbling the Clay had a scent of power. Real power. Something was happening to wake the Clay. Something important. How important he hadn't guessed until now.
The Myghtern had new friends in the Above. Influential friends.
Friends in Security, in coastal surveillance. Friends who would ignore unauthorized signals on certain wavebands. Friends who would report all movements of traders in and out of the Clay.
"What will happen to me?"
The chief smiled. "Trade you. Rich trade." He nodded ferociously. "The man pay well for you."
This was unexpected. Why should the Myghtern want traders? Was it, perhaps, their skills he wanted? Numeracy? Languages? They were an interface, after all. They linked Clay and Above.
"And my wares?"
The chief glared at him and shook his head. They were clearly no part of the trade. He tapped at his chest with the blackened fingers. "Keep them," he said and smiled. A predatory smile this time, from the part of him that had always been Clay, long before his fall.
HE WOKE WITH THE DAWN. Light entered through the threadbare, hole-pocked cloth that formed one side of the hut, speckling the rough, unpainted wood of the wall beneath which he lay. He turned, listening, immediately awake. Seabirds were calling in the bay, but the sea was quiet. He stretched, easing his legs and arms, feeling the rough blanket beneath his naked thighs and back. The crude wire with which they had bound his wrists and ankles had chafed the skin, but he ignored it, rocking himself up into a sitting position, then edged forward until he could poke his head out of the hut.
It was a bright, clear morning. Long shadows pitted the ground. Somewhere out of sight two men were talking languidly. There was the clink of a spoon against a cooking pot and the smell of wood burning. Otherwise there was little activity in the camp. The two men set to guard him were asleep on the groud close to the hut.
Thorn smiled and leaned back, relaxing. Whatever the Myghtern wanted with him, he would get to where he wanted to be—he would be there when they came. And later, when he had what he had come for, he would come back here and destroy this place.
It was more than an hour before they came for him. They unbound him, then threw the old sackcloth at him, watching as he dressed, surly now that it was time to relinquish him. When he was ready they led him down through the settlement, back to the Claygate. There they waited, on the outside, a guard of twenty warriors, armed with cudgels and flint axes, between Thorn and the gate.
He sat there, watching the Myghtem's men come through; a dozen men, dressed in light armor and wearing cloaks. They were proud, fierce men, but even so they struggled to contain their fear of the outside, keeping close to the rock wall by the gate. Only their leader, a straight-backed man with short dark hair and piercing green eyes, seemed unaffected.
The chief came down to greet them. Without his face paint he seemed much smaller, less impressive. He was broad shouldered but gaunt. Even the sheepskin failed to disguise his emaciation. And as he embraced the leader of the Myghtern's men Thorn could see the reluctance, the uncertainty and distaste, in the smaller man's stiffness. There was no love lost here.
Thorn watched their faces, saw how they held their bodies. Here such things were more telling than words. "Pandra ober mynnes why?"
What do you want? It was blunt, to the point. The newcomer was angry, humiliated that he should have to bargain with this man, and his anger was barely contained. It flashed in his eyes as he uttered the words. Only a pragmatic sense of the situation controlled and shaped his actions. This was awkward for him; he had been beaten to his prize. The chief smiled and opened his hands. "Pandra kerghes why?" What have you brought?
The chiefs eyes narrowed. His shoulders were hunched. Thorn, watching him closely, frowned. Everything was so naked here; so obscenely open. Greed sat like a mask on the chiefs horselike face. "My a-wyn gwele gwycor." I want to see the trader. The chief hesitated, then turned and motioned with his hand. One of the guards reached down and pulled Thorn roughly to his feet, then dragged him forward until he stood before the Myghtern's man. On both sides the warriors tensed, cudgels and short swords raised in case this was a trick.
For a moment the green-eyed man simply stared at Thorn, then he reached out and lifted Thorn's left hand, turning it, studying the palm. He saw a smooth, fine-boned hand, the palm's flesh unblemished, the red weals of the binding rope about the wrist. "Tan!" Here, take!
The chief snatched at the offered gift. It was something small and shiny. Glass and silver flashed in the early morning sunlight. The chief studied it a moment, then gave a howl of delight, holding it up to show the gathered warriors.
It was a valve. A valve for the radio. And there were others in the pouch. It was old technology, two Gentries out of date. Thorn studied the newcomer's face, trying to understand.
The chief passed the valve carefully to his lieutenant, who scurried back up the hill toward the chiefs hut. In a while he was back, breathless, nodding his head, a broad grin on his face. "Ober-s," he said. It works.
The chief had been waiting impatiently. Now he rubbed his hands together and turned to face the newcomer. "Ytho?" And?
For a moment the Myghtern's man said nothing, did nothing, but his face was dark with anger and his nostrils were flared, his eyes wide. Then, abruptly, he pushed back his cloak and put his hand on the handle of his long dagger. "Tra nahen." Nothing more. Behind him his men grew tense, mimicking his stance, prepared to fight.
There was a long, tense silence, and then the chief laughed. It was a false, high-pitched laugh that grated on the nerves.
"Hen yn lowr dhyn, ena." That's enough for us, then.
But Thorn could see how he eyed the long dagger, the belt, the man's fine clothes. It was not enough. Nothing was enough. But it would have to do. The chief gave a curt movement of his hand and Thorn was pushed forward—given over into the custody of the Myghtern's men.
And as he went back into the darkness of the Clay, Thorn smiled to himself. The trader had been traded.
THEY MOVED FAST, in utter darkness, beneath the metal sky, south to the Myghtern's city. It was open, undulating land, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark so it seemed like a journey across a desert on a moonless night. No one spoke. Only the faint sound of their footsteps disturbed the hollow dark. They followed the old road, marching between stone walls that had stood for centuries. As the road began to dip toward the sea, the surrounding land changed. The wilderness gave way to signs of life. Small makeshift huts stood back some way from the roadside. Faces peered at them from above the stonework. The air itself grew heavier, more foul. More and more habitations appeared along the road until finally, as they approached the outskirts of the old County capital, the darkness seemed alive with movement.
At the Trispen crossroads a kind of market had been set up. Ragged stalls offered the flotsam of a past none here could remember. Equally ragged people, their bony limbs poking through threadbare garments, picked furtively at these offerings under the hostile and suspicious glares of the traders.
Thorn's party slowed, seeing the press of bodies up ahead, and then stopped completely. The Myghtern's man called several of his men to him, then sent them ahead to clear a path. That done, they set off again, keeping close to the right-hand wall, short swords drawn.
They were almost through when it happened. There was a scuffle and a brief cry and one of the Myghtem's men went down, hit by a rock. Thorn turned and saw how quickly the crowd surrounded the fallen man, finishing him off. Others of the party had, like Thorn, turned to look back, but a barked order from their leader drew them on.