Destiny's Road Part 24

But it had grown noisy out there: dinner was well in progress.

They'd never notice anything. If they saw him they'd- He was still dressed as a merchant. He took the time to turn his tunic inside out, and turned the collar down. Now his color was gray-brown and the big pockets were hidden. From a distance it might serve. He should have done that days ago. Now they might take him for one of their own.

Now, all in one smooth glide, he-pulled himself back barely in time as a man and a woman wobbled into the distillery, poured a half-liter of whiskey from the collector pail into a jug, and went out with their arms around each other.

Now: out from behind the still, get his balance, adjust the sh.e.l.l and backpack. Walk out through the open door and straight across to the other building and in.

It smelled of metal. A smithy. That didn't take genius: he was looking at an anvil.

Dark as it was, he wouldn't have missed the speckles can. It must be in a cupboard or something. Something easy. Layne had been quick. Then again, caravans did come three times every two Destiny years. There had to be a hiding place, something hard to find and hard to get into.

d.a.m.n. He didn't have forever. He'd be lucky to get out of here alive, let alone- Wait now. That anvil was on tracks! And behind it, below floor height, something bright red.

The weight of an anvil would guard that cavity. It was hard to open and hard to close, but they were between caravans, so Layne just hadn't bothered. Tim picked up the speckles shaker. He ignored four guns that must have come from caravans, but he took three speckles pouches full of bullets. He wrapped it all in his tunic and walked out.

He hadn't thought beyond this. It came to him that his patterned green s.h.i.+rt wasn't any less conspicuous. He was running now, into the graveyard, known turf. Could he get up into the tree?

Noise behind him hadn't changed: they weren't after him yet. But terror was in him, and he kept running.

Past the vengeance thorn, walking wide around thorns he couldn't see in the dark. An ostrich leapt to its feet and ran squawking away.

d.a.m.n, if anyone was already looking, they'd come straight here!

Chop a hole in the thorn patch with his weed cutter? A hiding place? While his mind toyed with the notion, his body was still running uphill, flat out. Despite starvation and speckles deficiency and whiskey and terror, his mind was catching up, and his body was right. He had to go up.

Up, because he had to build a fire. To cook.

He didn't need to build a fire pit. The three goatherds hadn't torn theirs apart: an ostrich had distracted them. They'd even abandoned a can of milk! He set some barley cooking and used the speckles can liberally, before he drained the milk. Earth, he was hungry. Was it sour, or was that just how goat milk tasted?

Dead of night. n.o.body seemed to be coming after him.

Then again, he couldn't carry the speckles can.

There was no clear way to open it. He'd never tried pounding it on a rock. He tried it now. He couldn't even dent it.

He couldn't steal the speckles inside without stealing the whole can, even though the d.a.m.n thing was nearly empty. To be seen with it was to be guilty, guilty, GUILTY! and how could he not be seen?

He couldn't wait any longer. He ate the barley half-cooked. Then he lay on his back and waited for his intelligence to come back.

It would take days, of course. Sometimes it never returned. But the answer he needed was looking down at him.

How could anyone not be seen with the Lyons speckles shaker?

By being where there were no eyes.

15.

The s.h.i.+re Obedience be d.a.m.ned. We're not on a 5h~~ anymore.

-Suzanna Barnes, Astrophysics, Argos He was where the springs began to join into waterfalls, not far below the frost line, and several klicks above the s.h.i.+re.

Just below was a fool cage knocked down and torn apart, and feathers around it, on a hillside covered with tiny Earthlife oranges and berry bushes and black Destiny weeds.

A klick-long stretch of such stuff barred him from the Road. No problem: he could follow the falls and rapids down, and then the switchbacks of the caravan trail. Two klicks farther, houses spread out along the sh.o.r.e.

Tim's first impulse was to creep past the s.h.i.+re. The s.h.i.+re had nothing he needed. The caravan didn't seem to be chasing him. No telling when pursuers from the distillery would catch on, though.

At least he didn't have to wrestle that d.a.m.n speckles can.

It wasn't that you couldn't get speckles out. There were holes in the top for the tiny seeds. You couldn't get them out fast. . . and it wasn't that slow, because the chef holding the can had to feed seventy people. On the other side of the Crest, Tim had spent most of an hour shaking speckles into his spread s.h.i.+rt.

Then, finally, he'd thought of firing a bullet into the can.

Thatworked. Now he had four times what he'd need to get as far as Twerdahl Town. He had left Lyons wagon's empty speckles can in plain sight for anyone who could get to the blind side of the Crab.

He'd watched bandits fanning out from the distillery. Eight of them, split into pairs to cover the Road and the heights in both directions.

None at the sh.o.r.eline.

What did the distillers think had happened to their shaker? They seemed to suspect a lone thief. But if Lyons wagon's shaker marked the thief, then Tim Bednacourt didn't have the shaker.

And he still didn't want to be caught alone, on the Road or off it.

He'd been traveling at the frost line. Seekers from the distillery were ahead of him, traveling by Road and above. He didn't want to catch up with them. The question wasn't how to get around, but how to approach the s.h.i.+re.

He picked out another fool cage knocked down and torn apart amid scattered feathers.

Now that he was looking for them, he could follow a broken chain of them down along the falls. Some big carnivore had learned to find food this way.

Time to move.

Tim was not trying to hide now. He followed the broken fool cages down. He rather hoped the s.h.i.+refolk would approach him.

He was on a slope, fighting through waist-deep brush while he circled a stand of fisher trees being strangled in Julia sets, when he heard brush crackling. A moment later he saw a disturbance in the brush.

He dropped below the branches, among the trunks of the low bushes, while he wriggled the gun free of his tunic pocket.

A huge dark shadow came at him out of the fisher trees in a thunder of broken branchlets, head held low, tiny mad eyes. Tim, squatting on his haunches, fired until the gun was empty. It fell thras.h.i.+ng before it had quite reached him.

Four men conspicuously armed with spears and fish clubs came to meet him.

Tim had time to hang the heavy carca.s.s from the tip of a sizable fisher tree. It was a boar pig, and he'd cleaned it. "Yours. Dinner," he said loudly, and smiled.

They didn't smile back and they were still advancing. Tim shrugged out of his pack, no sudden moves now, hands in sight. The sh.e.l.l fell too.

"And I'll bet you've never seen this before." One hand held high, he lifted the Otterfolk sh.e.l.l and turned it to show the paint.

That got a reaction, a chorused "Ooo!"

"Feed me," Tim said, "and I'll tell you all about this."

"Otterfolk!" said one.

"Yeah. I seen those colors-"

Tim said, "Geordy Bruns?"

The old man studied him. "You're one of those yutzes from the spring caravan. I traded you a sh.e.l.l."

''I still have it.''

Geordy set down his spear and came forward. Tim gave him room, and he searched through Tim's pack. He found the carved sh.e.l.l and inspected it for damage. He searched further, and said, "You run from the merchants. You take any speckles?"

"No. You can't steal the cans. I ate some before I went."

"Pouches?"

"They lock 'em up."

"Where's the gun?"

They'd heard the shots. He said, "Hidden."

"All right. Come."

Two of the others took the carca.s.s. Geordy led off. The fourth man trailed behind Tim, spear in hand. Geordy suddenly whipped around and said, "In the morning you're gone."

''All right."

"We can't give you speckles. We need what we got."

"All right."

s.h.i.+refolk still formed circles: elders, younger men, older children, women with children, women without; smaller circles within the larger groups, circles of opportunity. Women-without were chefs. Women-with drifted from their circle to help or give orders. Elders were an arc around Tim Bednacourt, and the circle of men was a loose arc around those. Men left it to fetch or carry under direction of the women/chefs.

They seated Tim Bednacourt on a dune and expected him to stay there. Several of the women-without took their turns bringing him food.

Dinner was pork and a variety of vegetables. Tim tasted speckles in the rice pilaf. He talked about the Road, but not about bandits. He described Tail Town and the Neck.

They were watching him.

They hadn't done that when he was with a caravan. The elders and the young men and the children would meet his eye. The women would not.

But they lingered near when no task called, listening.

He told of dropping into the bay and swimming back to Tail Town.

That made even the women stare for just a moment.

He wasn't being treated as a caravan yutz. The women were watching him askew, not a gaze, just a mutual awareness, as with women and men in Spiral Town. Did the merchants see Spiral Town this way? Genders and cliques forming defense perimeters against the stranger?

"I think the boats are for giving rides to Otterfolk," he said.

"Then the Otterfolk pay off in fish." And he told of sh.e.l.ls along a beach, and newborns crawling into the world while Otterfolk warriors swam ash.o.r.e to defend them.

In the dark of Quicksilver there was only firelight. Women-withchildren had gone to their beds. Older children were gone too, and women-without drifted off to the river to clean cookware, and the few remaining elders were all men.

Tim taught them a song he'd learned on the Road. Then the men escorted him off to the big building in the crater.

It was one big room. Seventy merchants and yutzes had all slept on the floor in a tangled pile when the caravan was here. Now he had it all to himself. He stretched out in the middle of it all with his pack for a pillow, until the men bade him goodnight and were gone.

Then he left his pack and moved himself into a remembered corner.

He lay down again with two walls to guard him and his weed cutter under his hand.

He'd slept some during the day. For the first in many nights, he wasn't cold. The painted Otterfolk sh.e.l.l no longer scratched his back. It had served his need.

The question was whether to run now.

The s.h.i.+re seemed uncommonly friendly to a man alone.

From the midpoint of the Crab Peninsula to the corner of Haunted Bay, there were no dwellings. Single men or women, couples, whole families running from failure or crime or politics or boredom, must have filtered down the Road in the wake of Cavorite. The distillery/dairy was as far as they'd got except for two sizable communities on Haunted Bay.

But that was one serious leapfrog.

Why wasn't he finding a house or three every step of the way?

Because only strong communities could treat with bandits as equals?

Bandits didn't seem to bother the s.h.i.+re. And the s.h.i.+re was friendly to a man on the run, though they watched him like a possible thief. Had they been similarly friendly to messengers from the distillery?

When he heard the rustling, bandits! was his first thought. He stood up in a crouch. They were in here with him!

The giggles-two, three?-didn't sound dangerous. But he hadn't heard the door or seen moonlight. There must be another door, hidden.

A woman's voice spoke with just a trace of impatience. "Runner?"

Another voice: "He's gone," bitterly disappointed.

"No. Why would he?"

A nearly incoherent wail. "Oh, who knows what lives in a stranger's brain? He knows the merchant women! We don'tdress like they do-"