第94节

-boats

nosed up to the beach below the trading post, a M'Call Bear brought

word to Mr Snow that the cloud warrior's walking skins had been found

neatly folded under a pile of stones on the beach.

It was obvious what had happened. Mr Snow threw up his arms and cursed

loudly. What an idiot he had been!

Instead of worrying in case Brickman did something foolish he should

have taken steps to prevent him doing so by having someone sit on his

head until it was time to board. If he didn't turn up soon, the young

Mute warrior whose place he had offered to take would have to make the

trip as originally planned. All the journey-men and renegades had been

issued with flat metal armlets which were threaded through a plaque

bearing three convoluted signs representing the sounds of words in

Iron-Master's language. Fortunately Mr Snow had put off making the

substitution until the last possible minute so the unfortunate

journey-man was still wearing it. Had the plaque been found to be

missing by the tally-master there would have been some awkward

explaining to do.

The dead-faces were absolutely fanatical about head-counts and lists.

Mr Snow had envied their ability to write the signs for silent speech

but having now reflected on the way their lives seemed totally

dominated by an obsessive concern with organisational structures,

administration and paperwork he was beginning to feel that the gift of

literacy also had its downside.

The wordsmith paced up and down in a fine old fret.

Brickman, running true to form, had jumped the gun and - if he hadn't

already been caught and skewered had stowed away on one of the boats to

begin his rescue mission while he, Mr Snow, was here on the shore with

a complete set of instructions! His sole source of comfort was the

knowledge that Clearwater had grasped the meaning of his veiled message

- that the cloud warrior had returned as predicted in the seeing-stone

and was about to embark on a rescue attempt. But she had been

forewarned of this already. The box, with its charged images, had not

been intended for him but for Brickman. Things had not gone quite

according to plan but it was proof yet again that The Path was already

drawn and that Talisman watched over his own.

The last of the journey-men filed aboard and disappeared into the

bowels of the ship. Even though he had witnessed the scene many times,

Mr Snow always felt the same way. Their going - like the doleful task

of despatching dying warriors after a battle - was an occasion for

bitter regret. This time, perhaps, when the cloud warrior returned

with Cadillac and Clearwater, they would finally discover the fate of

those who, over the years, had been carried away across the great

river.

One day, when the Plainfolk were one nation under Talisman, they would

no longer be forced to kneel to the Iron Masters. They would march to

the east in glory and bring forth their lost clan-brothers and

sisters.

Surrounded by the rest of the M'Call delegation, Mr Snow watched as

teams of white-stripes laboured to wind the walkways back up onto the

decks of the two flank boats. The M'Calls were only a small part of

the huge crowd now gathered on the beach for the final farewell.

Grey and white smoke belched from the tall thin funnels as the huge

paddle-wheels churned up the water beneath their sterns. Once clear of

the shallows, the two boats turned about and took up their positions on

either side of Yama-Shita's vessel. Its bows were already pointed

towards the far horizon. As the sun passed through the eastern door,

the assembled Mutes heard a rumbling roar like the thunder of falling

water. It was the engines responding to the call for full steam

ahead.

The great steel-bound blades on the paddle-wheels knifed into the

surface of the lake, driving the boats towards the rising sun. All

three boats vented plumes of pure white smoke sending a shock-wave of

sound reverberating across the water. Vvvoooooooommmmm...

'Heyy-yahh!" roared the Plainfolk with one voice. Lines of drums

pounded out an insistent rhythm and the knives that would soon kill

each other and the turf-marker poles which, in two short weeks, they

would die to defend were raised into the air in unison. Heyy-yahh!