9
Hatchling
TALEN WORKED WITH his brother and sister until midday. His swollen eye hadn’t improved much, nor had many of the aches from the beating he’d taken at Stag Home, but work was work. He stood, took off his wide-brimmed straw hat, wiped his brow, and gingerly felt his ribs.
Nettle had returned from taking his message to the Creek Widow long ago. He and Talen were hauling three windrows of dried bracken off the hill. Nettle threw another pitchfork full onto the wagon bed and said, “You’re going to milk that all day, aren’t you?”
“You let the Early brothers kick you, and then we’ll talk.”
Nettle shrugged.
Talen ignored him and looked for Da, who had not yet returned, and then eyed the woods. He’d been eying them every chance he got, but after hours of vigilance, and seeing nothing more exciting than three boar rooting for acorns in the distance, he began to think less of the dangers of sleth and more on the promised bounty.
The reward was a miller’s annual wage. Goh, he could buy a Kish bow for that.
And why couldn’t a Koramite bring them in?
Why couldn’t he bring them in?
Sleth were wiley and dangerous and strong. It was said sleth had animal strength and could twist your head off as easily as a housewife could twist the head off a chicken. So maybe he’d need help. But they were, after all, only children. Not full sleth.
Talen put his hat back on and joined Nettle in the work again. They piled the wagon high with another dozen forkfuls of bracken, then took it to the last hay stacking site. Prince Conroy, their red rooster, clambered up on top, surveying the world as the wagon moved along. In the meadow, River and Ke turned the rows of cut grass with their hay forks so it could finish drying. A flock of black birds followed behind, picking through the grass for a meal.
Talen and Nettle spread a thick layer of the long fronds at the base of this last site for the hay they’d use this winter to feed their horse, cattle, and small flock of sheep. A thick bracken base kept a dry layer between the hay and ground. They’d also cut enough for lining bundles of foodstuff, for the rats did not like chewing through it because it made their mouths sore.
When they’d finished the last stacking site, Nettle said, “I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry,” said Talen. “You stinking Mokaddian garlic eater.”
“Koramite goat lover,” Nettle shot back.
Talen smiled. This name calling had been their joke for some time now, and with the possibility of Talen being adopted into Argoth’s clan as a member by privilege but not blood, it took on a new meaning.
“I’ll start on that acre your da wants cleared for the oats next spring,” said Nettle. “You get some food.”
“I thought you were supposed to be patrolling the coastline with your da today anyway, not here eating up all our food.”
“No, the Captain wouldn’t let me come on patrol.” Nettle referred to his father this way when he was dissatisfied with him. “He made some excuse again.”
“He’s just trying to protect you,” said Talen.
“I don’t want protection. Half of the men resent me because they’ve been ordered, behind my back, to keep me safe. So instead of being a full member of the patrol, I’m a burden. To the other half I’m nothing but a joke. They might as well bring along an infant in arms.”
“You don’t know what they’re thinking.”
“I can read a man’s eyes,” said Nettle. “I’ve heard their whispers and seen their patronizing smiles.” He shook his head in disgust.
Talen didn’t know what to say so he just nodded. Of course, why court death when you didn’t have to? He was happy he didn’t have patrol duties and was about to say this when Nettle looked at him honestly.
“I envy you,” Nettle said.
“Me?” asked Talen. Nettle had everything. Looks, wealth, good blood. He might not be a giant like Da or Ke, but he was larger than Talen. And he had a father who was a captain in the Shoka clan.
“Not you exactly,” Nettle said and grinned. “But your da trusts you. You have your braid. He treats you like a man. You almost have your life taken and he simply dusts you off and sends you out to the fields to work.”
“If it’s damage you want,” said Talen, “let me find a stick. I’d be happy to give you a good thrashing. Especially since you failed to come to my aid this morning.”
“See,” said Nettle. “My passivity is becoming habitual. I’m sick to death of being coddled. I want to do something real.”
No he didn’t, Talen thought. There is no joy in being on the receiving end of the stick. “The acre that needs to be cleared is real,” said Talen. “And don’t worry about stumps. We’ll just plow around them. When they’re good and rotted, they’ll come out just fine.”
Nettle shook his head, frustrated. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
“Obviously,” Talen said.
“We’re almost out of water,” Nettle said.
Talen picked up the hoggin and found Nettle was right. He turned and saw something move back by the house. A chill ran down his spine. He looked closer, but saw nothing. There were stories of one sleth lord who had lain in wait for his victims in their cellars. Talen and the others had been working out in the fields since before noon. That was plenty of time for hatchlings to move about and hide in a cellar.
“What are you doing?” asked Nettle. “I thought you were going to get some food.”
He was getting spooked is what he was doing. He screwed up his courage. “I was just thinking about what we’re going to have for a snack,” he said, then strode toward the house as quickly as his injuries would let him, hoggin slung under his arm.
Prince Conroy jumped off the wagon and accompanied him back.
Conroy was fierce beyond all reckoning. To rodents, that was. Or cats. Or weasels. Lately he’d been giving the squirrels what for. But it was his violence with rats that had won him his name. The real Conroy was a prince of story who had scoured his city of a nasty infestation of rats. Talen’s Prince Conroy loved nothing more than to drop like a stone upon a rodent, skewer it with his talons, and then peck it to a bloody pulp.
There were other roosters that would fly into an attack when they felt threatened or one of their hens screamed. And many chickens might snatch up a mouse and run off with the prize to eat it. But Conroy, it seemed, went looking for rats. He was, in his rat hunting, better than a dog. Of course, he wouldn’t be much against sleth.
Conroy darted ahead of Talen to chase a white and black butterfly, following it into the tall weeds.
The barn, old house, and smoke shed stretched away from Talen like a crooked arm on his left while the pigpen, garden, and privy stretched out on his right. As he approached the barn, something made a scuffle by the wood stack alongside the far wall.
Talen’s heart jumped, and he realized he had no weapon but the hoggin.
“Conroy,” he called. He made the trill and yip that always brought the rooster. When Conroy came running, Talen looked down at the bird. “It’s time to earn your keep,” he said and pointed to the side of the barn to where the wood was stacked. They’d gone rat hunting like this many times before. He made another trill and yip, and Conroy dashed around the corner of the barn.
Talen waited and heard nothing.
He shook his head. This would go down well in the stories: the mighty hunter stays back and sends his rooster in to deal with the danger. Talen took a deep breath and marched around the barn so he could get a good look down the wall.
Conroy stood alone, eyeing the woodpile.
So, it was a rat. Talen walked down to the spot where Conroy was and kicked the wood. He expected to hear a scrabble of tiny claws. What he heard instead was someone running away from the back of the barn.
Talen’s heart quickened again and he thought that maybe he should back away. But that isn’t what a man would do. He’d been recognized by the Koramite Council and granted a man’s braid to hang from his belt. The Koramites didn’t proclaim their clan or male-rights by elaborate tattoos like the Mokaddians did. One small tattoo was sufficient. Your clan was in your blood. What more did you need? Your male-rights were things you earned or lost by your actions. Talen’s braid, which was only to be worn at formal occasions, was kept in a box with those for Ke and Da. It was a simple leather braid with three silver beads. Other men with greater capacities extended their belts and added discs. Some were worn from a shoulder. But regardless of the rights granted, the braid was a privilege that could be taken away. Not a right to be painted on.
Action, Talen told himself, defines the man. And this man was not going to run back to the meadow—he was going to investigate. He took a bracing breath, then strode to the back of the barn, giving the corner a wide berth just in case something was there.
Conroy lingered for a moment, eyeing the wood stack, and then trotted after Talen.
Talen rounded the corner and found nothing. He let out a breath of relief, and then caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned toward it and watched someone’s back and one of their legs disappear behind the old house.
His whole body went on alert.
“Sammesh?” he said.
Sammesh was the ale-sot’s son. Da had caught him once stealing meat from the smoke shed, but instead of putting some fear into the boy, Da told him if he wanted meat, he’d have to bring something to trade. So from that day on, Sammesh slinked in and out of their place with his trade. Sometimes it was fair; other times, it wasn’t. He’d once taken a rope and left a small bowl of blueberries for it. The blueberries had been delicious, but they were not worth half the value of that rope. Talen had told his da that he was only fostering dishonesty—Sammesh needed to be taught a lesson. But Da, referring to the many bruises Sammesh often seemed to have, said he had received far too many of those kinds of lessons already.
Talen picked up a short cudgel from the woodpile and walked toward the old house.
“Sammesh! Come out, or I’ll thrash the stumps with you.”
There was no answer.
“An honest trader doesn’t skulk.”
Something scuffled behind the old house. He paused and listened, but all was quiet.
Something was there.
Then he realized the back of the figure he’d seen was too small to be that of an adult. Too small even for Sammesh.
“Who are you?” said Talen. “Come out.”
Of course, maybe he didn’t want them to come out. He glanced out at the meadow. Ke and River were too far away to be of any help; and if this were a hatchling . . . who knew what it might do? He wished he had his dogs. Then he realized he hadn’t seen them at all for some time. And that was odd. Where were the dogs?
Talen called for them.
Moments later Blue appeared from behind the old house, exactly where the skulker had disappeared. Blue wagged his tail and gave a happy bark.
Conroy made a low sound and hopped a few paces away. Then, with a great deal of noisy flapping, he flew up to the roof of the smoke shed. Despite Talen’s attempts to make them reconcile, the bird and the dog did not get along.
The dog’s warren lay underneath the old house on the far side. Blue must have been there the whole time.
But he should have barked at whoever was here.
Talen took a few steps, again giving the corner a wide berth, and peered down the side of the old house.
He saw nothing but Queen wriggling her way out of the mouth of the warren they’d dug underneath the house.
Perhaps whoever it was had run around. Talen darted back to see between the old house and the barn. If it was Sammesh, he’d clobber him. This was no time to be running about stealing meat. But Talen found nothing.
So he yelled and ran about the old house itself; halfway around he reversed directions to trick whoever it was. Blue thought it was some game and followed him with playful woofs.
Talen raced back to where he’d begun. There was nothing, nobody. Yet Talen had seen someone. He wasn’t imagining it.
He looked down at Blue. What good was a dog that didn’t bark? “You’re a fine fellow,” said Talen.
Blue licked Talen’s hand, then wiggled his way between Talen’s legs.
Talen groaned and shook his head. Overfed and underworked, that’s what that dog was. Talen pushed Blue away and gave him the eye. Then he walked over to the side of the old house where he’d seen the figure disappear. The line of the woods was a good thirty yards from here. It would have to have been an exceedingly lively creature to cover that distance between the time Talen had heard that last noise and seen Blue. And it would have had to run very quietly.
That ruled out Sammesh.
Goh. He gripped the cudgel tighter.
He thought of the sod roof. The edges were low enough for someone to climb. They could be up there getting ready to spring. Talen spun around and scampered back.
There was nothing on the roof.
He circled the whole house again, scanning the ground for footprints.
Nothing.
He took a step back and out of the corner of his eye saw something in the grass: one of their painted wooden spoons lying at an odd angle. He bent over and picked it up. Soft bits of fresh barley porridge still clung to it. Whoever or whatever it was had been in the house and dropped it here.
Talen scanned the yard about him.
The sleth hatchlings were here, in the woods, watching. Talen was sure of it.
He studied the woods and backed away.
For some reason the dogs hadn’t barked, hadn’t even smelled the intruder when it was only a few paces away. It was said that sleth had some power over beasts. Talen cast a wary glance down at Blue and Queen. Could they have been subverted? He studied the dogs, but could see nothing that might reveal the truth of it.
Talen retreated back to the well. He could run or bluff, but running was not proving a good choice today, so he kept an eye about and drew the first bucket of water. His heart raced, but you had to fight fear; had to fake courage sometimes until it came of its own accord. Children, Da had said. Only children. Talen needed to show this visitor he wasn’t scared.
So he set the bucket on the side of the well, cleared his throat, and said, “One of these days, you beast-loving tanner’s pot, we are going to catch you and let you join your mother in the cage.”
He waited for a response.
“You’ve come to the wrong farm, you yeasty boil.”
Talen poured the water into the hoggin, then dropped the bucket back down into the well.
He scanned the tree line again. If the thing charged at him out of the woods, it would catch him before he got to the pig pen. But then, if the hatchling were going to attack him, it could have done it earlier.
“Sleth child,” Talen called out, “As you can plainly see, I do not fear you. Nor do we fear your abominable depredations.” He realized his talk had taken the edge off his fear. So he continued, “You want something to eat? Eh? Come out and I’ll feed you. How about a moldy crust of bread eaten and shat out by our pig for supper?”
No response, only the leaves of the trees swaying in the small breeze. This hatchling wasn’t so fearsome, he thought. And had the Bailiff not said that a Koramite should bring the hatchlings in? Something shifted inside him. His fear deserted him, and he suddenly wasn’t thinking about what the hatchlings might do to him. He was thinking of what he could do with them. What they could do for him. And he suddenly realized that the villagers this morning had come after him, probably not out of fear, but dreaming of a fat bounty. Dreaming of this very opportunity.
If he were adopted into the Shoka, he would still be Koramite, still owe duties to his ancestors. Being a Shoka by privilege did not change your blood. But Talen didn’t know if the adoption would really change his prospects. He’d still be a half-breed in most people’s eyes. However, if he could catch these hatchlings, it might not only mitigate some of the ill-will against his people, but it might also prove the quality of Da’s line, prove the quality of Talen’s breeding.
Those villagers could dream all they wanted. They weren’t going to get the bounty. Oh, no. He thought of the tales of the heroes who had hunted sleth. Not all of them were from the ranks of the high and mighty. Maybe a little Koramite would win a spot in the chronicles.
He could see himself purchasing that fine, Kishman’s bow, made of wood, horn, and sinew. There wasn’t a people who could make better bows than the Kish. He could purchase a quiver, worked with yellow and scarlet thread. But why settle for a bow? He’d get himself a horse.
Talen drew up a third bucket, emptied it into the hoggin, and replaced the lid.
He addressed the old sod house. “Every soul worth his salt will be hunting your clay-brained trail. You’re going to end up a boiled cabbage no matter what you do.” He paused. “You should have never begun with the Dark Art, but turn yourself in to me, and you’ll avoid a wicked beating. That’s a promise you’ll not get from any other quarter.”
There was no answer, only the voices of Ke and Nettle in the distance.
He realized then if the hatchling were an angry thing, it would kill Talen and stop his mouth. But it was either stupid or scared, for it had thrown away a perfectly good chance. Or maybe it was waiting for its master, the one that slew the butcher’s family in the village of Plum.
That thought sent chills up his spine. That was a creature no lone Koramite would take. But he wasn’t going to let the fear of such things overcome him. It obviously wasn’t here now. And standing at the well all day wasn’t going to do him any good either, so he walked to the house with as much ease as he could muster and fetched some cheese and apples.
When he came back out, he paused. “You’re a fool to refuse my offer,” Talen called.
There was no response, so he hefted the hoggin onto his shoulder, gave the farm one last glance, and headed back out to the fields. This time Blue and Queen came with him, Conroy bringing up the rear.
It was clear he wasn’t going to be able to talk the hatchlings into giving themselves up, which meant he’d have to catch them. He wasn’t going to be able to corner them like normal animals. Oh, no. He was going to need something entirely different.
* * *
Talen distributed the apples and cheese and passed the water to Ke. Nettle sat on the trunk of tree Ke and River had just felled. Next to him leaned the two-man saw. A strand of Talen’s hair fell into his face. After Sabin’s yank this morning, Talen was about ready to have Nettle hack it all off with his knife, but he undid the leather strap holding it, gathered his hair up, and retied it. Then he turned to Nettle. “You said you wanted to do something real? Well, we’ve got ourselves a whale of an opportunity.”
Nettle plopped a hunk of cheese into his mouth. “What do you mean?”
Talen faced the three of them. “I spotted the trouser thief.”
“Somebody actually stole your pants?” asked Nettle.
Ke rolled his eyes.
“Not somebody,” said Talen. “The hatchling. And we are going to get bounty.”
Nettle blinked.
“What are you talking about?” asked Ke.
Talen related what had happened back at the house.
“We need to alert the Bailiff or Territory Lord,” said Nettle.
“No, no. That’s exactly what we shouldn’t do. We don’t want some idiot Mokaddian getting the reward.”
“Excuse me?” said Nettle. “I don’t think Mokaddians were the problem this time.”
“I’m not talking about you,” said Talen. “You know that isn’t what I mean. Think about what people will say when a Koramite brings them in.”
“Except we’re not full Koramite,” said Ke.
“That isn’t the point,” said Talen. “We have an opportunity.”
“Did you see more than a leg?” asked River. “Did you see this thief’s face?”
“No.”
“Then it could have been anybody. It could have been a beggar. Could have been some stranger passing through.”
“Nobody can run that fast.”
“Come on,” said Ke. “We’d all love to catch us a hatchling, but it takes fifty men to conduct a proper hunt.”
“Not to catch children,” said Talen. “Besides, I’ve worked it out. All we need is a counterweight and a rope.”
“Have you forgotten Da’s last words?” asked River. “This is how innocent people get killed.”
“Somebody was there,” said Talen.
“Then we keep our wits about us,” said River, “and our eyes open.”
“And our knives at the ready,” said Nettle. He narrowed his eyes at Talen. “This isn’t one of your pig-brained jokes, is it?”
“No pigs,” said Talen. “And I don’t intend on getting close enough to use a knife. I’m perfectly happy to use my bow.”
* * *
At the far end of the dog warren underneath the sod house, Sugar lay still as stone, her back pressed into the dirt wall. She hugged Legs to her chest. Above her head a monstrous yellow spider scuttled along the underside of the floorboards.
“I think he’s gone,” said Legs. “I can only hear the breeze.”
She was hungry and thirsty. Her hair was full of dirt and filth. She had taken great comfort in the dogs, but now realized how childish that was.
“We’re not safe,” she said. “This place is not safe.”