CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Fishing

‘You keep your distance from him, I see,’ Kosh remarked in their native Honshu.

‘I keep my distance from everyone,’ replied Ash, passing his old friend the gourd of Cheem Fire.

Kosh took a drink and returned it. ‘Aye. But particularly from the boy, is what I mean.’

‘It’s best for him that way.’

‘Really? Best for him, or best for you?’

Ash leaned his back against the tree they sat beneath at the edge of the mali forest. He took another mouthful and felt the liquid searing down his throat and into the depths of his stomach. It was an unusually hot day for the mountains of Cheem, so the shade here beneath the leaves of this mali tree was a pleasant relief to the two farlanders. The everyday sounds of the nearby monastery fell into the silence of the valley floor extending before them. The valley itself was reduced to something small and precious by the stark mountains rising all around it: high snow-caps soaring in the distance, the lower slopes closer by speckled with wild goats, and above them the intense blue of the sky, the clouds sailing across it looking flimsier than paper.

Kosh belched. ‘I sent off a letter to his mother, you know,’ he said tightly.

‘Did you read it first?’

A shake of the head. ‘That boy seems a sensitive soul. I hear he keeps himself to himself most of the time.’

‘Perhaps he prefers it that way.’

‘Aye, like his master. I wonder, though. I wonder if he is ready for all of this.’

Ash snorted. ‘Who is ever ready for this?’

‘We were,’ said Kosh.

‘We were soldiers. We had butchered already.’

‘Soldiers or not, we were both cast for this life. When I look at your boy, though, I do not see it in his eyes. He could be a fighter, yes . . . but a hunter, a slayer?’

‘You speak nonsense, Kosh, as you have always spoken nonsense. There is only one thing that counts in this work, in this world even. And it’s that which he has most of all.’

‘A handsome mother in need of stiff action?’

Ash raised his chin. ‘He has heart,’ he replied.

For a time they sat and gazed out over the bright valley, without speaking. The sunlight was catching itself in the ripples of the river, producing a long, twisting ribbon of silver with reflections of gold. Kosh still had questions on his mind, Ash could tell. The man had been holding them back ever since Ash had first returned to the monastery of Sato with an apprentice in tow.

‘I’m just surprised, that’s all,’ said Kosh at last. ‘I didn’t think to see you with an apprentice after all this time. And they say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.’ His tone changed, became softer. ‘Has time healed, at last?’

Ash looked sidelong at him, the answer in his eyes.

Kosh nodded. His own eyes turned away and squinted into the distance – perhaps seeing his own memories of that day neither of them wished to speak of.

Long ago, Ash had found that he could not bring to mind his son’s face unless he recalled it in those last moments of the boy’s life. It was the irony of memory, he thought: to see clearly only those moments most painful of all.

He could see his son’s features now, more like his mother’s than his own. His son, his battle-squire in training, just fourteen years old, and awkward in his heavy leather half-armour, carrying the spare spears and with the water bags hanging from him. The boy struggling towards him over the dying men and corpses scattered on their position, on a small hill to the far left of the main battle line, tripping in blind fear. Ash’s words were lost in the deafening tumult of the fighting that raged around them. His son’s young face suddenly gone white as he turned back towards the steaming cavalry thundering into the rear of their tattered ranks without warning. Men of General Tu’s, their own men of the People’s Army, gone over to the side of the overlords in exchange for a fortune in gold.

Ash had realized in that moment that the battle was lost to them. He had known too that his son was dead even before a rider swept low in his saddle and hacked his blade against the boy’s neck, taking his head clean off in one blow . . . so that one moment the boy was there, the next only a horror to be relived in the mind forever afterwards, a thing falling lifeless, to be lost amongst the other dead on the field.

Ash would have gone berserk if Kosh, and his own squire, had not clubbed the strength from him and dragged him away from the boy’s body and out of the fray, their entire left flank already scattering like seedsails on the wind. From Osh’s position the signal for retreat waved unnoticed, for it was already a full rout. As they fell back through one of the ravines cutting across the field of action, the general had placed himself and his bodyguard in the path of the main body of horse pursuing them, and there fought a stubborn retreat while the rest of his men, three thousand or so, ran without heed for anything else but their skins.

At the time, most had thought themselves lucky to escape alive. But Ash had never considered it so.

A bell was now ringing. It might have been ringing for some minutes before either of them paid heed to it.

Ash and Kosh stirred and looked back towards the monastery.

‘Is it breakfast?’

‘We had breakfast two hours ago.’

‘So what is it, I wonder?’

But Ash had already risen, beckoning Kosh after him with a jerk of his head.

*

Nico stood with a growing self-consciousness as the bell continued clamouring, while the assorted men of the monastery gathered in the courtyard around them. No one had asked for the bell to be rung – neither Olson nor Baracha – but another Rshun, his name unknown to Nico, upon seeing what was about to take place, had grinned and set himself the task of beckoning everyone to witness the afternoon’s sport.

Every Rshun in the monastery seemed to have turned out in the open space. Since it was a Foolsday, and was their day off, they stood chattering and laughing, the warmth of the late-summer sun drawing easy smiles.

Aléas stood ten steps away, with Baracha hissing in his ear. The young man appeared no happier about their present circumstances than was Nico.

Just then, Ash came striding through the gateway with Kosh by his side, the two walking with the careful gait of men who were already somewhat drunk. Wonderful, thought Nico. Now I get to make a fool of myself in front of the old man too.

Ash stopped and surveyed the scene before him. The swollen lip of Aléas, his chin still stained with dried blood; Baracha hovering over him; Olson’s expression sombre but his eyes amused; the open ground between the two apprentices, and the collection of items lying there – two rolls of fishing twine, each fitted with a hook and silver twists of foil, and beside them two large weighted nets.

Ash said nothing as he joined his apprentice, and Nico resolved not to address the old farlander until the man spoke first. Thus they stood side by side like a pair of mutes, the Rshun muttering amongst themselves all around. Aléas was shaking his head, but Baracha scowled, then hissed in his face. He pulled his apprentice towards the equipment strewn on the ground, the blood flowing again down Aléas’s chin.

‘It’s all a nonsense,’ Nico blurted out at last to his master.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the old man nod his head.

‘See it through,’ he said.

Olson raised his hands to quieten the gathered audience. ‘Step forward,’ he commanded the two apprentices.

Both young men stepped up to the fishing items; Aléas studied them or the ground they lay upon. Nico studied Aléas instead, but the other wouldn’t meet his eye.

‘We have a way of dealing with feuds here at Sato,’ announced Olson. ‘You will settle your differences, both of you, in this the old way, for it was inspired by wisdom.’

Olson gestured to the equipment. ‘You will each choose one of these items. Armed with that, you will make your way to the chain of pools at the very top of the valley. There you will keep fishing until noon, catching as many as you can, of whatever size you can, and then you will return promptly. You have three hours. If you are not back by the ringing of the bell, then you will be disqualified. He who brings with him the most fish to display in this courtyard at that time will be declared the winner. Your dispute will then be settled. Do you both understand?’

Aléas nodded grudgingly. Nico followed his example a moment later.

‘Good. Now make your choices.’

Nico looked to the old farlander for guidance. Ash blinked, giving nothing away.

Fishing? he thought. Maybe they really do just mean fishing.

But, at the same time, it had to be more than that, and the interest of the other Rshun made this clearly so. The apprentice was the mark of the master. A public contest between these two was a public contest between Baracha and Ash.

Nico wished he could say as much, to tell the two grown men to go and settle their differences between them, and to leave him out of it. Instead, he remained silent. After all, he considered, I may actually have a chance at besting Aléas here.

With a sudden renewed focus of mind, Nico found his gaze roaming over the items before his feet. Fishing twine or net? he pondered. He would catch more fish with the net, but it would be heavy, by the looks of it, weighed down by a number of stone weights attached around its edges. He would first have to run all the way to the top of the valley carrying that load across his back, and then set out on his return early in order to make it back in time for the ringing of the bell. No, he was hardly strong enough for that. He would waste too much time. Besides, Nico knew how to fish. A net like that would scare away all the fish after the first haul. So instead, he knelt and scooped up the small ball of twine.

He glanced to Ash again. Almost imperceptibly the old farlander nodded.

Aléas made his choice, too. Nico felt a brief feeling of satisfaction, for the other youth had chosen the heavy net.

‘Remember,’ said Olson, ‘he who returns here with the most fish, within the given time, is the winner. Now go.’

A chorus of jeers and yells rose among the Rshun, as Aléas tossed the net across his shoulders and sprinted for the gateway. After a moment of hesitation, Nico set off in pursuit.

*

It was a hot, sweaty climb. Nico jogged until his legs ached but still he maintained his pace, gaining some encouragement early on as he overtook Aléas on the stony track, the young man already slowing under the weight of the net slung on his back.

‘I’ll keep some fish for you!’ he shouted over his shoulder, but Aléas didn’t answer, just kept his head down, his legs pumping.

Nico pulled off his heavy robe as he ran, so that he wore only his thin grey undergarments. He cast the robe far into the tall grasses so as not to give Aléas the same idea.

Staying focused on the ground before each footfall, Nico fell himself into a stride he felt confident of maintaining. On his right the course of the stream wound upwards, but Nico stayed clear of it, so as to avoid the marshy ground along its edges. The sun rose ever higher, though denser clouds came drifting into the valley from further up, to obscure its heat, and after them came a wind that whipped at his hair and set the grasses surging in steady currents all around him.

Nico passed the Seer’s hut, and nodded briefly to the ancient monk who sat outside, painting something on a square of parchment. The old man nodded back.

Stopping for the briefest of moments to gulp a mouthful of water from the narrowing stream, he chanced a look behind him and could just make out the shape of Aléas hauling himself laboriously along the same trail. It was a gratifying sight.

Half an hour later he had reached the top of the valley, where Nico veered towards the stream again, and a series of bubbling springs. He could see trout darting within the pools they formed, and he quickly chose the likeliest spot, a large pond with overhanging vegetation, which he approached at a crouch.

With haste he unwound the twine, as he studied the pool and the fish swimming in its clear waters. Then he shook out the hook and foil, until they were both fully untangled. He would need a float, he realized, so he wrenched off a twig from one of the windswept bushes and secured it to the twine. With a final deep breath, he cast the assembled line across the water, and hunkered down to wait.

The fish were hungry. Almost as soon as the silver foil flashed in the water, a trout darted out, gulping both foil and hook in one go. Nico yelped in excitement and quickly drew it in. It was a small fish, but size didn’t matter. He felt the slight weight of it as he pulled it free of the water, proceeding carefully now, the fish flapping at the end of the line. Up it came into his hands, wet and slippery and real as it tried to struggle from his grasp. With his childhood practice, he unhooked the fish and clobbered it to death against a rock.

Quickly, he cast the hook back into the water, his heart pounding. He could not quite believe how easy this was going to be, and his face grinned with the joy of it. ‘For once, my little friends,’ he said to the fish still uncaught, ‘fortune chances to look on me.’

*

The hours passed slowly. Nico worked with hook and twine, waiting until the pool seemed fished enough, then he would move on to a lower pool and continue trying his luck there.

It was a pure and satisfying task. His mood was as warm and mellow as the sun’s heat against his bare arms. A breeze played down the gulley carved by the passage of the river, just cool enough to be refreshing. The occasional bird sang somewhere out of sight. Water tinkled. Grassflies buzzed in lazy arcs, sometimes came close enough to trumpet in his ear.

He had not caught sight of Aléas again, which he thought odd. At first he worried that his companion might be up to something devious. But, as time passed and the sun rose slowly towards the point of midday, he allowed himself to believe that Aléas had come undone somehow. Perhaps a twisted ankle, or perhaps he had simply opted to try fishing lower down the valley, after deciding his net was too much of a burden.

Twenty-two small trout now lay on the grass beside him, strung along a spare length of twine. By the angle of the sun he reckoned he had perhaps another half hour before he would need to start making his way back. He was determined to leave himself with plenty of time.

So lost was he in his calculations, Nico failed to notice the subtle sound of movement approaching from behind.

A bird fell silent in mid-song. A tuft of grass rustled as though trodden underfoot. Nico noticed neither. Instead, with a brief twist of the wind, a smell came to his nostrils. He sniffed at it, barely aware of doing so: his mind, back where it was watchful and wary, tried to place the sudden scent in the air – and then it did so. It was the reek of human sweat.

Nico swung around in alarm.

But much too late.

*

‘I hate to do this to you, I really do, but my master leaves me little choice in this matter. So, here we are.’

Impressive words, thought Nico, if only because they were spoken with barely a hint of breathlessness, as though Aléas was merely taking in the fresh air of the day when, in reality, he was labouring downhill with a catch of fish fastened to a long twine draped over one shoulder, and a fishing net filled with a bundled Nico slung from the other.

Nico blinked the sweat from his left eye. The other one had already swollen shut from a blow he could not remember. All he recalled was turning around and seeing a flash of motion, then he was here – in the most embarrassing position he could have ever imagined.

‘Your words,’ Nico muttered through clenched teeth, and through the sharp press of the net criss-crossing his face, ‘do very little to reassure me just now, Aléas.’

The other man grunted, as though to confirm it was an ungrateful world they lived in, and he, most of all, must suffer it.

‘Why do you do this?’ asked Nico, a strand of the net between his teeth. ‘Are you so much in fear of your master?’

Aléas stopped for moment. He swung around to speak as though Nico was standing just behind him. ‘It isn’t fear, Nico. I could best the man with any weapon he might choose for me, though he doesn’t know it.’

‘Oh?’ said Nico, buying time.

‘I owe him my life, Nico. What choice do you have when you owe someone as much as that?’

Aléas set off once more, and Nico winced at the pain in his cramped limbs with each bouncing step, already going numb save for the one arm he had managed to poke out through the net.

‘I’ll make it up to you,’ came the other man’s voice again, though quieter than before. ‘I promise it.’

Nico felt the twine of the net give way between his teeth. His free hand yanked hard and pulled another strand wide apart . . . and then another until, all at once, he tumbled out through the hole he had just made, and fell on his shoulder to the ground.

Aléas immediately turned and watched him rise unsteadily to his feet, a look of amused interest on his face rather than of surprise. His hands still clutched the empty net draped over his shoulder.

Nico knocked the smile from his face with a sudden right hook. As Aléas staggered for balance Nico’s foot caught him so precisely in the crotch that he himself winced from the sudden impact.

Aléas turned white.

He sat down in a delicate descent with the breath hissing out of him and his hands clutching at his lap. ‘Sweet mercy,’ he breathed. ‘Was that entirely necessary?’

‘Such are the choices we are forced to make in this sorry world. So, here we are.’

*

‘Should be any time now,’ Kosh decided, as he passed the gourd to Ash.

‘You really think he can win?’ Osh asked, still watching the entrance to the courtyard.

Kosh shrugged. ‘You always said no victory was ever certain, not even after it was achieved.’

Osh chuckled at this response, and it lifted Ash’s heart to hear it.

‘If your boy wins,’ commented Baracha, also peering at the entranceway as one hand tapped restlessly against his leg, ‘I’ll eat my own tongue right where it lies in my mouth.’

‘Please,’ said Kosh, ‘I would really prefer it if you did not.’

In a corner of the yard, the waterclock trickled noisily as it counted down the hour. Ash was surprised to feel a flutter of anticipation in his belly. Perhaps it was only Baracha’s tension rubbing off on him a little. Perhaps, though, he did really care about beating the Alhazii in his petty games.

If nothing else it would be good for the boy. A victory in front of all of them would help to settle him, and nurture his own self-belief.

‘They are coming,’ said Kosh, a moment before the two apprentices appeared through the archway of the courtyard. A shout went up from some of the Rshun, as they rose to their feet or emerged from indoors.

‘Hah!’ exclaimed Kosh. ‘They walk side by side. And, look, they carry the fish between them!’

What’s this? thought Ash, his face breaking into a grin.

Baracha crossed his arms. His jaw clenched tightly from side to side, as though indeed he was biting through his own tongue.

Both boys were stained with sweat and dirt and, as they stopped before the assembly of Rshun, their eyes said they were finished with this business, regardless of what anyone else had to say about it. As one gesture, they tossed the net and the dead trout in a heap before their masters.

‘Enough of this,’ Aléas muttered to Baracha, and the big man inclined his head.

The Rshun gathered closer around the two apprentices, and Kosh slapped each on the back, while Aléas put an arm around Nico’s shoulders with a quiet grin.

It was Osh who first spotted the arrival of the Seer. He drew Ash’s attention by taking a few steps forwards, casting his gaze towards the entranceway where the old man stood, waiting in the heat.

A hush descended as the rest of the Rshun began to take notice. Breaking away from their ranks, Osh and Ash approached the ancient man.

‘Something’s wrong,’ observed Aléas, drawing Nico with him.

‘Ken-dai,’ the Seer proclaimed to Osh, his voice loud in the sudden silence.

‘Ken-dai,’ replied Osh.

‘What is it?’ Nico whispered, but then the Seer went on to say: ‘Ramaji kana su.’

Aléas leaned close to his ear. ‘He has had a dream,’ he translated.

‘San-ari san-re, su shidmatasha.’

‘He thinks we should know of it, before the world turns any further.’

‘An Rshun tan-su . . . Anton, Kylos shi-Baso . . . li an-yilich. Naga-su!’

Aléas drew a deep breath, as did all those around him. In the quietness of the moment, he whispered: ‘Our three Rshun, those we sent against the son of the Matriarch . . . they have all been killed in Q’os.’

‘An Baso li naga-san, noji an-yilich.’

‘Baso took his own life, in the old way, rather than fall into the hands of the priests.’

Nothing stirred now in the large open space. They waited for something more, but seemingly he had nothing further to tell them. ‘Hirakana. San-sri Dao, su budos,’ the Seer said finally, brushing his hands together once. Then he spun on his heels and headed off, his extended ears flapping from side to side as he disappeared back through the courtyard gate.

‘That is all. Be with the Dao, my brothers.’

All eyes turned to Osh. Nico noticed how the farlander’s fists were clenched tight, though his expression remained one of perfect calmness.

The silence stretched on as the assembled Rshun waited for a word from their leader – perhaps a speech of some kind, or a few words honouring their dead comrades. Nothing came from him, though. Slowly, the silence expanded into an emptiness needing to be filled.

Nico’s attention stayed on Osh’s hands, the fingers clenched white with tension. As the awkwardness of the moment increased, some of the younger Rshun shifted with unease.

Ash began to take a step forward. At the sight of it, Baracha did the same. They both tried to speak at once.

‘I will go,’ declared Ash.

‘As will I,’ said Baracha, and he and Ash eyed each other with visible surprise.

Behind them, Nico and Aléas did the same.