Stephen Baxter - Bronze Summer

When she got the chance, Milaqa pulled Voro aside.

‘Bren speaks with Kilushepa of alliances between the Hatti and Northland. But he is not the Annid of Annids. He is not even of the House of the Owl. He does not speak for Northland!’

‘Yet his favoured candidate is now installed as Annid,’ Voro murmured back.

‘And I heard the other Hatti talking. If what they’re saying is true it’s an astonishing story. They are the embassy from Hattusa — not her! She found them, and just — well, she took over.’

Voro smiled. ‘This is how the world works, I think. An ambitious Jackdaw, a disempowered queen, with knowledge and ability and cunning, in the right place and the right time — such people can change everything.’

As long as obstacles like Milaqa’s mother were removed. ‘It’s not right. If my mother were alive-’

‘But she is not,’ Voro said firmly. ‘Anyhow I thought you were the famous rebel, Milaqa. It’s hard to believe you’re demanding that things be done by the rules now!’ He was grinning at her. Mocking her. Voro, the puppy dog!

Furious at him, at Bren and Kilushepa — furious at her mother for being dead — she stalked away and found a place to sit alone at the edge of the clearing, beside the tipped-up root of a great fallen tree.

Of course it was the Trojan who found her first.

‘Go away.’

‘Oh, come on.’ He settled easily to the ground behind her. His lips shone with the grease of the meat he had eaten, and he carried a skin flask. ‘I brought you some of my ale. You want to try some?’

‘No.’ But now she felt graceless. She lifted a flask of her own. ‘I have this. Fruit, honey and water.’

‘Suit yourself.’ He took a draught of his ale, and let out a satisfied belch. ‘We didn’t get off to the best of starts, did we? My fault, I admit it.’

She fingered the iron arrowhead at her neck — a nervous gesture; she dropped her hand. ‘And this is your way of having another try at me, is it?’

He laughed. ‘I’m not that subtle. Believe me — I’m really not. We’re going to be stuck with each other all the way across Northland. And besides, you’ve a choice of talking to me or that streak of gristle over there.’ He meant Voro, who was hovering by the fire, trying not to be seen to be watching them. ‘He’s no doubt a decent fellow. If you want me to clear off so you can call him over-’

‘No,’ she said impulsively.

He laughed again and drank more ale. ‘Or of course you could talk to some of these farmers, if you know the tongue.’

‘They aren’t the savages Kilushepa believes them to be.’

‘Of course they’re not. Do you know what they call themselves? The People of Venus. The wandering star is their principal goddess. And the way these stones are lined up is something to do with how Venus drifts around the sky. Don’t ask me to explain. All this is locked up in the memories of their elders. They’re a deep people — as all people are.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘Because I keep my ears open, and my eyes. Because I too am deeper than you might think. Certainly than Kilushepa suspects, and that suits me fine. Mind you, I wouldn’t go into that big central hall if I were you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because among these people, when grandmother dies they cut out her guts and her brains and hang her up to dry out in the rafters, over the fire. It’s nothing but corpses in there, dangling. Their feet knock your hat off.’

She snorted laughter.

‘Here’s what I think, daughter of the Annid. I think you and I have a lot in common.’

She remembered Voro saying something similar. Somehow she believed it of Qirum. ‘How can that be? I never met anybody like you before.’

‘Like me?’

She looked at him, his slab of a body, his scars, his arrogant bearing. ‘A fighter.’

‘So nobody fights in Northland?’

‘Not the way you people do.’

He grinned. ‘That fascinates you, doesn’t it? And that’s why we fight, you know. Deep down, underneath it all. The glamour. The thrill of hard muscle, the stink of blood. The finest sport anybody ever invented — war! You Northlanders don’t know what you’re missing.’

‘Then why do you say we have something in common?’

‘Because we’re both outsiders. We’re neither of us here for our own reasons, are we? I’m here because of what the Tawananna wants to achieve, which is to rebuild the Hatti’s relationship with Northland, use that to win back her own position at home, and skewer her enemies. And you are here because — well, I’m not sure. You’re no trader, are you? Must be something to do with your famous mother. And that nice Hatti arrowhead you wear around your pretty neck.’

She frowned. ‘You don’t know anything about me… How do you know it’s Hatti?’

He reached out and cupped the arrow-point in his fingers. The back of his hand brushed her bare flesh, as he surely intended, and she tried not to show how it thrilled her. ‘Only they can manufacture iron hard enough to use as a weapon.’ He glanced across the village space. ‘So here we are in the presence of an exiled Hatti queen, and a Northland trader who seems hungry for a little power himself, and a bit of weapon-quality iron. How does it all fit together, do you think?’ He pulled back. ‘Listen, daughter of an Annid — let’s you and me stick together. We each need an ally.’

She said grudgingly, ‘As long as it’s convenient.’

He laughed. ‘I wouldn’t expect anything else. Well, I’d better go have a nap before it’s time to service the Tawananna again. Goodnight, Annid’s daughter.’ He leaned over and kissed her cheek, quite gently. Then he got to his feet in a single bound, and walked off to the house he shared with Kilushepa.

She wiped away the meat grease he had left on her cheek. And then she touched the place he had kissed her, again.

The Year of the Fire Mountain: Midsummer Solstice

The visitors from the Land of the Jaguar were staying at Medoc’s home, a place called The Black, a few houses, sheep and cattle pens and potato fields tucked into the lee of the Hood. This place had taken its name from the layered black rock that protruded from the ground hereabout. Deri liked to go whale-hunting from the little natural harbour on the coast below.

On midsummer morn itself, and despite the rolled eyes of his wife Vala, Medoc decided it would be a good idea to take Tibo and Caxa for a walk up to the summit of the Hood. A unique chance to see a fire mountain in its pomp!

It was almost noon by the time Tibo met Medoc with the Jaguar girl, at the head of the track leading out of the little settlement. Already The Black was alive with its own celebration of midsummer, the day of Northland’s Giving. A party of boys, both Northlanders and Ice Folk, went from house to house, handing over gifts of food, leather, carved stone, fine bone fishhooks, and receiving gifts in return. They were followed by a procession led by the village’s chief priest, singing songs of earth and sky in a mixture of tongues. It was noisy, pleasant chaos. And nobody seemed bothered by the tremendous column of smoke that loomed into the sky from the mountain just to the north, or by the steady drizzle of ash that turned everything and everybody a faint grey, coming down in the brilliant sunshine of the year’s longest day.

As Tibo arrived, Medoc was loading a pack on his back the size of a mountain itself, stuffed with water and food. Caxa stood beside Medoc, with sturdy boots on her feet and a leather cap on her head to keep the drifting ash out of her hair. She looked bewildered, as so often since she’d arrived on this island. But today she had particular cause, Tibo thought. Medoc was explaining to her what was going on. ‘See, we’re a mix of Northland folk and Ice Folk, each with their own traditions. But we merge them happily together. To us, the whole world is a gift of the little mothers, and today we give back in return. And where the Ice Folk come from there’s nothing to eat but animals and fish and the beasts of the sea, and they know that an animal will only give you the gift of its flesh if it is willing. So today everybody gives back, you see, in thanks for the gifts of others. And at the end of the day there’ll be the Burial of the Bladders. The hunters keep the bladders of every single sea animal they kill during the year, all the way since last midsummer, and tonight they’ll climb this slope to bury them. It’s quite a sight, I can tell you, and quite a stink too..’