Part 2 (1/2)

He walked past Shannow without speaking and the man wandered to the paddock where the steeldust gelding trotted to him, nuzzling his hand. There was gra.s.s in the pen, but Shannow would have liked to give him grain. The beast could run for miles without effort, but fed on grain he could run for ever. Five years ago Shannow had won 2, 000 Barta coins in three races, but the gelding was too old now for such ventures. Shannow returned to his saddlebags and removed the oilskin gun-pouch.

Pulling the left-hand pistol from its scabbard, he tapped out the barrel pin and released the cylinder, placing it carefully on the porch beside him. Then he ran an oiled cloth through the barrel and cleaned dust from the trigger mechanism. The pistol was nine inches long and weighed several pounds, but Shannow had long since ceased to notice the weight. He checked the cylinder for dust and then slipped it back into place, pressing home the wedge bar and replacing the weapon in its scabbard. The right-hand pistol was two inches shorter and bra.s.s-mounted with b.u.t.t plates of polished ivory, unlike the dark apple-wood of the longer weapon. Despite the difference in barrel length it was this weapon that fired true, the other kicking to the left and unreliable at anything but close quarters. Shannow cleaned the pistol lovingly and looked up to see Eric watching him closely, his eyes fixed on the gun.

'Will you shoot it?' asked the boy.

'There is nothing to shoot at,' said Shannow.

'Does it make a loud noise?'

'Yes - and the smoke smells like the Devil, Have you never heard a gun fire?'

'Once when the Prester shot a lion - but I was only five. Mr Fletcher has a pistol, and several of the Committee have long rifles; they are more powerful now than any war- maker.'

'You like Mr Fletcher, Eric?'

'He has always been nice to me. He's a great man; he's the Prester now.'

'Then why is your mother afraid of him and his Committee?'

'Oh, that's just women,' said Eric. 'Mr Fletcher and my father had an argument and Mr Fletcher said the carpenter should live in Rivervale where the work was needed. The Committee voted on it. Mr Fletcher wanted to buy the farm but Father said no, I don't know why. It would be nice to live in Rivervale where all the people are. And Mr Fletcher really likes mother; he told me that, he said she was a fine lady. I like him.'

'Did . . . does your father like him?'

'Father doesn't like anybody. He likes me sometimes, when I do my ch.o.r.es well or when I help him without dropping anything.'

'Is he the only carpenter in Rivervale?'

'He was, but Mr Fletcher has a man working for him who says he's a carpenter. Father laughs about him; he says the man thinks a dove joint is found on a pigeon's leg!'

Shannow grinned. The boy looked younger when he smiled.

'Are you a war-maker, Mr Shannow? Truly?'

'No, Eric. As I told your mother, I am a man who loves peace.'

'But you have guns?'

'I travel through the wild lands, Eric; they are necessary.'

Two wagons crested the skyline. 'That will be the Ja.n.u.s family and the McGravens,' said Eric.

Shannow replaced his guns in their scabbards and moved into the house, hanging the weapons on the hook inside the door.

'Your guests have begun to arrive,' he told Donna. The house smelt of fresh-baked bread and cakes. 'Is there anything I can do?'

'Help Eric prepare the barbecue fires.'

All morning wagons arrived, until more than twenty formed several lines inside the pasture. With three barbecue fires burning and almost fifty people moving about, Shannow felt uncomfortable. He wandered to the barn for a little solitude and found two young people holding hands in the shadows.

'I am sorry to disturb you,' he said, turning to leave.

'It's all right,' said the young man. 'My name is Ja.n.u.s, Stefan Ja.n.u.s. This is Susan McGraven.' Shannow shook hands with them and moved outside.

As he stood by the paddock, the steeldust gelding ran to him and Shannow stroked his neck. 'Almost time to leave,' he told the horse.

A woman's voice rang out. 'Susan! Where are you?' The young girl ran from the barn.

'I'm coming,' she answered. The young man joined Shannow; he was tall and fair-haired and his eyes were serious, his face intelligent.

'Are you staying in Rivervale?'

'No, I am a traveller.'

'A traveller who is uncomfortable with crowds,' observed Ja.n.u.s.

'Even so.'

'You will find the crowd less hostile when the people are known to you. Come, I will introduce you to some friendly faces.'

He took Shannow into the throng, and there followed much shaking of hands and a bewildering series of names which Shannow could not absorb - but the lad was right, and he began to feel more comfortable.

'And what do you do, Mr Shannow?' came the inevitable question, this time from a burly farmer named Evanson.

'Mr Shannow is searching for a city,' said Donna Taybard, joining them. 'He is a historian.'

'Oh,' responded Evanson, his face portraying his lack of interest. 'And how are you, Donna? Any sign of Tomas?'

'No. Is Anne with you?'

'I am afraid not. She stayed with Ash Burry; his wife is not well.'

Shannow slipped away, leaving them to their conversation. Children were playing near the paddock and he sat on the porch watching them. Everyone here seemed different from the people of the south; their faces were ruddy and healthy and they laughed often. Elsewhere, where Brigands rode, there was always a tension - a wariness in the eyes. Shannow felt apart from the people of Rivervale.

Towards the afternoon a group of riders came down the hill, six men riding directly towards the house. Shannow drifted back into the main room and watched them from a window. Donna Taybard saw them at the same time and wandered over, followed by a dozen or so of her neighbours.

The riders reined in and a tall man in a white woollen s.h.i.+rt stepped from the saddle. He was around thirty years old and his hair was black and close-cropped, his face dark and handsome.

'Good day, Donna.'

'And to you, Mr Fletcher.'

'I am glad to see you enjoying yourself. Any word from Tomas?'

'No. I am thinking of going to the arroyo where you left him and marking his grave.'

The man flushed deep red. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'Go away, Saul. I do not want you here.'

People were gathering around the riders and a silence settled over the scene.