The Tiger and the Wolf by [email protected] Read Free Book Online Page B

preference. Or so it
was said amongst the River Lords.
Asmander knew full well that his own people’s gods were also
partial to their ration of blood. If Old Crocodile liked his sacrifices to be public and ritualized, that still left the offerings just as
dead as some heart-ripping festival of the Plains people. He was
a young man cynical beyond his years, who could smile at a
great many things that others held terribly solemn. He knew that
above all the gods and totems of the world there was one great
and controlling spirit, and it was named Expediency. Honour
was all very well – and something he valued deeply and pursued
incessantly – and yet he was sourly aware that if one refused
Expediency its necessary sacrifices, then the goodwill of every
other god, never mind all the honour in the world, would get
you nowhere.
At last Venater deigned to step ashore, getting no more than
his bare feet wet. He was a broad-shouldered creature, a man of
close on twice Asmander’s age. A skin the colour of wet sand
was scarred by innumerable fights, then scarred again by the
deliberate tallies of deeds his people kept, an intricate and secret
history of murder, raid and private brawl written in jagged weals
down the broad canvas of his upper arms. He wore his hair long
and unkempt, framing a lantern jaw, hollow eyes hard like flint,
a nose broken more than once.
One of the Horse Society passed them by as they stood on
the bank. ‘We must make a good showing for the Laughing
Men,’ he told them.
Looking at the Horse delegation, Asmander decided ‘a good
showing’ consisted of prominently displayed weapons.
‘Why are we even bothering?’ Venater growled. ‘Your father is
sending us off to die in the north, not at the hands of these
scum.’
‘He is not sending us to die anywhere,’ Asmander reproached.
‘And we bother because the Horse trade here, and they must
keep the locals happy. And, if we want to get any further north
than this place, we must do as we’re asked.’
The two of them were travelling light: easier to ship River
Nation coin than to clog the boat with everything they might
need. Both were warriors, though, and when the Laughing Men
came down to the riverbank, they found in the two southerners
as martial a display as they could ask for. Asmander had donned
a quilted tunic, with a plate of flat stone sewn into each pocket
to make it hard armour. A stone-toothed wooden sword – the maccan of the River People – dangled from a strap at one wrist,
and there were jade spurs at his ankles.
Venater was already wearing a coat of sharkskin, which made
him a fearsome opponent to grapple and an unpleasant figure to
sit next to in the close confines of a boat. Bracers of tortoiseshell
covered his forearms and the backs of his hands, and his weapon
was the meret , the blade-edged club of greenstone which he kept
thrust through the cord of his belt. His stance suggested that he
would be only too glad if the Horse diplomacy turned sour.
The locals – the Laughing Men – were already making themselves known, sloping down the riverbank with an insolent
disdain. They were all on four feet, and Asmander knew that
arriving Stepped to a first meeting was common amongst the
Plains people. It hid what weapons they might be carrying,
locked within those lean-flanked animal forms. He could see the
glint of bronze in their teeth, but there was no way to know if
they might suddenly leap into human form with arrows leaving
the string or spears taking to the air. Also, he had to admit, they
were an intimidating sight.
‘Pretty lot, aren’t they?’ Venater growled. Probably he was
wondering about fighting them. Fighting people was, to
Asmander’s certain knowledge, one of the few subjects that
really occupied the older man’s mind. Travelling with him was
like walking under a sky constantly about to storm: human mind
and beast soul united in perfect bloody-handed harmony.
These