Now the nights were as long as the days. The causeway could be crossed in darkness only if the moon was full and the clouds scanty, but one tide in two did not give enough work time to clear the backlog. Every year these last two weeks were critical. In some years the moon was helpful; in others it was not. The wagons splashed out onto the causeway as soon as the tide ebbed, and the last crossing was made in the teeth of the flow. Often on the island side they did not waste time climbing to the castle—urgent hands threw out their loads on the dock and sent them back for another. Men and horses worked and rested, the wagons themselves rolled unceasingly, and when the tide was high they brought their cargoes to the landward end of the causeway and went back at once for more. The piles were still growing larger instead of smaller.
To the ephemeral settlement by the shore cottages came the herdboy Rap, driving in the charges the herders had guarded jealously all summer so that they might die now. He arrived just after sunset. Flakes of snow drifted aimless in the air—a warning from the God of Winter, but not yet a serious assault.
Rap fastened the corral gate, threw his tack on the heap, and headed off through the gathering darkness in search of food. He was bone-weary and grubby inside his furs, and he had a gratifying stubble on his lip, but his most urgent problem was hunger. The shingle beach was an inferno of controlled confusion. Here the excess cattle were being slaughtered and butchered, their flesh salted into casks, bones boiled, hides cleaned and bundled for later curing. Blood and entrails were being collected and made into sausage. It was only here and at this time that fresh meat was freely available to the common folk of Krasnegar, and his mouth watered at the thought of it.
The flickering flames of the driftwood fires danced sideways below the wind, throwing unearthly glows on the high stacks of hides and peat and hay. Curls of snowflakes swirled over the hard dark ground, seeking sheltered places in the shadows to make small drifts. The wind brought smoke-tainted first with delicious cooking odors and then with the unbearable stench of the abbatoir. It brought the sound of cattle bellowing in the corrals and the rush of waves on the shingle. Men and woman hurried by, swathed in the anonymity of fur, stooped and huddled against the cold like bulky misshapen bears.
As he picked his way between the grotesque mountains of produce, Rap wondered how many wagonloads they represented. He wondered also how many days were left before the road would close. But those were Foronod’s problems, not his. The king’s factor must be a literate man, so however Rap might serve the crown of Krasnegar in his coming manhood, it would not be in the post of factor. He found the grub line and joined on the end, noting that most of the men and women there looked just as listless and filthy as he did.
“Hi, Rap! You’ve grown!” the woman in front of him said. Her name was Ufio, Verantor’s wife, and she was pretty. Rap grinned and said he was sorry, he hadn’t meant to, and how was the baby. It seemed weeks since he had even seen a woman, let alone had a chance to talk with one.
Men he knew arrived and exchanged greetings; old friends, people he had not seen in months. They told him he had grown.
The line grew shorter before him, longer behind. He shivered and he shifted from one aching leg to the other. He pondered what task he might be given next. He was very much in between now: too old for the best of the kids’ jobs, not old enough to be trusted with men’s. Whatever it was, he would do his best. That had been another of his mother’s principles.
Then he was trudging off over the shingle bearing a mug of something hot and a platter heaped with steaming beef. Seeking shelter from the cold, he edged into one of the cottages. It was packed like a fish barrel. The single bench was crammed with people, and the floor also was covered with bodies, eating or talking or snoring. The air was as thick as whale oil, reeking of men and food, but at least he was out of the wind. One lamp guttered on a littered table in the center. He found a space, sank down on the ground, and prepared to gorge.
“You’ve grown!” a man behind him said.
Rap peered, shifting his head to let light fall on the face.
“Lin? You’ve got a new voice!”
“About time, too!” Lin spoke with deep satisfaction.
“How’s the arm?” Rap asked, with his mouth full.
Lin looked down at his arm in surprise, as if he had already forgotten his summer accident. “Fine.”
Rap gestured with his head toward the door. “The work?” he mumbled, still eating.
Lin shrugged. “They say it’ll be all right if the weather holds.”
At sunset the sky to the north had been blacker than the castle walls, but neither of them mentioned that. A wagon rumbled by outside, making the dirt floor throb.
“What’s the news?” Rap asked. “I’ve been stuck up in the hills like a boulder all summer.”
“Not much,” Lin squeaked. He scowled at Rap’s chuckle and managed to find his lower register again. He listed a few births and marriages and deaths. “They say . . .” His voice sank to a husky whisper. “They say the king is not well.”
Rap frowned and chewed at a rib and wondered about Inos, far away in Kinvale. She would not know, of course, so she would not be worried. But what happened if the king died when she was not here to succeed him? The thought of young Inos suddenly being elevated to queen was staggering. Still, being unwell did not necessarily lead to dying.
Then, feeling bearish, as if he would never need to eat again and could cheerfully sleep from now until spring, Rap added his platter and tankard to a nearby pile. He wiped his greasy mouth with the back of his hand. Lin had found room to stretch out and was already into the droopy-eyelid stage. Probably he ought to do the same, Rap thought. There would be work enough in the morning and all the others in the cottage had been here longer than he had, so they should be called first.
A tall man stooped through the door and stood for a moment. He pushed back his hood and silence fell at the sight of the silver hair. His face was gaunt and pale as driftwood, with blue shadows under the eyes and a white stubble that was almost a beard—the factor. From the way he stood, he might have been inspecting his workers, or perhaps he was letting the troops inspect him, their leader. He was their symbol of defiance against the coming onslaught, his obvious exhaustion both a challenge and a comfort. All eyes not closed by sleep fastened on his.
“Any wagon drivers in here?” Foronod demanded.
Rap scrambled to his feet as a voice from across the room said,
“Yes, sir.”
It was Ollo, and he was the best. Rap was already sitting down again as Foronod nodded to Ollo, but he did acknowledge Rap with a faint smile that probably meant next year. The two men departed and the cottage sank back into weary apathy again.
“He said drivers, not sailors,” Lin muttered sleepily.
“Was it you who started that garbage?”
“No, it was you.” Lin rolled over and put his head on one arm.
Pity about Ollo . . . Rap very much wanted to drive a wagon again. Once was not enough. He could hardly sit at the drivers’ table when he’d only run a team once, and never up the hill, only down.
The bodies around him had shifted and penned him in. He had no room to stretch out. He was too weary to go look for somewhere else. He leaned his arms on his knees and yawned. They were not going to start breaking in new drivers at this point in the year, not in the final sprint.
His head dropped forward and jerked him awake again. It was good to have more company—he had grown very tired of the same few herder faces. He wondered what Inos was doing. He told himself not to be foolish. He thought of the castle and the stablehands’ quarters and the men and boys and girls he would meet again. Only one would be missing.
His head fell over once more, waking him again. He would have to find somewhere to stretch out . . . unless he could lie on his side and stay curled up . . .