‘And you?’ Grymauch asked Boillard Seeton.
‘The same,’ answered the injured man.
‘Well, that’s it, then,’ said Grymauch.
‘The hell it is!’ stormed the youth, his voice shaking with anger. ‘I say we kill them.’ Huntsekker saw the pistol come up. It was pointed at his face. He stood very still.
‘We’ll kill no-one!’ said Jaim Grymauch.
‘We can’t trust them. They’ll betray us as soon as they get to Eldacre.’
‘Aye, maybe they will. That’s for them to decide,’ said Jaim softly, moving to stand between Huntsekker and the youth. ‘Killing shouldn’t be easy, boy. Life should be precious.’
‘How precious would it have been had he caught ms?’
‘I am not responsible for the way other men live their lives,’ said Grymauch, ‘only how I live mine. If a man comes against me, and I have no choices, I’ll kill him. But I’ll not murder unarmed men. Put away that pistol.’
‘You are making a mistake, Grymauch.’
‘Maybe I am. If so I’ll live with it.’
‘I never thought you a fool till now,’ said the youth. Huntsekker watched him uncock the pistol and walk away. Grymauch turned to Chain Shada, offering his hand.
‘The boy might be right,’ said the Varlish fighter, taking the hand and shaking it.
‘Aye,’ agreed Grymauch. ‘Time will tell.’
‘Be lucky,’ said Chain Shada. Without another word he swung away and walked down to the old bridge.
‘How’s that bull of yours?’ asked Grymauch.
Huntsekker shrugged. ‘Broke his leg last year. We ate him and he was mighty fine.’
‘Damn shame,’ said Grymauch. ‘That was one good bull.’
‘I have another now. Even better.’
‘I might just drop by and see him.’
‘If you do you’ll be picking shot out of your arse for a month.’
Grymauch laughed. ‘Take care, Harvester,’ he said, then he too strolled away.
Huntsekker watched him go, then walked into the undergrowth to check on his men. They were all still unconscious, though their heartbeats were strong. He returned to Boillard Seeton.
‘I’ve never seen the like,’ said Boillard. ‘One moment it was all silence, the next that big bastard was right there. Three blows and the others was down. I pulled my knife then that bastard kid appeared and shot me. By the Sacrifice I’ll see him swing and I’ll piss on his grave.’
‘No, you won’t, Boillard. You gave your word.’
‘Under duress,’ argued Boillard. ‘Don’t count.’
‘Mine does.’
‘Well, I’m not you, Harvester. You do as you wish. Nobody shoots Boillard Seeton and gets away with it.’ The man pushed himself to his feet. ‘Damn, but I’ll enjoy seeing them hang.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Huntsekker’s scythe whispered from its sheath, then plunged through Boillard’s thin back, spearing his heart. With a sickening wrench Huntsekker pulled the blade clear. Boillard toppled forward. The cool breeze blew again across Huntsekker’s face.
This time there was no magic in it.
CHAPTER NINE
MAEV RING PATROLLED THE OLD BARN, WATCHING THE WORK OF THE twelve spinners, stopping here and there to offer advice to the newest of the women, who was having trouble co-ordinating the foot pedal of the bulky machine while feeding the yarn to the wheel with her left hand. ‘Keep it steady and not too slow,’ said Maev. ‘It will come.’
The woman smiled nervously. The twelve machines had cost Maev three pounds each. They had been carted in pieces all the way from the capital, Varingas, and reassembled in the old barn. It had taken months for Maev to learn the process, and to acquire enough, skill to train others. The enterprise had been fraught with irritating delays and mistakes, but after two years Maev’s spinners were creating enough good thread to supply the majority of Eldacre’s shirt and clothing makers. The five weavers were creating rugs that were now highly prized, and the small dyeing plant Maev had acquired by the river in north Eldacre meant that she could hire even more women to knit brightly coloured and heavy woollen overshirts. These were immensely popular among the Varlish in winter.
Maev Ring could have grown mildly wealthy with these enterprises alone. But she had a problem. It was one that most Varlish would give anything to share. Maev’s other business ventures were so successful she was becoming a rich woman. The seeds of her dilemma had been planted when she acquired a forty per cent share in the business of Gillam Pearce the bootmaker. His work was of exceptional quality, but his business acumen was non-existent. He had been facing debtor’s gaol when Maev entered his workshop five years earlier. Gillam, a small red-faced man, was sitting at his bench, applying a third coat of polish to a pair of riding boots.