Twenty feet upslope a heavily built man stepped into view. He was brown-bearded, dressed in patched pants and a loose jacket of faded plaid with three of the four buttons missing. His right hand was at his chin, two fingers hooked around a taut bowstring. The arrow notched in the string carried a four-inch head of polished steel, and it was aimed at Chester’s navel.
“I know yew Downlanders move like the snake Demon when the Kez-favver tricked him into the fire pit, but Blew-tewf leaps faster van fought,” the bearded man drawled in a barely intelligible dialect. “What yew want here in Free Places? Was life too tame down below?”
Chester frowned, running the sounds of the stranger’s barbaric speech through his mind, noting sound substitutions and intonations; the pattern of the dialect was simple.
“If yew don’t mind, I’d ravver Blew-tewf pointed over vere somewhere,” Chester replied, motioning toward the deep woods, his eyes on the arrowhead. “Yew might just have greasy fingers or somefing of the sort.”
“No need to mock the cant,” the man said in clear English. “I was ten when I left the Downlands. Now, what do you want here?”
“I was rather hoping to discover a route back to the valley, but I’d settle for merely remaining unskewered and unbroiled. Do you mind if I press on? The fire is blowing this way, you know.”
“Don’t worry about the fire. I set it myself to run game. It’ll burn out against the escarpment above. Now move off to your right and up past me. Blue-Tooth will be watching every move.”
“I’m heading in the other direction,” Chester said.
“You better do what I told you. Like you said, the fire’s gettin’ hot.” The arrow was still aimed unwaveringly at Chester’s stomach. The bow creaked as the bearded man set the arrowhead on the handgrip. “Make up your mind.”
“But what in the world do you want with me?”
“Let’s say I want news of the Downlands.”
“Who are you? What are you doing up here in the hills? If you want news, you could come down to the Center.”
“My name’s Bandon, and I wouldn’t be happy in your blasted Center. Don’t turn around, just keep movin’ along—and if yew’re finkin’ of the little trinket tucked away back of your ear, forget it. Yew’re out of range.”
“You’re planning on holding me here for ransom?”
“What treasures could Downlanders offer to equal the life of the Free Places? Bandon laughed.
“You’ll let me go in the morning?”
“Not in the morning or for many a morning vereafter. Forget the tame valleys, Downlander. Yew’ll be here until yew die.”
8
Twilight was fading from the peaks as Chester and Bandon clambered over the stones of a fallen wall to the level surface of a road that curved between tall poplars toward low buildings silhouetted against the peach-colored sky.
“This is our town, Downlander,” Bandon said, breathing hard after the climb. “There’s food here, and a fire against the night chill, and strong ale, and the fellowship of free men: all your needs between dusk and dawn.”
“Very poetic,” Chester said, noting the potholes and weed clumps in the road. “But you left out a few things I’ve grown accustomed to, like literature, celery, dentists and clean socks. And it looks like some of your houses lack roofs.”
“What’s a few leaks to a free man?” Bandon snapped.
“Every man to his own little eccentricity,” Chester said. “But why do I have to join your club? I’ll go quietly.”
“Yew came here uninvited,” Bandon said flatly. He lowered and unstrung his bow. “Don’t be fool enough to try to leave. There’s sentries posted to guard our approaches.”
“I know; I saw them.”
“In this light? Our best woodsmen?”
“Just joking,” said Chester.
“Maybe you did, at that. You Downlanders are keen-eyed as the Kez-father himself. Tell me, where did you learn the cant?”
“Your dialect? Oh, I . . . ah . . . studied it. A hobby of mine.”
“Then it’s not true what some say, that you Downlanders can learn our speech in the wink of an eye?”
“A baseless rumor.”
“I thought so. Come along now an’ we’ll see what the brothers make of you.” They made their way in the deepening gloom toward the nearest of the buildings. Chester made out the details of chipped carving around doorways, fallen trellises, collapsed porticos. A broken statue lay in the road.
“This must have been a pretty nice town, once,” Chester said. “What happened to it?”
Bandon snorted. “We threw off all those slave notions about drudging away to put on a show for the neighbors. We’re free here. No one to tell us what to do. Folks that didn’t like the idea moved out. Good riddance. We don’t need ’em.”
“Swell,” Chester agreed. “But what happens when it gets cold?”
“Plenty wood around here. We build fires.”
Chester eyed the blackened foundation of a burned-out house. “I see . . . ”
“That was an accident,” Bandon growled. “Plenty more houses where that came from.” He stopped. “Hold it right here.” He threw back his head and whistled shrilly. From doorways and dark hedges and the shadows of ragged trees, men appeared.
Chester estimated the crowd of unshaved, hide-clad hill-dwellers who surrounded him at fifty individuals, all male—none of them, he reflected, of the kind who would arouse a desire for further acquaintance.
“Vis Downlan’er’s a guest,” Bandon was saying to the assembled brethren. “We’ll treat him as one of us—unless he tries tew go somewhere. Now, I’m takin’ him in the palace wiv me—jus’ until he can get a place of his own fix’ up. I warn yew now: if he comes tew harm, I’ll hol’ the lot of yew personally responsible.”
A tall, incredibly broad man in striped coveralls black with dirt swaggered forward. “We heard a lot about how tough vese Downlanders are,” he growled. “Vis one don’t look so tough.”
“Maybe he’s smart—vat’s better yet,” Bandon snapped. “Leave him alone, Grizz. Vat’s an order.”
Grizz looked around at his fellows. “Funny none of us is good enough tew get tew sleep in the palace. But vis spy here walks in an’ right away he’s treated like the Kez-favver hisself when he went tew fetch the king hat back from the sea bottom.”
“Never mind vat. Now yew boys get a fire goin’ in the Hall and roast up some venison and break open a few kegs of ale. We’re goin’ tew have a real celebration here tew show the new man what kind of jolly free life we lead.”
A few shouts rang out, a faint yippee sounded from the rear. Grizz stared at Bandon. “We got no venison. Plenty canned beans and stale crackers. Only ale we got is a couple cases of near-beer Lonny stole last week.”
“Dew the best yew can,” Bandon snapped. “Look lively about it. I want tew see yew lookin’ cheerful around here.” He turned to Chester and motioned toward an imposing façade featuring chipped columns and broken glass. “Come along tew the palace; yew’ll have a chance tew get cleaned up before the feast.”
“Jus’ a minute,” Grizz said. He stepped up to Chester, brought an iron bar into view.
“I warned you, Grizz,” Bandon started.
“I won’ hurt him—yet.” Grizz growled. He gripped the bar at either end, hunched his shoulders and strained. The metal gave, bent to a crude U. He let out his breath, shoved the bar at Chester.
“Straighten it, Swamp-walker.”
“Not in the mood,” Chester said mildly.
Grizz barked a laugh, dropped the bar with a clatter, stepped to the roadside and came back with a massive chunk of carved stone. “Here, catch.” He heaved the boulder toward Chester, who moved his foot barely in time as the rock crashed down.
Bandon strung his bow with a quick motion. “Vat’s enough, Grizz,” he snapped. “Come along, Downlan’er.”
“I’ll be seein’ yew, Swamp-walker,” Grizz called after them.
Chester followed Bandon across a littered stone terrace, past gaunt paint-peeling doors into an echoing interior that smelled of stale hides and forgotten food scraps. A broken-down sofa leaned in one corner beside a table with a bandaged leg. A heap of bedding sprawled by a wide fireplace stacked with splintered chair rungs. A staircase with a broken banister curved up past a glassless window to a gallery.
“The place looks a little run-down,” Chester commented. “Who used to live here?”
“Dunno.” Bandon took a lighter from his pocket, snapped it until it caught. “‘Bout out of fluid,” he said. “Used to be some boss types lived here, but when we wouldn’t take orders, they just moved out—had to get down in the flatlands to get fitted for chains, I guess.”
“What kind of orders?”
“Oh, you know. Always wantin’ to set up a committee to patch roofs or clean gutters or string wire. Dirty work.”
“I think perhaps they had some reason on their side,” Chester said, looking around at peeling wallpaper and decayed curtains.