Free Tales of Downfall and Rebirth by S. M. Stirling Page B

crossing from camp to camp, horse swapping as Lester called it, meeting and greeting and making small deals. They dropped in on the Doubledoubles to see Raki’s mother, and her son promptly invited Finch out to something called a track meet.
    She looked to the Baron. “Shall I?”
    â€œYes. Shine those eyes around,” he murmured. “And by the way, if you’re worried about me leaving you here as a hostage—”
    She shook her head, and was surprised to feel a small hum of disappointment, one low chord.
    The young people at the Hoedown were engaged in games she knew from her own cubhood in Morrowland, practices that in time led to hunting: ringtoss, a throwing game called chunkey stone. Some of those her age had made foot-powered ice sledges and were racing them: Raki showed her how to drive one, and waited as she drew a plan of its undercarriage and asked its makers exhaustive questions on its construction.
    Her gaze kept returning to his smoky eyes, the tattooed arch of his brow. Her thoughts, as she walked with him, became far from businesslike.
    He gave her a snow snake, recompense for the picture she had drawn that morning. She tucked the weapon, a short sort of throwing spear whose use she didn’t immediately see, into her pack. She would practice with it, take its measure.
    After the games, she and he crossed the lake so she could examine the glaze on the totems. The stacked hats rose up fifty feet or more, and had facets beaten into them: a honeycomb pattern, invisible at a distance, that caught the light and reflected it at different angles. Bits of fool’s gold on the bands of the hat brims brightened the effect.
    â€œThis is Lester’s work?”
    â€œThe people of Haida Gwai have claimed Raven for their own,” he said. “Magpie, Lester says, is that trickster’s poor cousin. An illusionist: you should see him do card tricks.”
    He was saying something important, but before she could puzzle its meaning, he stepped close and kissed her.
    She kissed back as a summer storm of feelings gusted up within her. Her arms came round him, barely reaching because of the bulk of their heavy coats.
    He tastes like Bright.
    She remembered his opposition to the Pack’s sending the Eyes of Explorer Troop as far as Montival. What would he think if he knew where she was now, how far away?
    She had wanted to go.
    She pushed on Raki’s chest, lightly, and he stepped back right away. “I shouldn’t tangle with—I’m returning to the South.”
    â€œI wouldn’t hold you,” Raki replied, tracing the line of her jaw with his thumb.
    She caught his hand, feeling her whole body sing with desire.
    What had Lester said? Winter demands unanimity of purpose. A Scout should be certain: mind and body in accord. “May I think about it?”
    He nodded, and took her to see another totem, a great metallic riding animal, on a balance, with a big scoop for a head. Liquid black covered it, as though it had just been dipped in thick glossy paint. It had a saddle, and a ladder leading up to it.
    â€œPetroleum pumpjack,” Raki said. “The ancients used them to drink the blood of the earth.”
    Though the thing was more machine than monster, its red eyes had that same lifelike quality; they burned with madness, a need to devour. The whole totem seemed to strain to come to life, to spring to the hunt. She was happy to flee its gaze.
    That night, Huon said to Finch. “What do you make of the Cree?”
    â€œThe chiefs speak of a Council, but they look to our guide when we talk of the baker.”
    â€œLester pretends to be an itinerant old sculptor, but his voice carries weight here,” Huon agreed.
    â€œAre you—” Finch thought better of the question.
    â€œYes?”
    She shook her head.
    â€œIt’s all right, Finch.”
    â€œYour mother betrayed Artos.”
    He nodded.
    â€œLady d’Ath wants this man