Free Bronze Summer by Stephen Baxter Page A

him speak. He was a good man, but he was also a walking reminder of the family’s humble roots.
    He was waiting for her reply, she realised.
    ‘Thanks,’ she said.
    ‘Here.’ Hadhe returned with a small leather pouch, stopped with a bit of bone. ‘Riban got it from a trader from the east.’
    Milaqa took the pouch, opened it, sniffed and recoiled.
    Hadhe said, ‘It’s made from the bile of a—’
    ‘Never mind,’ said Teel sternly. ‘Just drink it.’
    Milaqa braced herself, lifted the pouch, and poured the thick liquid into her mouth in a single swill. It burned her throat as it went down, and she coughed, her stomach heaving as if she would throw up after all. But then a warmth started spreading through her belly.
    Ximm had gone back to the centre of the hearthspace, and people were forming up around him, bearing tools of wood, stone and bronze, buckets of leather, water bottles, food packs. Any children old enough to walk had to carry their own little burdens; the older kids, above eight or nine, would be expected to work with the adults.
    ‘Well, we’re starting late,’ Voro said to Milaqa. ‘But we can still put in a few hours. Can I walk with you? If you’re not feeling well. Look, I even brought you a shovel.’ It was slung on his back, a willow shaft with a blade shaped from a reindeer scapula.
    She wanted to laugh at him. ‘Let’s go dredge that canal.’ She set off after Ximm, tailed by Voro.
    Teel followed her, while Hadhe called for her children.
    They were heading for a branch of one of the five great canals that dominated the landscape, named for the three little mothers and for Ana and Prokyid. The day was bright and warm, though an edge of coolness in the shadows was a reminder of the winter just over. As she walked, her arms and legs working, her lungs pumping, Milaqa began to feel better, though whether because of the air and sunlight or Riban’s potion she couldn’t have said.
    And today the butterflies were showing, she saw, yellow-green, or spectacular black and orange. In open water frogs croaked greedily as they mated. Early flowers like celandine and dead nettle peppered the grasslands, vivid yellow and red, and bees buzzed, preparing for their own long work season. This was the point of Northland’s grand design. Within the network of the roads and canals, a frame had been necessary to save this landscape from the sea, the wild was allowed to flourish.
    A hare bounded across the track, and children scampered after it noisily.
    Voro walked beside her. He said abruptly, ‘You could do worse than be a Jackdaw.’
    ‘Oh, what now, Voro?’
    ‘I know you’re having trouble with your House choice. Come into the Jackdaws. I’ve suggested it before. Look, we’re traders. We travel far. You’d enjoy that. I’ve drunk mead with tin miners too, but I went to Dumno itself to do it. A bit further than the Scambles! . . . Maybe you’re like me, Milaqa.’
    ‘I do not think so.’
    ‘A wanderer, I mean. Restless. As I always was.’
    That surprised her. ‘You? I never thought of you as restless.’
    ‘Then you got me wrong,’ he said mildly. ‘And I’m not doing so badly at it either. Ask anybody. I’ve even made a trip to Gaira with Bren himself.’ Bren was among the most senior in his House. ‘Look, Milaqa, I know you think I’m some kind of idiot. But when we were kids, when we were growing up – you were a bit younger than me—’
    ‘Nothing was ever going to happen between us,’ she snapped. Then she regretted it; her hangover kept making her say things she shouldn’t. ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘That’s not what I’m trying to say. I always thought we had a lot in common. I thought we might be allies. If something deeper had developed – well, fine. But you were always too . . .’
    ‘Arrogant?’
    ‘I wouldn’t say that.’
    But he didn’t need to. Had she really misjudged him so badly, over the years? After all – look at him now. He had made his life