Chapter Four: What a Picture Is Worth

Radovin squinted into the morning sunlight, shading his eyes with one hand. Ten clusters of hide-covered shelters formed a loose circle in the meadow across the stream. The White Horse camp's largest tent half concealed an agitated group. He watched two men split off, one after the other.

The tall one with sun-colored hair had to be Lovaduc. Even at this distance he stood out. The slim fellow trotting after him--Ottavar, grandson of Kayotar and heir to his position? Not very dignified, for one of the Dedicated. But Radovin's grandfather had been a high-ranked shaman, and he had not been stone stiff. It was Ivergan's way to make one forget there were other ways. Radovin snorted his disgust. He was done with that one.

Must be...what's his name...Hacaben meeting them there. Radovin knew the names of the headmen and elder shamans of every band, but he wouldn't recognize most of their faces any more than they would his. Too long ago a thoughtless child cared only about fun and games at a Summermeet.

The trio examined two pieces of what had once kept rain off Radovin, waving their hands in animated discussion. If only he knew what they said.

Surely the White Horse band would at least hear him out before kicking him out. If he could get in without being seen by any of Bodisar's butt-lickers. He had to. The spirit of Kayotar had told him to, his own heart told him to.

It was a daunting prospect. He had been isolated for years, forced to leave the camp and hide when any visitors came. He had not been to a gathering since his tenth summer. His place in the Bull band had been lower than the bottom of a squat-basket. Now he should just walk up to a strange headman and say, "Hai, good morning, I'm Radovin and I know who killed your father." Uh-huh. He'd tie his legs together with his stupid tongue.

Maybe tonight...no, it was too risky to go another night without sleep. Last night, waiting for things to quiet down so he could get on with his work, he had half dozed off. Someone had strolled out behind the camp. The man came almost close enough to trip over him before he snapped awake.

It was time to get out of here. This hill was a popular place for young folk to hang out. Scuttling backwards on all fours, he retreated until he was out of view of the camps.

"Bloody thundering Underworld! If somebody knows something, why don't they open their mouth up where it will do some good, instead of sneaking around leaving--decorated snotwipes on sticks?" Lovaduc, never at his best before breakfast, appeared on the edge of a stamping rage.

"Dear, maybe they can't say anything openly," Sherilana said. "Whoever it is might be afraid to come forward. If that--those--creatures--have done it once, they'll do it again. Now, please, you're upsetting everyone." She cast a meaningful glance at Kewarratiwa.

Tevina and Jesumi hovered protectively around the young woman. Ottavar wished he could. Kewarratiwa was no coward, but he understood her aversion to large, angry men. The rest of the band were accustomed to their leader's morning irritability. They just avoided asking questions before breakfast.

"Sorry." Lovaduc ran his fingers through his hair. "You're right, love. But that's all the more reason we have to find out, and do something before it's too late. That bloody bastard Bodisar wants to be the only bull in the herd, and.... Vahé, it could be anyone next."

Ottavar's older brother, Bazenaber, craned his neck to peer at the drawing Lovaduc held. "Not very good, is it?" No one paid him any attention.

"It almost has to be a Bull," Ottavar mused. "Who else would know anything? Hac only has the one...didn't say how many or when, just that there were more. He should know when the first one turned up." He peered at the floppy rectangle in Lovaduc's hands. "Looks like the same person did it."

"Why, what do you mean?" The headman frowned at him.

"Mmm, just the odd thought. Somebody who knew about the first one could be copying it to get you riled. The whole thing could be some apprentice's prank."

"Who else can keep a secret?" Lovaduc observed dryly.

Ottavar heard Bazenaber chuckle, and he winced. He had, after all, spoken from experience. "Let's go see Hac now. We can look at the one he has and get going on this."

Lovaduc scowled at the drawing, wrinkling his bulbous nose. "How would you know if a different person drew it?"

"Little things. No two people make the same kind of lines and curves, not exactly. You see these lines? Another artist would have a little different spacing and angles. Rozala taught me that."

"Sure, same thing with carving. Everybody puts a little different slant to it," Davoner said.

Ottavar gave his father a warm smile. "Oh, and Hac said the ones he's seen might all have been cut from the same old hide," he added for Lovaduc's benefit. "That's a point. I want to compare this one with his."

"All right. Let's go, then. The sooner we find out about this the better." Lovaduc gave Sherilana a pat on the rear. "I'll be back in a bit," he told her. She shook her head and went into the tent.

Tevina took hold of Ottavar's arm. "You won't be too long?" she said.

"We'll be back when breakfast is ready, Mama." He rubbed his cheek against hers. Then he looked at the young woman enfolded in her other arm. The soft brown eyes of his beloved gazed demurely up. "Tiwa, don't worry. You're safe with us," he said.

She smiled, giving Ottavar's heart a good kick. "I know. I am only a little upstartled like every one. I see what this is about--you will find now the truth, maybe, and that will be good."

"Yes, I hope this will lead to something we can use." He saw that Lovaduc was halfway to the other camp already. "I better go."

Jesumi moved closer to Ottavar. "Bani and I'll keep an ear out for girl-gossip when we go visiting. No promises."

"Thanks, Sumi." He gave his sister's shoulder a pat and loped off after Lovaduc.

"Hang onto your spear, Lovo," Hacaben was saying as Ottavar slowed to a stop. "I didn't want to start a stampede yesterday, with the whole herd in your tent."

"Why didn't anybody else mention them?"

Hacaben made a skewed grimace. "Either they didn't think of it--and it's not a big item in everyday conversation, believe it or not--or they don't know about them, or they don't want to talk about them. As far as I know there's been one for each band, except maybe Bull. Hmm...come to think of it, someone's been pulling some other pranks there. Anyway, this was the first of the, ah, artwork." he flicked a fingertip at the specimen in Lovaduc's left hand. "Our band got here first, and this was stuck out in front the next morning, just like yours."

Lovaduc held the two rectangles at arm's length. "Maybe if I had ten or so to compare I could figure it out," he muttered. He turned them outward to let Ottavar get a better look.

Ottavar frowned and stroked his beard. The drawings had very consistent similarities. He would bet his best paint-grinder on their having been done by the same artist, one whose work he had never seen before. Not that he was missing anything there, considering the quality, but it irked him not to know. If somebody was not just trying to stir up trouble.... No. No one outside the White Horse band would raise the issue without a good reason, not after all the pooh-poohing and soothing last summer. This was too obviously aimed at the Bull band. The crude caricatures of Bodisar and Ivergan were as recognizable as the bison...well, if you knew.

"Your band was here before the rest, ah?" Lovaduc turned his head toward Hacaben.

"Uh-huh." Hacaben nodded. "Moshevar the Punctilious had his eye on the sun. The Bull band got here eight--no, nine?--days later. Crane and Hare were already here by then. At least one more of these little decorations turned up in that time. Every band got one soon after they arrived, as ar as I know. Somebody was waiting and watching, I'd say."

"That kind of blows away the idea it's a Bull putting them out," Ottavar said. "Unless..."

"Unless one of them came on ahead," Hacaben said. "If the Bulls have a lost calf, they're keeping quiet about it. As far as I know there's no one missing from any other band." His mouth warped in on one side and he scratched an ear.

Lovaduc squinted across the campground. "You think it's one of the younger hunters, maybe? No talk of anybody gone missing? Does Ivergan have an apprentice?" He pursed his lips and scrutinized the images again.

"Mm...maybe. He did say--or imply--he'd picked one out, when Odazhan asked him a couple of years ago if he'd take Polo for some tutoring. I'd forgotten all about that. He's tight-mouthed about his own affairs, but it would be odd that no one knows."

"Polo with Ivergan?" Ottavar tried out a few variations of wry on his face. "Might do him some good. He's too unsystematic. Not that I'd wish it on him, not after what Tayro told me. But I don't think he wants to go any farther anyway. I didn't know Ivergan had an understudy."

"Huh." Hacaben frowned. "No one's seen anything of one. Might have been just an excuse not to take on any. He doesn't like 'dealing with young fools' any more than they like him. You'd think he would, a band that size and only a couple of midwives to help out. I'm a fine one to talk, eh?" He shrugged, grinning. "I'll have to poke the bushes and see what comes out. What are you up to otherwise on this fine day, Ott?"

"I was planning on helping with food gathering after breakfast, get some fresh herbs too, just everyday stuff. We're going downstream, those backbends where the sweetflag is always good, and around there. It's not too picked over yet, ah? Looked good when we passed by." Hacaben shook his head. "Then I really have to see Balekara. She's busy, I imagine. Have you talked to her about this?" He indicated the drawings.

"A little. She wants a word with you, boy-o."

Ottavar raised his eyebrows innocently. He knew what the first matter of that would be: Kewarratiwa.

"We ought to be getting back," Lovaduc said, more to himself than the others. He made no move yet, still studying the drawings.

"Meet me here this afternoon," Hacaben said to Ottavar. "I'll go with you, I want to talk to Kara again too, after I've sniffed around."

"Yeah. I'll do that. Thanks for helping with it, Hac."

"It's not just your band's problem, Ottko. If Bodo's done more than get pushy, if he's done what we think he has, it's got to be brought to light. You haven't had any signs of unquiet spirits, have you?"

"N...not really. But I wonder...." More than once he had tried to contact the spirits of the deceased men, to no avail. No response usually meant there was no problem. But it had been too sudden, the whole thing just didn't smell right. Vague dreams were not enough, he had to know.

Thumbs hooked in his belt, he gazed out across the center of the gathering site. The meadow already showed heavy signs of its occupation by the whole tribe. Grass was trampled flat. The fetor of human waste tainted the clear air. Some people had already finished their morning meal and were moving about or standing in clusters talking. Children had started up their usual games. Except for the mysterious messages--and all of the other problems--it was a typical Summermeet. It was, he supposed, for most of them.

A feeling of being watched crept over the back of his neck; he did an about-face. Birds sang undisturbed in the trees concealing the creek; nothing moved on the hill beyond. He jerked his head away. "Yeah, let's go." He turned to leave, not waiting to see if Lovaduc followed.

"Now what's got into him?" Lovaduc muttered. "Ah. Here." He handed Hacaben the piece of painted hide that he held in his left hand. "Thanks. Sorry I'm so grouchy. Need to get some food in me. I'll see you later, ah? Drop in any time."

Hacaben watched Lovaduc walk away. Then he turned to look at the hill across the creek. It was the nearest high point, a tail-end of the rugged northern uplands that framed Spirit Valley. He remembered spying on the encampment from there as a boy. So did Ottavar, he would bet a few beads on it.

Ambelda's shriek brought several men running to her rescue, only to find that she was in no danger from anything other than her own overwrought ill temper.

"What is it, woman? You'd scare the shit out of a--vah! Not again!" Bodisar stopped short, belly bouncing over his breechclout. His eyes narrowed and his face darkened at the sight.

The outdoor cooking hearth had been decorated with choice items from the campground's shared midden. Someone had worked hard in the night, with only starlight to see by. Broken skulls of aurochs, bison, horse, roe deer, red deer--some years old and some disgustingly recent, were laid atop the stones, facing outward. Rawhide and basketry cooking pots left out after washing had been thrown into the embers of last night's fire. A single black feather, tied to one of the cooking support tripods, fluttered over the worst mess they had suffered yet. The grand effort impressed Bodisar, but not positively.

Ambelda whined on. "Again! My perfectly good pots, only used once--oh, these stinking things--do something!"

"Hush up, woman," Bodisar snarled, his hairy chest heaving with rage. "Iver, why can't you find the muckhole-dwelling, mother-defiling jagal that's doing this?"

"The evil spirits conspire against me," Ivergan said coldly, staring off at some point just above the horizon. The shaman appeared a little out of character, roused from sleep by Ambelda's outrage. His white-streaked black hair and beard were mussed and he wore nothing but a sleeping-fur wrapped around his body. However, he stood with his usual affected dignity, arms crossed in aloof disregard. "If you think you can do better, then do so."

"I will. I've had enough of this shit. And get this cursed mess out of here," Bodisar added, motioning to some of the idle watchers. They didn't look too happy about being drafted for cleanup.

Ivergan finally paid some attention to Ambelda, who kept finding details to wail about. "Belda, calm down, ah?" He turned to call toward the main tent, "Hai! Someone get a fire going, your headwoman needs some tea to calm her."

"Pavo!" Bodisar barked at his son.

"Yes, Papa." Pavolen left off observing the cleanup. His face, a younger, slimmer version of his father's, changed from bored to obsequious.

Bodisar spoke in a lower voice. "Get those fellows you take on the wog-raids together. You're going to do some hunting. Not for food. Never mind the hide. Just get the little bastard."

Pavolen grinned. It said more than words could.

"No, Pavo," Ivergan said. "I want him alive."

Pavolen's face fell. He started to turn away, but paused. His mouth twisted into a sly smile. "We can have a little fun with him, ah?"

"As long as he still knows what's happening when I get him."

Pavolen left looking much happier. Bodisar scowled at Ivergan, who spun around and strode toward his own tent.

Radovin's shadow was a third shorter by the time he reached his lair. He ducked in to lay the old, worn bed-fur atop his nest of dry grass and leaves, neatly folded so the bald spots didn't show. There was little else in the gap under the jutting limestone outcrop. His sling, knife, and fire tools stayed in a pouch on his belt, always. He considered stripping down to breechclout and belt, but decided to bear the lesser discomfort of sweaty tunic and leggings. The wide circuit he intended to take included enough thorns to make clothing worthwhile if he had to move fast.

For a moment he stood just outside the dark hole. It was home--his own, not grudgingly assigned, familiar after many days and nights of use. Tomorrow.... He chewed at a fingernail that had gotten long and broke snaggy. How many tomorrows did he have?

He felt like two people sometimes; the boy who had not quite grown up and played at being a brave adventurer, and the disillusioned "real" Radovin, old enough to be considered a man but who knew he never would be. That fellow was getting hard to manage. Both of them were. Ayah-kayah. He jerked himself away from the shelter and took off at a run.

By now he knew every hill, valley, and tiny spring, where edible plants grew best, where wolves and bears denned. Avoiding the well-watered places frequented by other hunters, human or animal, he kept to the dry hills where he could prey upon small burrowing animals with little fear of becoming prey himself.

Men seldom hunted here for a number of reasons. Herd animals preferred the lowlands along the rivers. Game was plentiful in narrow valleys opening to the south, where water and good browse attracted large grazers. Hunting was forbidden in Spirit Valley, not far east and north. Ghosts and spirits lurked in many caves throughout the area. Clouds of bats, eerie messengers of the Underworld, flew out of caverns at dusk. Huge stones brooded over the land, alone or in groups on hilltops. It was said that some walked at night.

Radovin doubted the rocks' mobility. None of them had shifted a hand's-width since he moved into the neighborhood. He still thought it wise not to linger near the most holy and haunted places; he had nothing to gain by getting the spirits more pissed off than they already were.

No animal predators had threatened his life so far. He was at peace with his neighbors as long as he didn't put himself in their way. One old mama bear in the vicinity commanded extra respect. He gave her and her cub plenty of space. The peculiar, smoky aroma of humans deterred most other carnivores. Jagals, low-status scavenging wolves that frequented camp middens and skulked around the tents at night, knew better than to mess with a healthy two-legger. He could let them get close enough to sniff his butt.

There were still hazards. Herbivorous animals could be as dangerous as beasts of prey. Nobody wanted to encounter a woolly rhinoceros alone. Even the innocuous roe deer had horns and sharp hooves, and would use them if cornered. The big grazers defended their young fiercely, and sometimes just got in a bad mood and wanted to gore and trample something.

A lone person's greatest enemy was lack of vigilance. Let your mind wander and you could fall into a hole, run smack into a bear or even a sounder of pigs. That would be the ultimate in mud-headedness! Radovin had not survived to his sixteenth summer by walking in his sleep.

A couple of slung stones and one big doe rabbit later, he stopped in a sheltered hollow with enough dry brush to build a fire. An abandoned badger burrow made a perfect hearth.

His stomach growled at the smell of cooking meat. The green stuff he'd picked and stuck straight into his mouth while gathering fuel had only whetted his appetite. That was the trouble with eating. If you went without for a day or two longer, your stomach stopped complaining. Fast too long, and your head would go all woopsy when you tried to do some work.

He turned the roasting carcass, alternately watching it and his surroundings. Fat and juices from the rabbit dripped into the embers with many a hiss and sizzle. Wind snatched the thin, writhing smoke away to vanish into the azure sky. It was a beautiful day, the kind of day that feels like a good dream. Passing clouds took the forms of animals and birds, or briefly resembled local landforms. He listened to birdsong and the crackling fire, letting himself forget for a while that he had no future. Thumping drum rhythms on his knees helped keep him from dozing. Otherwise the strange pictures shown by the flames and clouds melted too easily into the visions of sleep.

The bad dreams could still find him, anywhere.

"Good day." Hacaben cheerfully greeted the sour-faced man who stood, readjusting his breechclout, by the shallow hole.

"Good day," Ivergan said, his tone implying that it could have been much better, particularly in other company.

"What became of that young fellow you started training a few years back? What was his name? Ratbag-something, ah? I'd have thought you'd be bringing up his initiation by now." Hacaben spoke as he quickly exposed himself and took a long, haphazardly aimed pee. His casual question caused Ivergan to tense briefly.

"He is no longer with us." Ivergan left with that, stalking away as if he had much more important business elsewhere.

Hacaben finished raining on the flies. He kicked a little loose dirt over the mess. The hole had about all the crap and ashes it could take. Vah! Time for some digging here. He smiled grimly. Yes, I have dug up something, and I have to dig around a bit more yet. It had been a good time and place to take a piss.

He hastened away from the muckhole. "No longer with us," ah? Not even a grumble about the fellow's running off. He'd gotten that much out of others, and without being as obvious in his inquiry. It was past time the door-flap was raised on Ivergan's overly secretive dealings. Far past time to stop assuming that no news meant no bad news. It was one thing to be exclusive with your protege for a while, quite another to keep him completely out of sight for several years. That kind of downright sneakiness smelled of something very unsavory.