The Crowded Shadows (16 page)

“They are below us,” he said in Hadrish, “moving through the trees. We will let them be for now. They will no doubt be joining others at the ferry house, but I think we can let it go and move on.”

“We’re
bored
,” growled one of the men behind him. The dark-skinned leader turned to glare at him. “Don’t look at me like that, Gerard!” snapped the man. “We’ve been on the trail for months. I’m sick of lying low.”

Another of the shadow riders spoke up. “It
is
wearing thin. “T’ain’t natural to be so restrained on the trail. We should be free here, to be Wolves. It’s galling to pass the sheep and leave ’em quiet.”

Gérard shook his head, but there was a touch of amusement in the look he gave his blond companion, and the two of them turned back to their men with brotherly forbearance. “This ain’t a Wolf trip we’re on, brother, you know that. This is business.”

There was general grumbling and shifting about from the others. A tall, Arab-looking man mumbled, “We get enough of
business
in Algiers!”

Gérard held up his hand. “Hold on, hold on,” he laughed. He raised his head and released a low whistle. Within moments the last four riders slunk silently from the trees and the circle of horsemen expanded to include them. Gérard kicked his slave gently between the shoulder blades, and the young man ran forward with a waterskin. Everyone waited while the newcomers quenched their thirst and the slave resumed his position.

“We’ll set camp,” said the blond. He pulled his horse around, and the slave moved expertly beside him, barely losing his place by the horse’s shoulder. “And we’ll draw lots for four, all right? Just four.”

There were mingled noises of excitement and discontent amongst the Wolves.

“Take it or leave it, you ungrateful curs!” snapped Gérard. “We’re being damned generous! We’ll all answer to Father if your unruly nature pulls this down around our ears.” His irritability seemed to cow them, and the objections died.

The blond gestured in dismissal and the eight shadow-riders bowed their heads and slipped back into the trees.

“Are we included in the draw?” asked one of the other lead Wolves. It was the man with the red saddle and black riding boots, a broad, square-shaped fellow, with narrow, cruel eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jean,” said the fourth man. He had a soft voice and long brown hair, and had, until now, been sitting silently looking out at the sunset, his back turned to the others. Wynter noted that this was the man with the scarlet leather gauntlets. “You ain’t a cub no more,” he said. “You need to remember that.”

The other man grimaced but ducked his head in obeisance.

“Sorry, David,” he said.

David!
thought Wynter.

David half-turned his head and said quietly, “You may drink.” The two slaves leapt for the waterskins and drank as if they had just crossed a desert. Wynter was surprised by how thirsty they seemed to be, and how frantic their movements were in contrast with their previous calm. “Enough,” murmured David. They ceased at once, gasping and reluctant, and Wynter realised that they had been trying to drink as much as possible before he spoke again. They obediently corked the skins and replaced them. “Mount up,” he ordered, and the two young men returned immediately to their horses.

Wynter stared as the Wolf pulled his horse around. So this was David, the leader of this particular pack of André’s Wolves. The pack that Razi had referred to with gritted teeth as “
that
pack.”

David Le Garou was lithe and tall and had a weary set to his shoulders. As he turned towards her, his face was blotted into shadow by the sunset. He kicked his horse on and the others fell into place around him. Wynter watched as he ducked beneath the trees and led his men into the forest. The pack mules followed closely behind. Silently, the two slaves sat waiting their turn, then they too trotted forward and were swallowed by the darkness beneath the trees.

There was a long moment of silence. Then Christopher began to slither forward from their hiding place, and Razi and Wynter followed suit.

They stood at the edge of the cliff and looked down. Below them, there was more forest and the slow, wide river gleaming in the stormy light of the sunset. Wynter scanned the trees, but there were no signs of life. Whoever it was that the Wolves had seen, they had now disappeared. Christopher turned away from the view and stared after the departed Wolves.

“I’m starving,” he said softly, still staring out into the trees.

Wynter squeezed his arm. “So am I,” she whispered.

“It’s about twenty minutes’ ride to the river,” murmured Razi. “Can you last that long?”

They nodded. “All right,” he said, already heading for the horses. “We’ll set up camp there. Settle for the night.” He turned back at the tree line. “I’d like to stop off in the Wherry Tavern tomorrow. See who’s there.”

Christopher sighed and Wynter blinked at Razi with burning eyes.

“All right,” she said numbly.

Christopher said nothing, just waited patiently for Razi to get going and then fell into step behind. Wynter put her hand on his back as she followed on. She kept it there for as long as she could, but eventually the dense foliage broke them apart.

T
hey set up camp in grim silence, sticking close together and anxiously scanning their surroundings. Dinner was rye-bread, hard cheese and dried sausage, and they consumed it without the comfort of a fire.

“It’s madness to have promoted Jean to Second,” whispered Christopher.

His soft voice looped a thread out into the night that bound the three of them together, breaking the silence that Wynter had begun to think would consume them. She sat, the last of her dinner in her hand, and gazed thankfully at him in the gloom.

Razi peered at his friend, his face uncertain, then sighed as if giving in to an unwanted conversation. “He will make a poor leader,” he agreed softly. “I doubt that he was David’s first choice. I suspect that André foist the decision upon him.”

“Jean is a mindless, unruly whoreson cur,” said Christopher without much emotion. “David will have him dead within a nine-month, if he knows what’s good for him. He’ll kill him as soon as he can.

“I hope they kill each
other
,” spat Razi suddenly. “Every one of them. I hope they all poison
each other
, and die screaming in a pool of their own
shit
.”

Jesu
, thought Wynter, shocked.

Razi blinked and his eyes widened as though he had surprised even himself. Christopher had drawn the collar of his cloak up around his face and was peering at Razi over the top of it. He did not seem shocked in the least.

“Wh… why are they drawing lots, Christopher?” asked Wynter uncertainly, her voice low.

Christopher briefly met her eye and then laid his head back and looked up at the stars. “Don’t know,” he said.

“But why might they do that? From what you know of them?” She was wondering if it had anything to do with the business they claimed to be on. Razi shifted beside her, but did not try to silence her. Christopher didn’t reply.

“Christopher?” she persisted. “Have they—?”

“I
don’t know
,” hissed Christopher. “I ain’t one of
them
. How would I know why they do what—?” his angry voice cracked, and he shut his mouth tight for a moment. “It could be any of a dozen dreadful things,” he said.

Wynter shuddered and drew her knees up; she no longer wanted to know. The silence threatened to envelope them again. Wynter spoke quickly, just to stop it in its tracks. “How come the slaves don’t run to David?” she asked. “Surely as their leader, he should—”

Christopher laughed, a dull, unpleasant croak, and he put his hand over his face. “David don’t need no bloody slaves, lass. David owns the pack. He owns
everyone
. They’re all his, to command as he will.”

“I would have thought,” said Razi, “that André would have allowed David to settle by now. It’s over four years since they enslaved your troupe, Chris, and I had thought that would be David’s last trip. I expected André to have made him a Father by now, to grant him an estate in the Russias, or in Fez. But he persists in sending him out year after year, like any other son. It puzzles me.”

“I think André fears David,” murmured Christopher. “He needs him, but he fears him. I think he resists giving him his freedom, for fear it will split the packs.”

Wynter watched her friend as he watched the stars, and the question she had chewed upon for days just slipped from her without warning. “Are these the men who hurt your hands?” she whispered.

“I don’t remember,” said Christopher immediately, his voice flat.

Wynter frowned, “How—?”

“He doesn’t
remember
, Wynter!” snapped Razi. “Leave him be!”

Wynter bowed her head, but Christopher sighed softly and relented.

“Razi thinks they probably paid someone to do it for them, lass,” he said. “The Wolves don’t get their hands dirty in Algiers, you see.” Wynter saw his teeth flash in a sneer. “In Algiers they just do
business
.”

This last sentence came out hard, with a bitter emphasis on the final word, and Razi shifted uncomfortably. “Chris
…”
he whispered. There was a long silence.

“I could have won that race,” murmured Christopher inexplicably, his eyes still on the sky.

“I know you could,” Razi said, “I never once beat you in a race.” He stared steadily into the gathering dark, his face blank. “That is how I knew,” he said. “That is how we got back to you so soon. When you were not at the house, I turned around straight away and we went looking for you. God help us, Chris! What were we thinking? Leaving my knights behind like that? God help me! Such idiots!”

“Ah,” Christopher gestured soothingly. “We were just wee lads,” he said. “We needed to kick loose.”

“I should have known better!” cried Razi. “People like me aren’t
lads
, people like me don’t
kick loose
…”
he clamped down hard on his bitterness, and finished softly, “we should never kick loose.”

“Aye, well,” murmured Christopher. “I’m a bad influence, ain’t I?”

“How did you find him?” asked Wynter quietly. “When you turned back? How did you find him?”

Razi just shook his head, and looked away without answering.

“I was screaming.” Christopher rolled slightly to face her, his cloak bundled around him as if for protection. “Marcello tells me I was still screaming. That’s how they found me. Razi thinks they saw him coming, he thinks that’s why
…”
he gestured stiffly with his left hand, “why they were so very brutal at the end. He thinks they were trying to finish quickly before they ran.”

“You were right in the middle of the road,” whispered Razi. “They didn’t even try to hide you.”

“Aye, well. They wanted you to find me, didn’t they? I was their little present to al-Sayyid. No doubt they had a grand old chuckle over how you’d get your money’s worth from a fingerless musician.”

There was a long, awkward silence. Razi was lost to his memories, and Wynter found herself staring at Christopher, her mind filled with terrible pictures. She did not know what expression was on her face, but, whatever it was, Christopher’s eyes slid from hers and he swallowed. It was obvious that he didn’t want this to go any further; that he wanted to break this downward slide, but had no idea how to change it. He glanced at Razi, then back again, his face pleading, but Wynter didn’t know how to rescue him. She could not free her mind of the terrible image of Razi and Christopher, screaming and frantic, and covered in blood beneath the African sun.

“You know what?” Christopher said suddenly.

She shook her head.

“I’m hungry
…”

Razi snorted. Wynter laughed harshly. And the spell was broken.

“You can’t be hungry,” she croaked. “You just ate a horse-weight of bread and cheese.”

“You’re like a God-cursed tape-worm,” grated Razi.

Christopher put his hand to his eyes and coughed dryly. “Well,” he said, “T’aint so much as how I’m
hungry
. I just fancy a
taste
, you know?” He rolled onto his back, dropping his hand to his chest and gazed up at the sky.

Wynter looked at his pale, narrow face, all bundled around with his cloak and she realised that, yes, she did know. She knew
exactly
. She looked at Christopher and she became aware of a hollowness inside her, a longing that she had never noticed before. An empty, scooped-out space beside her heart.

“You know what I’d fancy?” he said.

“No, love,” she said, “what would you fancy?”

“An orange.” He lifted his hand and made a gesture, as if he were plucking an orange from the tree. “I’d quite like an orange, just for the taste.”

It felt like she spent the next few hours curled beneath the canvas peering out at Christopher, but she must actually have dozed off because she couldn’t remember him coming over to shake Razi awake. The first thing she knew of it was his voice, hissing low in the darkness.

“Razi…
Raz
… Good Frith, man! Come on, you sluggard, wake
up
. It’s your watch.”