The Sterkarm Handshake (29 page)

“Yes, but how hard can they hit you with bows and arrows and swords? And how hard can you hit them with automatic rifles? The Sterkarms already think you're Elves, for God's sake! But we haven't shown them any muscle, so they've been getting a bit cocky.” Like Per Sterkarm. “You'll only have to let off one of your rifles, and they'll fall down and worship you as gods. I can't see that we need crack troops for that.”

Bryce sighed, but he kept trying. “I'd feel happier going in if we had professionals.”

Windsor stood. “We'd all feel happier if the world were perfect. Unfortunately, it isn't. I'll make sure Beryl gets everything to you ay-ess-ay-pee. I'll let you have some figures too, budget-wise. Now you'll have to excuse me. I still have a lot to do.”

14

16th Side: A Council of War

The Sterkarm handshake carved on the fire hood shone out clear and strongly outlined in shadow whenever the fire burned up bright; sank into darkness when the flames burned low.

Andrea sat beside Joe on a hard bench close by the fire. Her pumps had been ruined by the walk to the tower, her feet soaked and what was left of her stockings torn into holes. One of her best dresses had been ripped on briers and muddied. But despite the tower being such a den of thieves, nothing had been stolen from her bower. She'd been able to change back into a warm skirt and sweater, into thick socks and hiking boots.

One side of her was roasted until her skin was sore and reddened. The room, packed as it was with people, was too hot. She could feel her own face glowing, and could see others' faces shining with sweat.

The noise and jostle were intense. An old man sitting on the ledge by the fire was telling the story of a long-past battle, since battles were in the air, and his listeners were correcting points of the story or asking for explanations, wishing for another story or telling each other to shut up and pass the jug. Joe kept asking for translations, which Andrea had to yell into his ear. People got up to go outside and then came back.

Dogs lolloped about, shoving their heads into laps, scratching their fleas everywhere, nosing through the straw on the floor for old scraps.

It was, Andrea thought, dirty, uncomfortable, and more crowded and noisy than a four-ale bar. Of course, that was judging it from the viewpoint of her own century, which was anachronistic, and— Oh, what do I care? she thought crossly. It
is
dirty, uncomfortable, noisy and overcrowded. She didn't want to live like this for the rest of her life.

Nor did she want to be the excuse for FUP coming back 16th side and removing all these noisy, chattering obstacles to making money.

What am I doing here? she thought. Helping FUP rip off my friends. Standing by as these friends murder innocent men.

But what was she supposed to do? She had to earn a living, and this job had been such a great, such a unique opportunity. She'd tried repeatedly to warn FUP about the Sterkarms, and only Bryce had listened at all. She'd tried to warn the Sterkarms about FUP, without breaking her contract, but the Sterkarms hadn't understood—couldn't understand. They understood Elves; they didn't understand twenty-first-century companies.

Every time someone looked at her, she felt they were silently accusing her of not warning them about FUP's aims, and of stealing Per away to be a hostage. It made her uneasy, knowing how vindictive the Sterkarms could be. Joe's presence was little help. As a long-lost Sterkarm restored to his own world, she fancied he was finding more acceptance than she had herself. She even felt a little jealous of him.

And she was lonely for Per. If he'd been sitting with her, no one would have dared look at her oddly.

Beside her, Joe said, “Y'know, I think this'll suit me.”

“I'd wait a bit longer,” Andrea said, “before you say that.” She was thinking of seeing the long, sagging bodies of the security guards being dragged away by their arms and feet, to be buried in some shallow, unmarked grave in the wet, lonely hills. A small party of men had been told by Toorkild to do the work, and they hadn't hidden their displeasure at being lumbered with the chore. She'd caught only a glimpse before turning away, but she'd seen them kicking the bodies, heaving at them, and handling what, an hour before, had been living men, with less care than they'd have given to butchered pigs.

From that sight she'd turned to see Toorkild, his hand buried in Per's hair, kissing his son's cheek. “Tha'rt no walking,” he said. “Tha mammy'd have me head if I let thee walk.” He'd thrown Per up onto his own horse and walked alongside, looking up at Per, his hand on Per's knee.

Joe and Andrea had walked behind. Some of the Sterkarms lingered to stamp out the fires, but most followed, on horse or foot, eager to be present when Per returned home.

Halfway up the steep path that led from the valley to the tower, they'd met a crowd of people, mostly women and children, led by Isobel. Her eyes had been darting everywhere, searching for Per, her face frantic, as if she half expected to be disappointed after all. When people had called back to him that his mother was there, Per had looked alarmed, had slid down from the horse's back and hurried forward through the men and horses to meet her.

Isobel, seeing him, had burst into tears and hugged him tight, pressing her face against his chest. Then she climbed partly up the bank beside the path, to be able to look down on him. She kissed him, tidied his hair with her fingers and asked was he well enough to climb the rest of the way? Wasn't he tired? Had the Elves fed him properly? He must come and have some hot food and lie down to rest.

Per had lifted his mother down from the bank, swinging her around in the air, to prove how well he was. He had dropped her to her feet on the path, set his hand on her breast, kissed her on the cheek and then brought her by the hand to introduce her to Joe.

Isobel, ashamed of having neglected a guest, had startled Joe by embracing and kissing him. Then she'd turned tearfully to Andrea, had drawn her close, hugged her, kissed her and thanked her several times over for taking care of Per and bringing him back mended and safe.

Andrea had been embarrassed. “It was nothing, be so kind—”

“We be in thy debt forever,” Isobel had insisted. “If we gave thee all we had—if grass of the hills was gold, if snow in winter was silver, and we gave it all to thee, it would no be enough for what tha've done for us.”

Over Isobel's shoulder, Andrea caught sight of Per's face. His idea of the gratitude due to the Elves was no longer the same as Isobel's.

“Mother,” he'd said, putting his arms round her and pulling her on up the path toward the tower, “I be hungry.” Isobel had taken him by the hand and, calling everyone else on with swings of her arm, had led the way.

As they'd come closer to the tower, and the wall rose above him, Joe had tipped back his head farther and farther. He'd never seen a castle so whole and new. The wall, fifteen feet high and built of smooth blocks of reddish-gray stone, encircling the crag, cast a shadow down the hillside. They'd climbed the steep path to the narrow, square gatehouse, with its thick, wooden, iron-studded door, backed by a heavy iron yett. The short passageway was dark, chill and damp, with puddles and mud lying among its cobbles. Joe felt the weight of the stone hanging above them as they passed under it. This wasn't a tourist attraction to visit on a sunny afternoon, with your girlfriend and a six-pack. That wall, that door and iron yett, had been put in place because there were people who needed to be kept out.

But once through the tunnel and into the muddy yard, Joe had started to look at the buildings. They weren't beautiful: They were jumbled together, higgledy-piggledy, their thick, untidy thatches of heather hanging low and dripping. The lower, stone stories had no windows and, when he came to look, no doors either. The doors were in the upper, wooden stories, with ladders leading up to them. Funny, he thought, until he realized the reason—and then he felt uneasy again. But however you looked at it—even if these houses were drafty, as Andrea said, even if the narrow, muddy lanes around them were full of muck and puddles and stinks—they were still better than cardboard boxes. A sight better. He could see himself living in something like that: his own thatched cottage. With a real old-fashioned girl.

The tower, with its stone walls, its windowless ground floor, its tiny door and iron yett, had brought back his fears, but once they'd climbed the steep, narrow stair to the hall, fear was forgotten. Isobel had taken him by the hand and led him to the fire burning in a big stone fireplace. She'd urged him to sit on the bench near it and had patted his hands, smiling and chattering, before excusing herself and hurrying away. Joe had felt cheered that this pretty lady had taken the trouble to be so kind and welcoming. Sterkarms had crowded around him, grinning at him, and after the chill of the hillside, the fire's warmth had felt good. Who cared about a bit of smoke? Who cared if his new friends smelled a bit strong?

Per, anxious that his guest should feel welcome, had kissed Joe's cheek and said,
“Now thu air hyemma.”

Joe had grinned at Andrea. “Now I'm home?” When she'd nodded, his grin had got even bigger.

Two enormous and excited dogs kept bounding around Per, setting their forepaws on his shoulders and slobbering over him, whacking nearby people with their tails and prowling around the bench to come up on the other side and do it all again. Joe wasn't used to dogs so big, and they made him a bit nervous. When Per saw that, he made the dogs lie at Joe's feet, and got Joe to let them sniff his hands, until they jumped up to wash Joe's face with one lick from chin to brow.

Isobel returned, with clothes folded over her arms, and followed by two maids carrying trays, one holding cheese and oatcakes, the other a jug of small beer and many wooden cups. Per jumped to take the trays from the girls and press the food and drink on his guest.

Toorkild joined them, sitting astride the bench and pulling Per down to sit in front of him. Repeatedly stroking down his son's hair, he spoke to him in a low, deep voice that Joe couldn't follow. Per answered, constantly turning to look over his shoulder at his father, but speaking to his mother too, and the other people who gathered around. The big man called Sertha Melk came to stand at Per's side, looking down at him, listening and frequently grinning and nodding along with Toorkild.

Joe looked to Andrea. “He's telling them about Elf-Land,” she said. “How we got here—all that.”

An account of the ride in the Elf-Cart took some time, with Per holding an invisible steering wheel and changing invisible gears. Wildly waving hands indicated the many, many cars zooming past on all sides and was greeted with incredulous laughter. Oatcakes were passed over people's heads. Someone leaned over Joe's shoulder to fill his cup again.

As the story reached Dilsmead Hall, the listening faces grew more anxious. People moved closer, stooping over or crouching beside the bench. Isobel sat down on Per's other side and gripped his arm, while Toorkild held on to him tighter and leaned around him to watch his face.

Andrea saw how many people were holding their breath as they listened to the account of how Per had got close to Elf-Windsor, and cheers and laughter broke out when Windsor was captured. Isobel looked around at the people about her, inviting them to admire her son. Toorkild kissed him, Sweet Milk squeezed his shoulder and others reached over to rub up his hair or touch his arm or knee—but the congratulations were ended by voices calling, “Tell on!”

Per moved rapidly on to an account of how Andrea had guided and translated for them, and how Joe had steered him, and scouted ahead, and had taken the lead when Per himself had weakened. Joe had been startled, even alarmed, by the swooping down on him of Sweet Milk, who roared, slapped his back and kissed him—closely followed by Isobel, who again embraced him and kissed him, and then by Toorkild, who dragged him to his feet and hugged him, and called for the jug and filled Joe's cup again. Andrea was shouting above the whistling and cheering, but Joe didn't need her to tell him that he was now well and truly at home with the Sterkarms. The number of people grinning at him, and pushing through the crowd to get a better look at him, or to grab his hand, or to kiss him, made that clear without words.

He raised his cup in a toast to them all—which pleased them—and thought of all the people who'd walked past him that morning as he'd sat in English Street. Only that morning. Five hundred years in the future, but only that morning. Even the people who'd given him money hadn't looked at him, and had been moving away as they dropped their coins into his box. “Outcast!” said their averted faces, their hunched shoulders and quickened steps. We're frightened of you, we pity you, but we don't want to see you or know you.

Here, though … He couldn't remember the last time he'd been made so welcome. It was dizzying, intoxicating, to be at the center of so much good humor. The hugs and kisses took some getting used to, especially the ones from the men, but they showed goodwill. The food was welcome too. Solid, filling. And the beer—well, the beer was strong.

With Per's story over, Isobel tried clothes against Joe's back, and draped the ones she thought would fit over his shoulders. She kept shaking him and saying something which Joe eventually guessed to be “Clothe yourself.” She seemed to think he would change his clothes right there, in front of everyone.

Per had seen the difficulty—or maybe Andrea explained it to him—and he took Joe by the hand and led him up another flight of narrow, twisting stairs to the floor above, with Cuddy, Swart and Andrea following.

Isobel, seeing her chance, sent a girl running to bring more food.

On the third floor, Andrea turned her back and promised she would only translate and not look, while Per helped Joe change his clothes. Sixteenth-century clothing was more complicated than it first appeared, with sleeves fastening to bodies by laces, or strings, which had to be woven in and out of small holes and tied.

“There should be some garters with the stockings,” Andrea said. “You fasten the stockings above your knee with garters.”

“You just keep turned around,” Joe said.

Per had thought Joe's modesty very funny.
“Day air nigh sa lilla.”

Joe had shown him his clenched fist. “That's not so little either!”

There was nothing fancy about the clothes Joe was given. They were of rough, harsh homespun wool, in the natural grays, browns and blacks of the sheep, but they were warm and hard-wearing and, being of natural, hardly treated wool, almost waterproof. A complete set of clothes was a generous gift, but as the clothes, or the wool, had probably been acquired on a ride, it wasn't necessarily costing the Sterkarms anything. Unless you counted the cost of risking their lives against the Grannams and other raiders …