The Texts Of Festival (8 page)

Valentine cursed under his breath. After half the morning haggling over who should provide the soldiers for the inspection party, the textkeepers now wanted their token’s worth. Any advice those two dodderers might offer would be buried in an hour’s debate over points of definition. It was unfortunate that his authority and title were so intertwined with the belief in the texts that he was unable to rid himself of the old fools. Personally he viewed the textkeepers’ lore as irrelevant nonsense and was sure that when his ancestor Homer the Leader had talked of ‘the spirit of Wustock returning to his people’, his vision had not included the continuing debate as to why the spirit was depicted in the old prints as a small scruffy bird accompanied by a dog figure in a strange helmet. Nonetheless, he was forced to pay lip service to the absurd cult, since it kept the people quiet and maintained his position.

Valentine brushed imaginary fluff from the sleeve of his velvet tunic and noticed with distaste that the nail polish on his right hand had already begun to chip.

‘I s’pose you better show them in, but make it clear that I cannot spend too long with them.

Oh, an’ after they’ve left I shall want to eat. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Old Lazarus bowed and left the room. A few moments later he returned, followed by the two text-keepers in ceremonial robes. He backed from the audience room, closing the door as he left. The textkeepers bowed in unison and stood looking anxious. Valentine sat for a while watching them.

‘Well, what have you got to waste my time with now?’

‘My lord, we have studied the texts an’ I hope we have searched out those that might apply to the current problem. But, my lord, it is difficult …

‘What is difficult?’

Phelge looked uncomfortable. Will Wheatstraw darted a glance towards the woman.

‘My lord, I hesitate.’

Valentine laughed.

‘Oh, it’s the woman, is it,’ he turned to face her, ‘you better split, my love, you make these learned brothers uncomfortable.’

The girl stood up and walked towards the door. As she passed Wheatstraw and Phelge she twitched her hips exaggeratedly. Valentine roared with laughter and Phelge turned a similar shade of crimson to his robe.

‘My lord, I …’

‘Stop shuffling and stammering, you look absurd. Jus’ tell me what line of rubbish you intend to feed to the rabble about these supposed bandits.’

‘If only my lord could find a greater degree of faith in the blessed texts, it would …’

‘Your lord has immense faith in the influence that the texts have on the ignorant and superstitious populace, so come to the point.’

‘My lord is prob’ly aware that the subject of violent robbery is a popular theme that recurs throughout the great texts.’

‘I was aware; I have heard enough of them.’

‘The general trend with this class of texts is that of the eventual triumph of authority, an’ I would cite the well known “I fought the law, but the law one” as a primary example although,’ he glanced at Wheatstraw who, while still silent, seemed to be controlling an urge to interrupt, ‘some of my colleagues who place an illogical store by the A.J. concordance would read far deeper meanings into what is a simple matter of literal symbolism.’

Wheatstraw appeared to burst.

‘My lord, I must protest at my brother’s …’

‘Enough!’ Valentine began to get angry. ‘I refuse to listen to interminable wrangling over irrelevant points of interpretation.’

‘But my lord, when this man takes it upon himself to …’

‘Enough!’

The two old men fell silent.

‘Good. Now, as I see it, we circulate the idea that the outlaws will get theirs because that is what was written, an’ give out a few suitable quotations to back up that idea. I am right?’

‘My lord, it is not …’

‘Am I right, yes or no?’

‘In very basic terms — yes. Except …’

‘Well, my lord, there is an obscure text which we have come across; unfortunately both author and title are unknown, but the fragments that remain seem to relate very closely to the situation which we are dealing with.’

‘Don’t you think we are takin’ your precious texts a little too seriously?’

Phelge pressed his lips together in a pious scowl.

‘My lord, all matters relating to the …’

‘I know, I know, just tell me what it says. I don’t need a lecture on my lack of belief.’

‘Well, my lord, basically we only have a few lines we can pick out. I had them transcribed from the tape.’ He produced a sheet of paper from under his robe. ‘They read:

‘The outlaws come flying, out of the west,
On their pale lips are framed words of death’,

then there’s a break an’ it continues:

‘Come on everybody, come gather round friends,
This is the day civilisation ends.
Let’s get together and do death’s dance
And go loot’,

the rest of the line is undecipherable. That is all, my lord. It would seem that our own outlaws do in fact “come flying out of the west”. We thought it might have some bearing on the problem.’

‘It hardly seems conducive to social order and stability. It is my wish that the existence of this text is not made generally known, is that clear?’

‘But my lord, surely it constitutes a crime against the purpose of the Leader to deliberately suppress a text?’

‘I shall be the judge of that. I am the lord an’ I am the embodiment of the Purpose. At the next celebration — what’s that? in five days I think — you will broadcast texts on the lines I have indicated. As for your little gem of potential civil disorder — lose it! That is not only my wish, but my order.’ Valentine stood up. ‘Now leave me. Oh, an’ send the woman back in.’

The textkeepers bowed out and Valentine sprawled back in his chair. The girl came in and closed the door behind her. He smiled as she walked towards him. ‘Relax me, my dear. Those fools have made me very tense.’ Then he closed his eyes as the girl kneeled in front of him and slowly brought her face down to his lap.

Once they were beyond sight of the crowd around the Highway Gate, the troop captain gave the order to relax the brisk parade pace. With no more spectators to impress the whole troop began to relax, the thirty riders broke the formation and the neat column dissolved into a string of horsemen riding in groups of twos and threes.

Billy Joe eased the carbine off his shoulder and laid it across his saddle. He cursed his luck to get picked for a four day fool’s errand into the wilderness, just as One-Legged Terry had fixed him up with a hot number. As the sun grew hotter, he stripped off his denim surcoat, with the colours of the Allied Metal Factors across the back, and pulled a jug of beer from his saddle bag. As he pulled the stopper, Hud Daley, the troop captain from the lord’s squad, pulled his horse over to fall into step with Billy Joe.

‘You wanna pass that brew over here, Billy Joe?’

‘Sure captain, here.’ Billy Joe passed the jug over. ‘How long you think we’re gonna be chasin’ these said outlaws roun’ the boonies?’

‘Dunno man. Jus’ foolishness if’n you ask me. If’n them outlaws really jumped a caravan they’re gonna be long gone by the time we get there. Bes’ we can do is ride out to wha’s left of it, take a look an’ go home.’

‘Yeah, how long you reckon all tha’s gonna take? I got a thing goin’ with One-Legged Terry.’

‘I don’t aim to stay out more’n five days, mebbe stop overnight in Afghan Promise each way, an’ get some laughs. No point in bustin’ yer ass.’

‘Stay out five days, an’ go back an’ say the outlaws were long gone?’

The captain grinned.

‘I never said that. We gotta “preserve the security of Festival, an’ pursue the wrongdoers”, th’ lord tole me his-self.’ He laughed, ‘I reckon five days, an’ be home for Celebration. One-Legged Terry’s lining some little number for me too.’

Billy Joe took another hit on the jug and they rode in silence. A stopover in Afghan Promise was some consolation; the little commune had grown over the years until it was a wide open highway stop. There’d be a chance for some action tonight after all.

Iggy sat at the chief’s table with Oltha and Winston and watched the interminable knife game. One by one the tribesmen had eagerly taken turns to sever their fingers. They had even offered him a place in the line. Iggy had politely declined the invitation.

Since the caravan had been taken the time had begun to drag. Iggy was starting to find life in the makeshift camp more than tedious.

They had loaded the loot from the raid into a wagon, hitched it to the puller and, under the direction of Winston and Banana, they had rolled the machine down a side road for perhaps a mile. Oltha had followed with his men and they had made camp. Messengers had been dispatched to bring in the remainder of the tribe and preparations had started on the next stage of their campaign.

While Banana had worked on the puller Iggy had watched with some interest, but once the machine had been announced as being in perfect working order Iggy had started to become bored. The camp was full of gun-cleaning, knife-sharpening outlaws, and the invitation to Oltha’s tent had been an added nuisance, since he had hoped to get some of Oltha’s boys into the joys of crystal while they were in camp. The old man seemed to watch his men like a mother hen, and Iggy had found no way to get a few of them some place quiet where he could casually pass round his stash. Then an idea struck him that could be the answer to all his problems.

‘Why don’ we ride to Afghan Promise, take a few of the boys an’ check it out?’

Winston turned from watching the game.

‘How long befo’ the resta the hillbillies arrive?’

‘Dunno; two, three days, plenty of time to get there an’ back, an’ have us a time.’

‘Sounds good to me; how ’bout the chief? We leave him in charge?’

Iggy leaned over to Oltha.

‘Ya ever bin t’ Afghan Promise?’

‘We have never before come this close to Festival.’

‘It’s the only town ’tween here an’ Festival. I was thinkin’ it might be worth a visit.’

The chief looked surprised.

‘Another raid so soonly?’

‘No, no chief, not a raid: jus’ ride into town, have a buncha drink, look the place over an’ split. Plenty of heavy cats there, we take mebbe a dozen boys, we’ll jus’ look like travelers. They’ll think we’re hired guns lookin’ fer a gig.’

‘I have much to do here.’

‘Yeah, I thought I might take Winston an’ some o’ the boys. Mebbe you should send a coupla your boys so they kin report back, you dig?’

Oltha looked thoughtful.

‘It seems like a good plan.’

Iggy smiled. The suspicious old goat had swallowed it.

‘Sho’ it’s a good plan, we’ll know the layout befo’ we hit them.’

‘When do you go there?’

‘No time like now. I’ll leave Banana in charge o’ my boys an’ we’ll head out. If we ride tonight we kin get there by the afternoon, an’ mebbe get back by late the day after, ’bout the time your people show.’

‘Sounds good.’

Iggy glanced sideways at the chief.

‘How many of your boys you gonna send?’

‘I send Nath, and the brothers Rodo and Ona.’

The game stopped and the three tribesmen stood up at Oltha’s signal.

‘You ride with Iggy tonight, he is obeyed as a chief. Go with him.’

The three tribesmen looked at Iggy and nodded.

Perfect, thought Iggy, they’ve fallen right in. He turned to Winston.

‘Pick four or five good boys an’ tell ’em to get the horses.’

He turned to the three tribesmen.

‘Get your ponies an’ meet us by the fire outside.’

They all bid formal farewell to Oltha who stood up as they ducked out of the tent flap.

8.

Eggs Akerly’s joint was full of drunken soldiers. Iggy stopped dead inside the doorway. He had run from soldiers enough times to have an instant reaction to the sight of sleeveless surcoats.

He pulled himself together and pushed his way through tile crowd, followed by Winston and one of the tribesmen. He leaned close to Winston and dropped his voice.

‘Ya got the script we took off the bodies?’

‘Sho’.’

‘Gimme some.’

Winston reached in his pouch and handed Iggy a handful of script.

‘Here.’

‘Thanks, now score some spirits an’ I’ll get a table.’ Iggy shouldered his way through the crowd towards a corner table.

There sure were a lot of soldiers, he thought. Afghan Promise had no army of its own; it was only a strip of fun houses and a few shacks along the side of the main highway, a pull-in where travellers a day out from Festival could stop, get drunk and sport with the whores. Looking round he calculated there must be over two dozen troopers. What were a bunch of Festival soldiers doing this far out? They usually stuck close to the city. Unless, he grinned as the thought struck him, they were looking for him. A search party for the caravan robbers.

Winston and Nath came through the crowd. Winston was carrying two jugs. They sat down.

Iggy stared round the room. None of the soldiers were looking at them; most seemed too drunk to care about anything but the bar girls. Iggy took a hit of crystal and a swallow of the hard corn spirit. He hoped the other boys were making out okay in the other joints along the strip. It was fortunate that they hadn’t arrived until after dark. If the soldiers were looking for them, it might have aroused suspicion if they had ridden in in broad daylight.

‘Lotta soljas in here, chief.’ Winston glanced round the room. Nath’s tribesmen looked uneasy in the presence of so many Festival men.

‘I’d really like to know what they’re doin’ here.’

Iggy took another mouthful of spirit.

‘Bes’ way to find out’s to ask.’

Two bar girls swayed past, Nath stared at their tight dresses and slit skirts and swallowed quickly. Iggy laughed and beckoned them over. They gave out the standard come-on.

‘You wanna good time, boys?’

‘Siddown an’ have a drink, we wanna talk with you.’

‘We’re workin’ girls mister, time’s money.’

Iggy slapped a paper on the table.

‘Siddown!’

‘Anything you say, mister.’

The two girls sat down, displaying cleavage and thighs. Nath looked as though his collar was too small. Iggy passed them a jug.