nothing worth trading. You boys better off in Wieliczka.”
“Take us to Northumbria!” Guillalume commanded.
(Oh yes, commanded. Certainty in the tone of his voice, according to Greatest Grandfather Mills, like a flourish of syntax. High rage on him like the shakes, the easygoing youngest son suddenly recalled to himself and his heritage as if aristocratic mood were transudate and collateral with entirely personal states of emergency. All leaves were canceled according to Greatest Grandfather Mills, all priorities magically shifted, and authority itself suddenly transubstantiate with the worn, work-tattered, salt-torn rags Guillalume wore for clothing. There was no mistaking Guillalume’s purpose, the determined, dangerous set of his jawline that seemed to grow at the bottom of his face like a beard. Mills had never seen him like this, had never seen anyone like this, and for the first time in his life he envied purpose, lusted for will. Then there were suddenly knives in Guillalume’s hands, hangers, dirks, claymores, a blinding, whirling brace of the sharp. He drew the merchant’s blood at a dozen points, the wounds spectacular but superficial as paper cuts. He buttered them with salt with the flats of his arsenal. The merchant howled. Guillalume howled louder. “ Compass! Card! Binnacle! Plumb bob! Fix thy course for Northumbria!” “But the crops,” the merchant whined, “the harvest——” “ Geography! ” Guillalume hissed. “For Northumbria, Map! ” “But the caravan,” the merchant pleaded, “the camels——” “We don’t need the salt.” “We do. For barter. We do. We’d never get past the tribes, we’d never——” “The tribes?” “The tribes, Your Majesty, the clans. The bands and companies. All affined agnate generation.” “All affined agnate——” “ Men, ” the merchant said, “knots of the kindred between here and there, cousin clusters ’twixt hither and yon. Who guard the passes and bar the borders. Frontiers of men, sir, horizons of flesh. The landscape is toll’d, m’lud. This is no civil world, Master. It’s filled with patriots to place. There are holy hectares, restricted rivers. Even the wilderness is posted. They kill trespassers.” “Maybe there’s some other way of going,” Mills suggested. “ Liar, ” Guillalume boomed, “I’ve seen the maps you show. Firelands, Giantlands, Dragonlands! Continents of monster, terra terror! How do you make your journeys? You bring no salt with you. How do you make your journeys?”)
The merchant watched him, then answered coolly, “I’m impunity,” he said, “vaccinate ’gainst xenophobia. The token interloper I am, the consanguinitic vagrant totem. I come from the far. From distance itself I come.” He shook himself, shedding even the damp salt which clung to his clothes and flesh, showing them the refractive shine of his person, the odd insignia they had seen in the forest almost blinding in the open sunlight and making, as the merchant shook himself, a mysterious preen of jewelry. His pins and pendants made a sensible bell-like music.
“He’s God,” Mills muttered. “He’s God,” Mills told Guillalume.
“He never is,” Guillalume said uncertainly.
“No, no,” the man said, “not God, only a traveler, a man of mileage just, a courier along the vault and arch of landscape is all.” He paused and looked at them. “ ‘Follow me,’ He said.” “But I go further, outdistancing atlas.”
Four days later they left. He needed the extra time to organize his foremen—the caravan expected in two months, bills of lading to be signed, vouchers, arrangements of usance, details worked out about the consignment of the salt—but by now the merchant had seemed to come round to the idea of the journey. “We shall have to travel light,” he told them, “only the odd sack or so. Oh, and put by your weapons. They won’t do any good where we’re going.”
“We take our weapons,” Guillalume
“Take us to Northumbria!” Guillalume commanded.
(Oh yes, commanded. Certainty in the tone of his voice, according to Greatest Grandfather Mills, like a flourish of syntax. High rage on him like the shakes, the easygoing youngest son suddenly recalled to himself and his heritage as if aristocratic mood were transudate and collateral with entirely personal states of emergency. All leaves were canceled according to Greatest Grandfather Mills, all priorities magically shifted, and authority itself suddenly transubstantiate with the worn, work-tattered, salt-torn rags Guillalume wore for clothing. There was no mistaking Guillalume’s purpose, the determined, dangerous set of his jawline that seemed to grow at the bottom of his face like a beard. Mills had never seen him like this, had never seen anyone like this, and for the first time in his life he envied purpose, lusted for will. Then there were suddenly knives in Guillalume’s hands, hangers, dirks, claymores, a blinding, whirling brace of the sharp. He drew the merchant’s blood at a dozen points, the wounds spectacular but superficial as paper cuts. He buttered them with salt with the flats of his arsenal. The merchant howled. Guillalume howled louder. “ Compass! Card! Binnacle! Plumb bob! Fix thy course for Northumbria!” “But the crops,” the merchant whined, “the harvest——” “ Geography! ” Guillalume hissed. “For Northumbria, Map! ” “But the caravan,” the merchant pleaded, “the camels——” “We don’t need the salt.” “We do. For barter. We do. We’d never get past the tribes, we’d never——” “The tribes?” “The tribes, Your Majesty, the clans. The bands and companies. All affined agnate generation.” “All affined agnate——” “ Men, ” the merchant said, “knots of the kindred between here and there, cousin clusters ’twixt hither and yon. Who guard the passes and bar the borders. Frontiers of men, sir, horizons of flesh. The landscape is toll’d, m’lud. This is no civil world, Master. It’s filled with patriots to place. There are holy hectares, restricted rivers. Even the wilderness is posted. They kill trespassers.” “Maybe there’s some other way of going,” Mills suggested. “ Liar, ” Guillalume boomed, “I’ve seen the maps you show. Firelands, Giantlands, Dragonlands! Continents of monster, terra terror! How do you make your journeys? You bring no salt with you. How do you make your journeys?”)
The merchant watched him, then answered coolly, “I’m impunity,” he said, “vaccinate ’gainst xenophobia. The token interloper I am, the consanguinitic vagrant totem. I come from the far. From distance itself I come.” He shook himself, shedding even the damp salt which clung to his clothes and flesh, showing them the refractive shine of his person, the odd insignia they had seen in the forest almost blinding in the open sunlight and making, as the merchant shook himself, a mysterious preen of jewelry. His pins and pendants made a sensible bell-like music.
“He’s God,” Mills muttered. “He’s God,” Mills told Guillalume.
“He never is,” Guillalume said uncertainly.
“No, no,” the man said, “not God, only a traveler, a man of mileage just, a courier along the vault and arch of landscape is all.” He paused and looked at them. “ ‘Follow me,’ He said.” “But I go further, outdistancing atlas.”
Four days later they left. He needed the extra time to organize his foremen—the caravan expected in two months, bills of lading to be signed, vouchers, arrangements of usance, details worked out about the consignment of the salt—but by now the merchant had seemed to come round to the idea of the journey. “We shall have to travel light,” he told them, “only the odd sack or so. Oh, and put by your weapons. They won’t do any good where we’re going.”
“We take our weapons,” Guillalume
Similar Books
