Iron Winter (Northland 3) (30 page)

Crimm hesitated. Then he stood, nodding apologies to the Annids, to Thaxa. The two fishermen left the room.

Xree and Ywa talked on about their Archive project. And Ontin, the doctor, spoke slowly and patiently to Aranx, who, realising he was going to lose a limb, was beginning to weep.

Ayto led Crimm through a smaller, windowless parlour that ran off from the back of the room they’d been in, took an oil lamp from the wall, and then went on through
another dusty door, down a darkened passageway, and into another sitting room, or office. There was a desk piled with curling paper, a smell of must and dust, and an unlit hearth like a gaping
black mouth.

‘I did some exploring back here earlier, before you showed up with Aranx.’

‘It’s not too cold in here,’ Crimm observed.

‘We’re already inside the Wall. Old Thaxa’s property goes on further into the growstone. I don’t think anybody knows how deep these old chambers go, or how much Thaxa
actually owns. But according to Moerx, the servant, there should be another door at the back here . . .’

The rear wall was covered by a tapestry bearing stylised Northland icons, concentric circles with stabbing radial lines. Ayto pulled the tapestry down to expose a heavy wooden door. This
wasn’t locked, but was stuck in its frame, perhaps the wood had swollen, and it took the two of them to shift it.

Then another corridor. And another room and corridor, and another.

And they emerged into a much larger space. Ayto lifted the lamp high. The walls were just rough growstone, the floor bare and roughly laid, the roof so high it was almost out of sight, but Crimm
saw that it was well constructed, of vaulted domes of growstone. He thought he saw a glimpse of daylight from the roof. He pointed. ‘An air vent?’

‘I think so. Moerx said there was a hearth – look, over there.’

Crimm walked a bit further, away from the circle of light cast by the lantern. The hearth looked very crude, just a heap of bricks in the corner, set up under the vent. There were shadowy heaps
in the corners and by the walls: bits of canvas maybe, wooden pallets. And Crimm made out stains on the walls, greenish-grey, that ended in a band some distance above his head.

‘Must be an old warehouse,’ said Ayto. ‘Something like that.’

‘No, I don’t think so. Look at those stains. It looks as if water was kept here. It’s some kind of huge cistern. Or was. Maybe the system it was part of was abandoned. And then
it’s been reused, by somebody camping here – whoever built that hearth.’

‘That might have been a long time ago. And then it was forgotten, and the Wall has sort of grown out around it. Moerx told me about it because I asked him how deep the house went into the
wall. Just being nosy. He’s looked around before – well, you would, wouldn’t you? When he described this place it gave me an idea.’

‘Hmm. I don’t always like your ideas, Ayto.’

‘We could use this place.’

‘There’s certainly some firewood we could use—’

‘No.’ Ayto walked over to him, his footsteps echoing in the empty space. ‘You’re not thinking big enough, my friend. Listen to me. You heard the rubbish the Annids talked
back there. Rations that are going to run out. How they can’t even keep out the Gairans and the Albians and other useless stomachs. How they’re wasting time copying old tide tables onto
clay tablets.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘
The famous Annids can’t cope
. Like you, they aren’t thinking big enough. That’s obvious. This is Northland! That’s what they think. The whole world speaks
our language, and accepts our scrip. We won’t be beaten by a few flakes of snow! But we will be beaten, my friend, when the cold closes in and the food runs out. The Annids can’t face
it, the reality.’

‘And what’s that, according to you?’

‘When people get hungry enough they’ll rip each other apart, and the Wall.’ He shrugged. ‘You know it as well as I do. And after that there’ll be no food left for
anybody, and we’ll all die.’

‘So . . .’

‘We can’t save everybody. So we save ourselves.’

‘In here?’

Ayto glanced around, at the doors leading off from all the walls, the air vent. ‘Think of it as a fortress, like the Carthaginians would build. We bring them in here.’

‘Who?’

‘Our families. Friends, lovers. Whoever we want – up to a limit. We’d have to work out what that limit is. We bring in enough food to see us through the winter.’

‘You mean steal it.’

‘Just our share. Salted fish, dried vegetables, stuff that will keep. And water – we’d have to think about that. Storage tubs, or maybe there’s a working pipeline, if
you’re right that this is an old cistern. Firewood. Everything we need to stay alive. And weapons. We establish some kind of perimeter, out from here, in all directions. Barricade it, defend
it when they come.’

‘Who?’

‘The starving mob. We fight them off, until they die of cold or hunger.’

‘You’re talking about Northlanders.’

‘Northlanders can grow hungry. And when they do, they’ll behave like everybody else. It’s this or die,’ Ayto said.

Crimm, overwhelmed, felt as if he was having some waking dream, in this dry, echoing place, by the light of the single lamp, talking like this while just a short walk away the Annid of Annids,
his lover, was drinking nettle tea and discussing the preservation of old books. But this was Ayto, who always had been a much tougher thinker than Crimm, always the first to call the warning about
the coming storm, when the rest wanted to carry on for just a little more catch. Even so . . .

‘It seems dishonourable.’

Ayto shrugged. ‘Thaxa’s wife has already cleared off to Carthage, without telling anybody. How honourable is that? And she’s not the only one, by the way. Look, we don’t
have to do this yet. It’s a fallback, that’s all. Every smart man has a fallback. Are you in, or not?’

Crimm wondered if he could betray Ywa. She was Annid of Annids; he could not discuss this with her. ‘I need to think.’

‘Don’t take too long.’

‘Or what?’

‘Or you might find yourself on the other side of the barricade, my friend.’ And Ayto began to prowl around the old cistern, sniffing, scattering dust, peering up at the walls.

Avatak learned that the capital of Mongol Cathay had several names, given it by the many peoples who lived and worked here. The Turks called it Khanbalikh, which was a
rendering of the phrase ‘city of the Khans’. The folk of Cathay called it Ta-tu, which meant ‘great capital’. The Mongols themselves had adopted the Cathay name,
‘Daidu’.

On the day they arrived, thanks to Pyxeas’
paiza
they were escorted safely through scrubby outer suburbs, through gates in a double layer of city walls, and into the city itself
– and Avatak, who had seen too many wonders during the long journey, was overwhelmed once more. Daidu was huge, clean, bright, opulent and luxurious. Even the roofs of the lesser buildings,
lacquered and glazed, were visions in brightly coloured green and yellow and blue that seemed to float in the air. Thinking about what a Mongol city might be like, Avatak had vaguely imagined a
huddle of yurts – tremendous yurts, perhaps, made of expensive felt encrusted with jewels and set on golden platforms, but yurts nonetheless. Uzzia told him that the capital of Genghis
himself, the first great conqueror, called Karakorum, had not been altogether unlike that vision. But Daidu was different. Kublai Khan had eschewed his ancestors’ habits of burning down
cities, and had built his own to match the best.

They were given three days’ rest before they would have to meet the scholar Pyxeas had come so far to speak to, and a small apartment near the western city wall to rest in. Avatak chose
the smallest, plainest room he could find. Even so the couches were so soft he felt as if he was drowning when he lay on them. So he unrolled his own blankets on the carpeted floor, and slept away
most of two days.

On the third day he found a sanctuary that would take the mule. It was a place where sentimental and wealthy Mongols retired their favourite ponies. It wasn’t cheap, but Uzzia said she was
happy to pay. The mule was dismissive of the whole affair.

On the fourth day they were summoned to the Khan’s palace.

Pyxeas insisted they dress as smartly as they could.

Uzzia had somehow preserved a decent set of clothes through the vicissitudes of the journey, even the robbery. But she stuck to her own style. She wore a tunic and breeches with a wide belt and
boots with turned-up toes, the way a Hatti prince might dress in New Hattusa, but she pinned back her hair with a golden comb, and applied cosmetics to her face, a white base with bright red spots
on forehead and cheeks. Avatak couldn’t help but stare at the result, and she grinned. ‘I am what I am,’ she said. ‘I am Hatti. I am Uzzia. I like to show both
sides.’

Pyxeas and Avatak wore clothes loaned by their hosts. Avatak found himself in a brightly coloured blouse and breeches, and a round felt hat. The material felt impossibly soft against his skin.
Pyxeas dressed similarly, but oddly the clothes fit Avatak better. His round Coldlander frame was more like a Mongol’s than Pyxeas’, and the scholar speculated about some ancient
relationship between their peoples. Uzzia complimented them both gravely, but Avatak could tell she was laughing inside. As a reminder of who he was, and despite Pyxeas’ protests, he tore a
strip of sealskin fur from one of his blankets and tied it around his waist like a belt.

So they were led to the palace.

The palace compound was a city within a city, enclosed within its own substantial walls. Avenues paved with shining mosaics were filled with neat houses, and grand tree-lined ways led from the
walls to the central square where the palace itself stood. Avatak spotted a tremendous lake, contained by the walls, formed by the damming of a river; tall, elegant birds waded among reeds.

Ferocious-looking guards at the doors, both Mongol and Cathay-born, scrutinised Pyxeas’
paiza
.

Once inside the palace itself they were instructed to remove their boots and shoes, and don soft white slippers to protect the floors, all of which were carpeted. They walked almost noiselessly
down a long corridor, and Pyxeas murmured that they must keep their voices down for fear of disturbing the Khan. But Avatak had been told the palace had a thousand rooms, and he thought it unlikely
the Khan would be close enough to hear them.

They were brought through a grand set of doors to a tremendous room, so vast that to Avatak it was almost as if he had stepped outdoors. The room was brightly lit by tall windows and by lanterns
on the walls, the carpet, brilliant white, was so wide and empty it was like a snow field, and the walls were crusted with vivid paintings, of birds and dragons and lions, warriors and half-naked
women. The walls were many times taller than a man’s height, and looking up Avatak saw a ceiling similarly coated with dazzling art.

Much of the floor space was empty. But to the rear of the room was a collection of domes and boxes of clear glass, big structures that towered over the servants that fussed around them,
adjusting bits of tubing, peering at instruments, making notes on clay tablets. A man came walking towards them from this assembly, not tall, middle-aged, with the round face, olive skin and
tonsured hair of a Mongol. Servants trailed him, eyes respectfully downcast.

Pyxeas hurried forward, his gait clumsy, almost a limp. After enduring such a journey the old man could barely make the last few paces, and Avatak felt a stab of affection for the brave,
vulnerable scholar.

‘Bolghai! My dear fellow. It has been much too long, too long.’ Pyxeas grasped the Mongol’s hands in his. ‘Ten years, is it, since you graced us with your
presence?’

‘More like fifteen, old chap,’ said the Mongol, grinning.

Uzzia murmured to Avatak, ‘Even here the scholar speaks in his native Northlander and expects to be understood and answered in the same – and he is!’

Pyxeas introduced his ‘dear travelling companions’, and Coldlander and Hatti bowed to the Mongol. ‘My good friend Bolghai, with whom I have corresponded for many years, is one
of the finest scholars of his generation – no, Bolghai, do not be modest – and he is a Mongol! A cousin of the Khan—’

‘A rather distant cousin. But Buyantu is kind to me, as you can see from the facilities he grants.’

‘Bolghai is a Mongol prince but educated by the best teachers the court could find, and he has further broadened his mind by travelling far beyond the reach even of the Khans’
conquering armies. All the way to Northland, in fact. The result is a fine intellect.’

‘Fine for a Mongol, you mean.’ For an instant there was tension, before Bolghai grinned.

Pyxeas scolded, ‘Now don’t you go trying to trip me up like that, you rascal. Show me your investigations into fixed air. I’ve come rather a long way to see them.’

Led by Bolghai, who walked slowly to allow for Pyxeas’ pace, they headed towards the cluster of apparatus at the rear of the room.

‘Ah, how I have missed you, scholar,’ Bolghai said, in his lightly accented Northlander. ‘Our talks of this and that, of men and stars, of the fate of the whole world and the
precise shape of a grass seed, late into those long Northlander nights. But, as you may know, I have since commissioned some research into the biography of the great engineer Yu, who designed and
built flood defences in Cathay some three thousand years ago. There are gaps in his biography, and I have come to suspect that he travelled in his youth – why not? And why not to Northland?
Which was a great civilisation even then. I have come to suspect that the design of your mighty Wall could have sprung from Yu’s fertile mind. The similarities are striking when you consider
such works as—’

‘Oh, now, you’re trying to provoke me! What a lot of nonsense. It’s far more likely that this upstart Yu came to Northland to study a Wall which was already ancient long before
he was born . . .’

‘They’re good together,’ Uzzia murmured as she walked with Avatak. ‘Two bantering scholars. Pyxeas needs to make sure he doesn’t go too far, however. Even this
Bolghai must have his Mongol pride.’