quick we check our packs an sharpsticks. Malk hand the guidin stick to Aban, nuthin sayin. Aban think before he take it but Malk push it an up it go in Abans fist.
We run cross scrub till dayup an stedders long gone back to bed.
Scaldin light an sky like a furnace door left open. Hidin in a wood of yewkas after a fire, leaves still hangin like yellow petals. Becca Rona Nathin Efia. Nathin with the guidin stick case Aban Malk dont make it back. They gone to Bad Shot to shift goods. Hopin news of the raid on Winsham dont beat em to it. Becca Rona moanin, Lan oh Lan, till it get too hot for moans an they sleep. Nathin turnin over the guidin stick praise it, stroke its carvins. Efia search for grubs an locusts tho in her head too its, Lan oh Lan. The group grieve but Efia reckon she an the group not always the same an her pains sharper an deeper cos Lan was her best her closest since they kids together in Roil Wells. How they scape the same fate. Hitchin to old blokes. Old blokes with land an plenty of kids from the wives they bust up havin em. Tho they moms say thats just The Way they aint gonna walk it. Live free together. Live on the run. All lost now an broke.
Samewhile up north, Malk Aban take booty into Bad Shot. Aban tell all this later. Later when we share whats done. Bad Shot he says a richer sted than Winsham, its walls stronger an more stedders on count of Thirsty Roads traffic an trade. Richer the sted the more talismans outsight. Bad Shots got all see-see boxes with they bust up eyes an coily tails. Heads of crits on poles. Grass dolls hangin from rusty nails. Keep out if you mean bad. Malk Aban mean good. Trade an scarper. No shoppin in Bad Shot. No riskin any lives.
Wassup, bloke at the gate say. Malk Aban stand whiles stedders frisk em an bung they snouts in our loot. Clothes, a hoe, a pair of sandals, some grain. Aban note the stedders in cammo like juntamen. Two on the ramparts holdin akays.
Hotten innit, say Malk but the stedders ignore him. One, a heavy bloke with a bust nose an face tattoos, point his cosh at him. Do you follow the Law, he say.
How so bro, say Malk.
How so you worship the Law yer maker an fear the Law yer breaker.
Oh for show, say Aban, for show.
Bad Shots a loyal sted an a christun.
We trade, say Aban, only with christun folk.
The big bloke suck his teeth lookin at em. Dont sound like hoofers, he say an gob over his shoulder. Biddy welcome.
Cheers, say Malk but he walk into the blokes cosh. Hot breath in his face an black eyes borin into him. Any grief, say the bloke, an kites ul peck out yer eyes.
Makes sense dunnit, say Aban.
The Law have eyes an see you. Send fleshflies to blow yer corse if you cross him. Malk Aban watch the cosh fall an draggin the loot they enter Bad Shot under the akays waitin muzzles.
Cheerful bloke, say Malk.
Cheerful sted, say Aban. Soon as done we best be off.
Rightyer, say Malk.
Bad Shot stink an swelt in the sun. Houses of tarp an breezeblock from the Fast Time manshuns. Stedders in white curters an jelabas. Women carryin water in bark pots. Bowleg kids young as five heave they bros an sissies on they backs. Smell of dead crits an donkey shit. Dogs skulkin for grub, cowerin gainst sticks or stones. More blokes in junta gear watchin from doorways. Aban whisper, Jorjes Army?
Malk shake his head. Long time since the junta send its army west. Boys find the market at a crossroads. Few stalls under canvas. Women pickin over dusty melons, piggly pears, roast locusts. Bunnies showin pink where they innards cut out, the bald flesh peppery with flies. Stedders eyes slide to the goods the boys carryin. Costin. Considerin. Aban find one stall got what they lookin for. What for a dewcloth, he ask the stall bloke.
What you got?
This hoe.
Bloke shake his head.
This hoe an these sandals.
Bloke or bitch?
Small bloke big bitch, say Malk an the stedder crack a smile. Got him now.
Bloke hand over a dewcloth. Know how to use it, he ask.
We know, say Malk. How bout plasters?
Some. You?
Malk Aban take out stole clothes but keep the grain hid in they packs. Stall bloke make a lemon suck face. For yer wife, say Aban. He tug out a yellow sari. Gotcha gain think Malk cos the blokes eyes bulge an, Maybe why not, he say, tryin too late to swallow his greedy look.
This for plasters an that bucket there.
Keep her smiling, say the stall bloke as he stow the sari out of sight. Where you boys from?
Whey Bitch, say Aban fast an easy. The Wen before that.
Wenners eh? Met a bloke once ran slave ships in Canny Wolf.
Dunno Canny Wolf, say Aban.
Tradin place innit. Where you headin?
Malk go shifty, look to move, but Aban play it fast. North, he say. Lookin for harvest work. No sooner the words loose than he want to catch em back cos the stall bloke frown an wall up gainst em. Best scapes forward, Aban think, an fearin a sweat on him he say, Wassup bro? North no good is it?
Dunno, say the stall bloke. Not up the Middens leastways. Word is its steds vee hoofers like when you was lads. The bloke lean close, his fat arm in his wares. Hoofers like weeds, he say. Pluck em up an they grow back all over. Cos of the Dry see an folk what grow stuff claimin land off the lifestock.
So whats new, say Malk.
Its numbers innit. Breed like rats them hoofers. Loud enuf for half Bad Shot to hear the bloke add, Ousters most on em. Not christun folk thats for show. Lose animals in the Dry an they raid a sted. Stedders wont have it an why should they? Call on Jorjes Army. Back to axes an mashtis.
Nuthin stedders cant sort out, say Aban, wantin to go. Jorjes lot ul see it right.
Rightyer but they – The stall bloke lean in again an whisper. They bring trouble an all. Looters do. Rob good folk soon as bad.
Aban Malk give no thinks to this. Seein as we headin west, fightin in the Middens no fret of ours. Fact, worse things get the better, cos stedders watchin hoofers mean less eyes for us. Aban Malk go to leave but the blokes not done. Like he want to warn the boys.
Looters bad enuf, he say. But worse follow.
Like what?
Slavers. Blokes huntin fresh meat. Bounty men.
Aban burn on a sudden hotter than the day call it. He drop his grain pack.
If theres a price, say the stall bloke, after kids whats grown up runnin –
Not our prob, say Malk.
For show for show. Still an I mean watchyer. For bounty men a lookylikes good enuf. Theres prizes on all sorts of heads. Crims on the run. Scaped slaves. You name it they lookin. Not so many blocks on bizness when wars afoot.
The boys get away fast as clever. Did the stall bloke know em? Guess they story? Fast an nabber free they barter clothes for saltmeat, rope an bundles of tarp. Grain goes for bags of sorghum an maize. Supplies better than Aban see in Winsham but here too signs of hunger. One bloke in a side streets skinnin a dog strung up by its back legs.
What yer think, say Malk as they shoulder they packs. Bout slaver talk an bounty men?
Think nuthin, say Aban. Nor say nuthin till we far from this shithouse. Silent they walk under the gate where the sentries sit, scannin the Thirsty for signs of trouble.
Crawlin thru scrub longside the Thirsty Road. Keepin low case stedder patrols or juntamen see us. Packs on our backs. Sweat drippin from our chins an guts full but brains hungerin for shade. On, keep on. Till Rona Becca crump to they knees.
Upyer, say Malk.