Sunrise Lands

He didn't want to go near the dead man; the lice and fleas jumped ship when a man died, and these probably carried disease. Safer to leave the burial detail for a day or so. Which reminded him…

"If they try to drag the bodies away, let them."

"Capitan?"

"Don't want them stinking the place up." Any worse than it is now, he thought.

Smell was inevitable when you cut men's bodies open. At least the sandy soil would sop up the liquids; it would be safer to bury any remaining tomorrow.

"This is the most defensible campsite we're going to find around here, I think, so you'll be stuck in this location for a while."

He took the captured shete back under the lamps-not much point in trying to sleep more tonight-and as he cleansed his hands and arms with sand and then water, he studied the weapon.

It was a fairly typical example of what horsemen used everywhere he knew of, from the Big Muddy to the Rockies and south to the Rio Grande; a yard long piece of slightly curved steel, three fingers broad at the widest spot near the tip, sharpened all along one edge and four inches down the other from the point for a backhander. The hilt had a simple cross guard and a full-length tang, with fillets of wood on the grip and a wrapping of braided rawhide that was coming loose in one or two spots; the pommel was a plain brass oval.

This one was better made than most, forged by a real smith and not simply ground and filed out of old-time stock. He tapped it against a wagon's frame, and the al most bell-like sound was right, and so was the elastic way it sprang back when he bent it against a tree stump by sticking the point in and leaning on it.

Still sharp, he thought, feeling cautiously with his thumb. Shame the way it's been let rust. Looks like it hasn't been cleaned or oiled in a month… maybe a bit less, with the air here.

He rotated his wrist, whipping the steel through a blurring figure eight; the air hissed behind it. It was lighter than he preferred, but it felt alive in his hand.

Over at the fire he got out his cleaning kit and went to work. When he'd finished and held it out at arm's length towards the flames his brows went up. There was a rash of rust pits, no way around that the way it had been neglected, but the surface of the metal rippled in the firelight under the thin coating of linseed oil he'd applied, full of wavy lines-not just forged, but layer -forged from a mixture of spring and mild steel, and then hardened on the edge.

There was a very slight roughness in the steel along the working part, the point and about a foot back from there; that was blood etching, the way the salt and acid of blood attacked the softer layers even if you cleaned it immediately.

This beauty would set you back fifty, sixty dollars in Des Moines. More in Richland or Marshall, since the Iowan capital attracted the best craftsmen. That was the price of a good ordinary horse, or two months' wages for a laborer, but it was a working tool that had been used hard, not a dress weapon-no fancies like inlay.

Wait, I lie, he thought.

Symbols had been graven in the surface in the same spot on both sides, not far from the hilt: a stylized rayed sun, and within it three letters- C and U and T.

"Well, that's what it's for," he said. Then he called out: "Hey, Kaur, Singh!"

The scouts came over; Singh was still rubbing a cloth on the serrated head of the mace he used for close-and personal work. It smelled if you left the results in the grooves. There were spatters on his turban, as well.

"Ranjeet is well avenged, Captain," he said, his dark eyes sparkling.

Ingolf felt a little uneasy about these two on occasion.

Revenge was all very well, but there were times when he thought the pair of them were a bit monomaniacal on the subject.

"Take a look at this," Ingolf said. "One of the wild men had it."

They both looked surprised; they hadn't seen any thing more complex than tying a knife onto a stick since they got east of the Illinois Valley.

"It's modern work," Singh said, turning it over in his big hands. "Well done, too."

He had been a blacksmith's apprentice before his village was wiped out, and still dabbled usefully in it. Now he flicked a fingernail against the edge of the weapon to test the sound, and tilted it so that the firelight would pick out surface features.

"See the wavy line along the cutting edge, just a fin ger's width in? I have heard of that. It is done by coating all the blade except the edge with clay, then packing it in red-hot charcoal, letting it cool, and then retempering. It makes the cutting edge very hard, glass hard, without turning the whole blade brittle, but it requires great skill. The heat treatment has been well done, too!"

He was waxing enthusiastic. His sister leaned forward, a frown on her dark comely face.

"What is that doing here, Captain?" she said, toying with the long single braid of her hair. "These wild men, they can't even take apart a pair of old garden shears to make knives. Make shetes?"

She made a complex dismissive sound that involved gargling and spitting.

"Yeah, that's the question," Ingolf said. "So they must have stolen it off the body of someone in from the Mid west like us. I don't think I know of more than three or four other expeditions that've gotten east of the Ohio."

"There could be more that we don't know of, more so if they were small and done quietly," Singh said. "If they died here, who would hear anything?"

Ingolf grunted skeptically. "News travels slowly, but it does get around," he said. "And it would take a big outfit, well found, to get this far."

He took the shete back, reversed the blade and held it out to Kaur. "This is a little light for my arm, but it should be about right for you."

Her eyes lit as she took the blade and ran through a series of cuts and thrusts, feet moving like a dancer's as she whirled and lunged. "Yes! Thank you, Captain. This is a very fine weapon, better than mine or my spare."

"And see if anyone else knows what those marks on the blade are," he said.

Kuttner was standing by his bedroll. Ingolf got out his pipe and fixings and lit it with an ember held in a green twig as he sat and leaned back against his saddle. He didn't smoke much. If nothing else, tobacco was too hard to find outside the Republic of Richland, or too bad if you did-good leaf and fine cheeses and apple brandy were his home country's main exports. But sometimes it was an aid to thought.

And hopefully it might discourage the mosquitoes, or at least Kuttner, who he'd noticed hated the smell. He dragged the smoke across his tongue and blew a ring into the darkness, watching it catch faint light from the lan terns and coals of the fire and enjoying the mellow scent.

"Why did you give the shete to the woman?" Kuttner asked at last.

Noticed he doesn't like Kaur. Doesn't like Singh ei ther, but he really doesn't like Kaur. Doesn't seem to like women in general much, at least none of the ones with us, but I don't think he's queer, either.

"It's the right weight and length for her. You've seen her fight," Ingolf said reasonably, then described the etchings. "You ever seen anything like those marks?"

Firelight was good for playing poker; the shadows cast on a man's face made it harder to lie. He could see the slight hesitation in Kuttner's response, and the way his eyes flicked aside for a moment.

"Not really. I think I've heard that someone uses those symbols in the far West, but no details-there isn't much trade that way."

Ingolf nodded; it was true enough. Iowa had plenty of cattle and wheat from its own fields, and the metals trade mostly went up and down the Mississippi and its right-bank tributaries. But there was something…

He's not telling all he knows, that's for sure.