The Amtrak Wars - Ironmaster Part 8

And this was not the moment to strike.

With Yama-s.h.i.ta and his samurai listening to every word, she had been unable to explain why she had removed her body-paint or why she was now clothed in richly coloured silks. She could only say what she had been told to say, and hope that her few brief words would speak volumes. It was clear that Mr Snow was under similar constraints, but she had understood the veiled references to what had been seen in the stones and to the seed which had been carried away on the wind and which had now sprung again from the earth.

The cloud warrior had returned and would be sent to rescue her. It was the news she had been waiting for and it meant the gift she had been allowed to offer Mr Snow would not be wasted.

On the return journey, as on the outward leg, Clearwater was kept incommunicado, attended only by the Vietnamese house-women. From time to time, Yama-s.h.i.ta observed her with cold-eyed detachment through a secret panel, usually when she was taking a bath. The sight of her naked body did not arouse anything other than curiosity. Yama-s.h.i.ta had never been overly fond of the female s.e.x even though he had a wife, and two daughters amongst his five children. Marriage, for him, was a domestic necessity; a strategic alliance of interests. Women were merely a means to an end. And an inferior one at that, for in Ne-Issan even high-born ladies took second place to males of equal rank.

The n.o.ble, comradely love of one warrior for another was laudable, but to allow your thoughts and actions to be dominated by a physical desire for an inferior person and that included your own wife - was utterly demeaning.

Love and the delights of the flesh were temptations the true samurai constantly strove to master. Given his natural inclinations and the fact that, since early adulthood, his mind had been entirely occupied with the expansion of his family's wealth and power base, Yamas.h.i.ta's warrior psyche was untainted by such weaknesses.

The long-dog was tall, straight-boned and we!l-proportioned but, on Yama-s.h.i.ta's scorecard, she had three strikes against her: she was female, she was an alien non-person, whose place lay below the bottom rung of the social ladder, and she had repellent, hairy loins like a Mute. And in all probability carried the same infestations.

Hhhhawww!

The thought of dallying in such an unwholesome environment never failed to raise a shudder. If Nakane Toh-Shiba felt the need to couple with this gutter-animal the least he could have done was to have her body shaved but, even then, what on earth had driven him to possess her in the first place?

Good question. Unfortunately, having derided the stories of Mute magic, Lord Yama-s.h.i.ta had blinded himself to the answer: the Consul-General had not possessed Clearwater; it was she who had possessed him.

When the three wheelboats pa.s.sed back through the

narrows at Hui-niso and were heading eastwards across Lake In towards Kari-faran, Yama-s.h.i.ta ordered the vessels to heave to. Eight Mutes four males and four females - were ferried over from the flank boats and lined up on the stern with their backs to the long, iron-strapped blades of the immobile paddle wheel.

Following the example of their escort, they bowed their heads to Yama-s.h.i.ta, who sat facing them on a raised section of decking.

Clearwater was brought out on to the deck by two red-stripes sword-bearing functionaries who ranked below samurai. Clearwater's face was concealed behind the traditional rouged and chalk-white mask of a courtesan. Her head was shadowed by the cowl of a long, closed cape, and her hands were covered by long gloves. She bowed low as soon as she saw Yamas.h.i.ta, then knelt on a mat to his left, between her escorts.

Facing her across the deck were six more red-stripes, their left hands resting on the hilts of their gently curving swords. Twelve white-stripes armed with whipping canes stood guard over the prisoners; Lord Yama-s.h.i.ta was accompanied by his usual guard of high-ranking samurai - all wearing the ferocious metal masks that had caused the Mutes to christen them 'dead-faces'. Those worn by the reds and whites were more modest affairs made of lacquered papier which6, like Clearwater's, the sole decoration being a band of colour 'running down the middle from forehead to chin.

On Yama-s.h.i.ta's command, his interpreter turned to Clearwater. 'My lord wishes you to choose a male and female from among these slaves."

After several painful lessons, Clearwater knew better than to ask why.

The interpreter waved her to her feet and, after she had bowed once again to Yamas.h.i.ta, directed her over to the lineup.

All eight Mutes looked utterly wretched. They had already been afloat for nine days and, like most of their kin-folk, had been suffering from motion-sickness.

Clearwater had been sick several times during the first half of the outward journey, but since then had only experienced bouts of queasiness. It was a very different feeling that gripped her now; a feeling that something awful was going to happen. She selected a young man and woman at random, then returned to her place on the mat as the couple were brought out and made to kneel before the raised decking.

They were both strangers: their clothes, which would have identified their clan group - She-Kargo, D'Troit, San'Paul, M'Waukee - had been replaced by a cotton loincloth. Neither looked as if they gave much for their chances of surviving beyond the next few minutes, but they faced the prospect with the stoicism that was the hallmark of the Plainfolk.

Through his interpreter, Yama-s.h.i.ta asked, 'Are you satisfied you have picked the strongest."?"

Clearwater bowed humbly. 'I believe so, sire."

'Lord Yama-s.h.i.ta wishes to make certain,' said the samurai interpreter.

'A person of your importance deserves only the best." He barked out a brief, unintelligible command.

With terrifying suddenness, the red-stripes facing Clearwater burst into action, hurling the chosen couple back into line. The red and the lower-ranking whites then waded into the shackled Mutes, flailing away with their whips, brandishing their swords, and screaming Iron Master gobbledygook. They were like a frenzied pack of coyotes yapping and snarling at a group of cornered fast-foot. The pointing swords and canes made it clear what they wanted, but several of the masked guards spelt it out in fractured Basic.

'up! Up!" - 'On wheel!" - 'Now! Now' - 'Monkey go for ride on merry go-roun'!"

The eight Mutes were forced up on to the paddle wheel and were made to stand in a line along the blade that had stopped in a horizontal position: women on the left, men on the right, with an arm's length between them, faces to the wheel. The paddle blade was broad, but their foothold was precarious. The wood was dripping wet and their movements were hampered by

the chains around their wrists and the heavy metal collar

around their right ankles. Those who glanced nervously over their shoulder to see what was going to happen next received several whip lashes on the backs of their thighs.

Clearwater's feeling of dread deepened as she realised what Yama-s.h.i.ta was proposing to do. The domain-lord waved brusquely to a subordinate, who shouted to another minion standing by an open hatch. The order was promptly relayed below. There was a loud hi ss of escaping steam, then the deck trembled as the two huge wooden beams which drove the paddle wheel took up the strain, one pushing as the other pulled the wheel over and down towards the watching Iron Masters.

Guh-CHOONG-going, guh-CHOONG-going, guhCHOONG going . . .

The paddle wheel had turned into a giant treadmill, forcing the eight Mutes to climb up the descending blades in order to escape the whips and jabbing sword points of the Iron Masters below. But an even worse fate awaited them. If, through error or exhaust ion, they missed their footing, they would be carried down by the blades and crushed in the narrow s.p.a.ce between wheel and the surrounding deck.

Guhchoongah-join, guhchoongah-join, guhchoongah-join . . .

The laboured ascent of the wheel turned into a mad scramble as it began to move faster. When it had achieved a relentless but not impossible rate, another order was relayed to the engineers in the bowels of the boat - presumably an instruction to keep the boat at the same speed.

Yama-s.h.i.ta was running a s.a.d.i.s.tic endurance race; a race which only the fittest and most agile could hope to survive.

Clearwater agonised over what to do. The Sky Voices had told her that she must not reveal her gift to the Iron Masters, but had they foreseen a situation like this?

Should she ignore their warning and try to summon up the earth forces?

Would they respond? The wheelboats were now out of sight of land, and a fathomless ocean lay beneath them. If Talisman did give her the strength to wreck havoc on her tormentors and tear their ship asunder, what then? It would not save the Mutes on the wheel and would also bring certain death to any other Plainfolk held in chains below. Her heart sank. She could do nothing. Her first duty was to Mr Snow, to honour her vow to do all in her power to protect Cadillac and bring him safely back to the clan.

The first to fall was a man.

The white-stripes shouted excitedly as the Mute lost his footing and made the fatal mistake of throwing himself lengthways along the descending paddle blade in a desperate effort to climb back up, instead of throwing himself clear. His scream of terror and pain was cut short as the ma.s.sive blade scythed downwards, severing his right arm and leg as it drove his mangled body into the sea below. Amid roars of laughter, two white-stripes picked up the limbs, waved them mockingly at the Mutes on the wheel, then threw them over the side.

Rather than share the same horrific fate, two of the three remaining men decided to throw themselves overboard. The first - the nearest to the right-hand rim of the wheel - scrambled over the top, ran with amazing sure-footedness over the rising blades and leapt into the sea.

He bobbed to the surface, floundered briefly, then sank beneath the weight of his chains. The second, following hard on the heels of the first, reached the top of the wheel, then slipped and fell between the blades into the maze of supporting timbers inside. Trapped helplessly in the narrow V formed by the junction of two beams and the huge axle, he was plunged into the seething cauldron below. When the same beams rose out of the water, he was seen clinging to one of the paddles like a waterlogged hamster. Unable to get through to the sea beyond and fearful of being carried higher, he fell back into the swirling water.

At some point death overtook him, but the wheel continued to dredge up his limp body. Each time, it tumbled back down the rising blades or slid down the dripping spoke beams towards the axle - which tipped him forwards into the water and the whole grisly cycle began again.

The women were not slow to follow. As the men made their leap for the sea, the woman placed nearest the left-hand rim of the wheel tried the same escape route.

Just as she was about to jump off, she also lost her balance. Arms flailing, she toppled sideways on to the deck, landing back-first across the huge iron-strapped and bolted beam that drove the left-hand side of the paddle wheel. Her spine snapped with an audible crack that sent an electrifying quiver through Clearwater's body. The woman she had chosen began to lose ground.

She cried out despairingly, begging for someone to help her. She was close to the middle of the wheel but the sole surviving man on her right was too far away. Oblivious of the danger, her nearest companion reached out towards her. Their hands closed round each other's wrists.

Clearwater willed them to succeed. To find the strength to climb over the top and make that final leap into the sea beyond. It was not to be. Within seconds, the woman was clinging with both hands to the arm of her helper as she made one last frantic attempt to get her feet back into step with the moving blades. It was hopeless but she refused to let go and, an instant later, they both tumbled to their death beneath the wheel.

A new command from Yama-s.h.i.ta was relayed to the engine room. The wheel slowed rapidly and, when it came to rest, the white-stripes ordered the two weary survivors to climb down, laughing and patting them on the back. The young man was the one Clearwater had chosen.