Bronze Summer by Stephen Baxter Page A

seem even more dead. It was easier to dive into the clamour of the Scambles and forget everything.
    ‘I know it’s complicated,’ Teel said. ‘But that arrowhead isn’t just lethal, it’s new . Maybe if you can find out where it came from, what’s different about it—’
    ‘Nice pendant.’ Ximm was only a pace behind them. Teel hastily tucked away his crow’s foot. Ximm reached out to cradle the arrow in his palm. ‘I know a bit about iron.’ He frowned. ‘An arrowhead? Funny sort of ornament.’
    Milaqa took a breath. ‘It’s not just an ornament. This works . It’s been fired.’
    ‘You saw that, did you?’
    She stayed silent, hoping she wouldn’t have to lie.
    Ximm turned. ‘Here, Voro, take a look at this.’
    Voro straightened up from the mud and strode over. ‘Iron?’
    ‘Not just iron. Hard and true iron, good enough for the bow, according to the lady here.’ He tapped the head on the shaft of his shovel. ‘How come? Iron falls from the sky, doesn’t it? No use for anything but showing off,’ and he cackled.
    ‘I heard rumours,’ Voro said. ‘About the Hatti. You know how it is – we send them potato and maize mash, and tin for their bronze. We get iron goods back from them in exchange, among other stuff, and so we know something of their techniques. I heard they have a way of working iron that makes it harder. Better than bronze, so they say. I may be meeting some Hatti myself. Some of their high-ups are coming to the Giving in midsummer. I’m supposed to go with Bren to meet them in Gaira and escort them here.’
    Teel pulled Milaqa away, and murmured, ‘Maybe this is your way forward.’
    ‘To do what?’
    ‘Follow the thread, Milaqa. If you can find out where this arrowhead was made and how it got to Northland, maybe you can find out who pulled the bowstring. If there’s some connection with the Hatti—’
    ‘I don’t know any Hatti. I don’t know anything about them.’
    ‘What, you don’t bump into any in the Scambles? Then it’s time you found out, isn’t it?’

 
    12
     
    The midsummer Giving at Etxelur was, Qirum had learned, a custom more revered than all the ceremonies of Egypt, more ancient than the rites of vanished Sumer and Akkad. And as the solstice approached people travelled from across half the planet to attend the Giving, like a great drawing-in of breath. Now Qirum was going to Northland for the first time, he was going to a Giving. And he would have a queen of the Hatti at his side.
    The long journey began as they pushed off from Troy’s long gritty beach. The rowers dragged on their oars under Praxo’s gruff leadership, and Qirum worked his steering oar as they navigated the treacherous currents of the strait.
    Kilushepa was fascinated by Qirum’s ship. She paced the length of it, picking her way between the eight rowers’ sweating torsos and the bales of food, water, wet-weather clothes, folded sails, bailing buckets, bundles of weapons and other junk that crammed the narrow hull. Her balance was good, as the ship pitched and creaked in the offshore swell.
    ‘Twelve paces long.’
    ‘About that.’ Qirum, sitting at his position in the high stern, was unfolding the periplus for this stretch of coast. He was amused by the way the rowers were distracted by Kilushepa’s slim figure brushing past them, and by Praxo’s clenched, furious expression under his salt-stained felt cap.
    She sat down at the prow, running her fingers along the hull beams. ‘Your paintwork is flaking.’
    He laughed. ‘Probably. We never were the smartest ship on any of the oceans. But it’s pitch, not paint.’
    Praxo growled, ‘Smart or not, she’s the fastest and most feared of all – right, lads?’
    The only answer he got was a couple of uninterested grunts. Most of these rowers had been signed on in the dingy taverns of Troy, and most looked as if all they wanted was to work off last night’s mead or wine or beer. At least they seemed to be an experienced