Until I met Brand, I didn’t think I’d met anyone who told lies. As a result, I wasn’t very good at knowing how to deal with them. But that was then. This is now, and here’s what I know about them: when liars say they’re going to tell you the truth, it’s time to listen extra carefully to their stories—not because they’re going to try and hide the truth inside them, but because the truth’s not going to be there at all. The real truth is going to be in the things they don’t mention. So if you listen to the shape of their lie, you can see the room it takes up, and then you look for the truth in the empty spaces in between.
You used the map to get here, said Brand.
Yes, I said.
And where is it now? he said.
It doesn’t matter, I said. I didn’t want to tell him or anyone about Jip and the horses. Not yet. Not until I had to.
You can’t let them find it, he said. I’m serious.
Okay, I said. They’re not going to find it. Not unless I tell them where it is.
If I told them where to go to untie Jip and see to the horses, they would find it. I couldn’t imagine they wouldn’t look through my bags. I just didn’t see any point telling him that. He looked at me and shook his head. I suppose liars are good at spotting other lies and half-truths.
Griz, he said, if they find that map, you’re dead.
That’s not a very good way to start our agreement, I said. Not by threatening me.
I’m not threatening, he said. I’m warning. I’m trying to help. If they find that map in your possession, they are going to think you did something very bad. And they will punish you for it.
I thought for a bit. Trying to see the shape of what he was saying.
You mean you did something bad, I said. I took the map from you. If it’s evidence that you did something bad, I’ll just tell them that.
And I’ll tell them you’re lying, he said. I wouldn’t want to, but if you told them that, I’d have to. Just a matter of survival.
Your word against mine, I said.
They know me, he said. They trust me. I bring them stuff they like. Stuff they need. They found you sneaking around. Hiding things from them.
Like being a girl, I said.
That, he said, but mostly I meant being a Freeman.
I wondered then if I’d fallen into a trap of my own digging.
Last Freeman came through here killed people they cared about, he said. So they’re not going to be much disposed to like you or what you have to say. But, Griz…
He seemed like he was in mild pain as he paused and looked at me.
Griz, he said. This is a stupid conversation. We’re on the same side. I’d never betray you. Unless you betrayed me first. That’s all I’m saying. And like I tried to tell you—keeping the map out of their hands is just a matter of survival.
Sometimes Jip or Jess will look at me and make their eyes big, and it usually means they want some food but can’t get it, like if we’re on the boat and they can’t hunt their own meat. That’s what his eyes looked like. Soft and warm, despite the blueness of them. I made myself remember how quickly they could turn wintry.
Who died? I said.
I could make my eyes go wintry too.
I didn’t say anything else. I just waited him out. And he always hated silence. So eventually he moved closer, holding his hands open and palm up to show he meant no threat, and then he began to tell me another story, speaking quietly as if afraid someone outside might hear.
I told you they’re scared of long voyages, he said. The ones they used to take, raiding for girls.
Yes, I said. You said the three men who did them sailed away and never came back, because of a storm.
I never said it was three men, he said. Interesting you think that. No, it was two men and a woman. The woman was the best sailor, and she also put people at ease when they met them as strangers. She would talk to the girls and the men, and both would like her for different reasons. She was the one made the marks on the map.
I looked at him, betraying myself a little.
You thought they were my marks, he said. Is that right?
I still do, I said. I had seen the pencil line marking his passage to our island. I didn’t know why he would be lying about this but I was sure it’d become apparent if he carried on talking.
That map is theirs, he said. The three sailors. It shows where they went. If you were on the Falki, I would show you.
What’s the Falki? I said.
My boat, he said. I have the other maps hidden there.
Hidden? I said.
I told you, he said, it would not be good for them to be found. But they are maps of their travels.
So they didn’t drown, I said.
He moved a little closer.
No, he said. They didn’t drown. They got to their destination safely enough. They just didn’t leave it.
And then he told me another story.
He told me it was the real truth. I don’t know if it is. The Conservators had come to the house that was his real home on the Swedish archipelago, seemingly to trade but actually to take the pale girls who were his sisters. And he and his kin had stopped them, because they were not fools.
They came, they stayed, they ate with us, they asked if we’d like to come join their settlement—and when we said no, we liked it where we were, they left friendly. And then they came back after dark, he said. Nothing friendlike in their hearts. Carrying weapons in their fists. And handcuffs. They said they just wanted one girl. They called it a “tithe”. Do you know what a tithe is?
No, I said.
It’s like a bribe, he said. Like they used to take taxes from people or they’d put them in prison if they refused to pay up. Except a tithe is for gods. These people are dangerous because they think they are doing this because a god wants them to do it. It means they don’t have to think like humans.
So you killed them, I said.
No choice, he said. Even if we’d hidden—or fought them off—they’d have come back. They now knew where we lived. We liked where we live. Still do. We didn’t want to spend our lives hiding from them, moving around, living in fear of the next time they tried, of what would happen if they brought more people to help them. We had no idea how few of them there are here. That’s why I came, the first time, to see if there was a threat. That’s when I discovered they had grown afraid when the others hadn’t returned. They turned from the sea.
And you killed them, I said again. The others.
We did, he said. My sisters are strong women. They did not take well to the idea of being someone else’s breeder. I did not take well to the idea of someone stealing my sisters. Nor did my parents. Or our friends.
Friends. Parents. He had not said there were more than the pale girls when he first told the story. Now he seemed to come from a village. I didn’t say anything, but I stored the thought away. It could have been another lie.
We knew they’d come back, because there was something extra in the men’s eyes after they had met my sisters, he said. So we waited and when they slunk back, we did what we had to do. I did not like doing it, but it had to be done. It was their choice. They could have stayed away, but they came back, with weapons and handcuffs.
All that and yet you thought you could steal my dog and no one would follow you, I said.
A dog is not a sister, he said.
No, I said. But it’s still family.
And then things went quiet between us for a long time, and eventually he walked off and lay down in his own cell across the way, and seemed to do nothing but stare at the ceiling.
You think I’m a bad man, he said after a while.
I didn’t answer. I could see no point. I was too busy trying to figure out what to do. If I told them to go and look after Jip and the horses, they would then find the map and that would not be good, because there was no way of knowing how they would react to it. It was a sort of proof that the holder of the map might well have been involved in the death and disappearance of their loved ones. But if I didn’t tell them, and I was unable to escape in time, then the horses and Jip would die, tied up and hobbled. And in this half-buried bunker with concrete walls, barred windows and a locked gate, I didn’t think an escape would be a quick thing, even if it was eventually possible.
The choice was of course not a hard one. I knew what I had to do, but the tough thinking was all about the how of doing it. I was struggling. I tried to keep believing that if I was just calm and clever enough there would be a way to do this. Without it being more disastrous than it had to be. Because Brand was right. They would believe him long before they believed me. And since it looked like I was going to have to rely on him to help me escape this place once quarantine was over, it didn’t make much sense to betray him or even make them distrust him a little bit more than they might already do. I had seen that one of the men who had brought the food liked him but that the other was not as friendly. There was no point in feeding the second one’s misgivings.
My feelings about Brand at that point could be neatly summed up by my wanting to cross the hall and slam the door on his cell tight shut, just as we had been warned not to do, locking him away behind a door that had no key. I thought it would serve him right, and I also thought I would be spared the distraction of his company. I don’t imagine many other people could have thrown themselves on a bed and stared silently at the ceiling in such an irritatingly conspicuous and noticeable way. It was almost childish, as if he—the thief—was resenting that I—the victim—had objected to the theft and had called it for what it was.
The dog jerked me from my thoughts, her excited barks immediately recognisable.
It was Jess, and she was close by and getting closer with each bark. My heart suddenly felt like it had swollen to twice its normal size and was now trying to punch its way out of my ribcage.
I scrambled up on to the ledge below the window and looked between the bars. As I said, the bunker was half sunk in the ground so that the opening was only perhaps twenty centimetres above the grass. I saw Jess and Saga and then a figure running after them, awkwardly yanking on a gas mask as they got close to the bunker. Saga was still held on a rope, but Jess was bounding across the grass towards me trailing her own long length of rope behind her. She must have caught the scent of me and pulled free of the hand holding her.
Jess! I shouted, and jammed my hand out of the window, reaching for her, my shoulder wedged between the narrow bars. Jess! Good girl!
The chasing Con managed to stamp on the end of the trailing rope and bring Jess to a sudden brutal halt. She lost her footing and yelped as she was yanked over onto the ground. The Con scrabbled for the rope and then fell and landed in a sitting position, pulling Jess towards them.
Hey, I shouted, then felt a hand on my shoulder, pulling me back.
Quarantine, said Brand, peering over my head. Can’t let the dog touch you or they’d have to do something to it to stop it spreading whatever infection you might be carrying.
The Con pulled Jess back into their arms and sat there. He or she wore a sort of glove on one hand that seemed twisted in on itself, as if the leather covered an injury, though they seemed to pay it no mind. The blank glass eyes of the mask seemed to be pointed at me, not the dog.
Don’t worry, shouted Brand. The dog must have smelled me.
There’s no reason for them to find out you know the dog already, he said very quietly, for my ears only. That’ll just raise more questions than we have comfortable answers for.
The gas mask just watched us. Jess seemed to calm down a bit, but kept trying to twist in the Con’s arms and find her way to me.
Although I hated the way Jess had been yanked off her feet by the rope, what Brand said made sense. And I could see the Con actually had kind hands and was trying to calm the dog and not hurt her.
They might have shot the dog if they thought it had touched us, said Brand, as if he had heard my thoughts.
So I had to satisfy myself by staring at Jess and just being pleased and amazed that after all these miles she was, as I had hoped against hope for, at the end of my journey.
The Con stood up and stared at me. I couldn’t tell whether it was a friendly or a hostile look. The mask made it impossible to read: the glass just reflected the gunmetal sky overhead and gave nothing away.
Jess whined and barked again, tugging at the rope. The Con reached down and calmed her with hands that were, again, kind and tuned to the way a dog likes to be touched. And then abruptly turned away.
It was in the turn that I made my decision. Looking back on it now, I know I made it for some of the right reasons, and all the wrong ones. The first was the way the Con had handled Jess after the initial violence of bringing her up short. They had not been the actions of someone who was cruel to animals. They were the opposite, and Jess had responded, as if she too trusted the Con in some way.
The second reason was that as the Con turned, a thick braided pigtail swung behind her head in a way that reminded me immediately of Bar.
I figured, wrongly, that a woman would be kinder and more understanding.
The third reason was that if there were wolves out there, as the Cons believed, then Jip and the horses would not have much of a chance against them, tied and hobbled as they were, even for one night.
All sorts of bad things flowed from that decision, but I still think it was the right one to make, given what I knew at the time.
Hey, I shouted. Hey you!
The Con stopped but didn’t turn.
I have a dog too, I shouted. And horses. They’re out there, tied up. Waiting for me to come and get them.
Griz, said Brand, his voice deepening to a warning growl.
If I tell you where to get them, can you fetch them? I said, shrugging off the hand that had gripped my arm. They’re not far. But they’re not safe alone.
Griz, hissed Brand. Don’t—
They’re tied, I said. They can’t run or fight if anything comes for them. And the dog will starve or die of thirst if it’s left.
If they find the map, said Brand.
They will, I said, turning to hide my mouth, as if the gas mask could read my lips even if I spoke low, which I did. But I can’t help that. I told you. What goes for Jess goes for Jip. They’re family. And even if they weren’t, what kind of person leaves an animal defenceless and without food?
A person who wants to stay alive, he said, his face grim. These Cons do not have a sense of humour. And the god they like seems to be the unforgiving kind.
The Con turned and cocked her head at me.
Please, I said.
That’s Tertia, said Brand.
Tertia, I said. I’m Griz. I can see you like dogs. I can see you have the way of them. Please save my dog, and you can have the horses.
Tertia stared at me some more.
You think she’s going to be all friendly just because she’s not a man, said Brand quietly. Again, irritatingly it was like he knew what I was thinking. Bad mistake.
Jess whined and tugged the rope, straining towards me.
The woman Tertia stood there like a statue. I couldn’t tell what she was deciding. She was so still that I couldn’t even be sure she was thinking about what I had said at all.
I once asked why she wasn’t kept with the breeders, said Brand. They said she was too hard. Like a cold and rocky cliff that life can’t cling to was what they actually said. She’s tough enough, that’s for sure, but she does have a thing about Saga. And now I guess she’s taken to the other dog as well.
And he turned away from the window and sat on the ledge, looking back into the room.
The one you stole, I said. Her name is Jess.
You’re going to get us killed, he said.
My dog, I said. My responsibility.
My neck though, he said. Fair warning. I like it as it is, uncut and unbroken. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way.
All’s fair in love and war, I said.
What? he said.
Something I read, I said. Means you do what you must. I just did what I had to.
And then I turned back to Tertia, and told her where I had left Jip and the horses, describing the lonely pine and its fallen brothers and sisters.
I still didn’t know if she was going to do anything about it, but she listened and then abruptly turned away, pulling the two dogs behind her, and dropped out of sight over the edge of the low slope towards the settlement.
None of what you just did changes anything, said Brand. They’re still going to wait the quarantine out, and by then they’ll have figured you’re a girl, and then they’ll make you a breeder. You changed nothing and all you did was put us in danger.
I saved my dog, I said. And—
I cut myself off before I said John Dark’s horses. John Dark had been a good thing and I had no wish to share anything good with this thief. It would be like staining a clean memory the next time he talked about it.
And my horses, I said. I saved my horses.
You really think a dog’s life is worth a human’s? he said.
A life’s a life, I said. And those lives were in my care.
You’re crazy, he said.
I know what I am, I said. And I know what you are too.
And what’s that? he said.
Someone who doesn’t know what they are, I said. Someone who lies, even to themselves. A thief who thinks he’s not a bad man.
He looked at me then, eyes flaring flat and cold as iceblink.
You think you’re a hero because you did one good thing, because you saved your sisters? I said. Maybe you were then. But now? Thieving, lying, stealing people’s dogs?
I found I wanted to hit him too. Instead I spat on the floor.
Heroes aren’t for ever, I said. You shit on your past, you don’t stay shiny.
I think I preferred you when you were a boy, he said.
No, you didn’t, I said.
I looked back up at him, right in the eye.
See? You don’t know the first damn thing about yourself.