Tal and Keel were all too silent.
“We fought for Bee-Jor!” Keel finally blurted. “Are you saying our service meant nothing? That we should go back to our shacks at the midden?”
Anand stared at Keel and churned with rage as he remembered a long chain of his cruelties. In his mind he heard the snap of Keel’s thorn-laced whip on his father’s back as it sent bits of his flesh flying. I should have never allowed him to remain as foreman, Anand scolded himself. In the silence, Anand could hear himself breathe . . . as well as the movement of the tiny monsters spinning under his skin.
“Either go back to the midden, Good Bee-Jorites,” he finally said, “or we could escort you to the western border to join the Slopeites in their own country, where you can live in the old ways. Surely they could use your bravery in their battle with the Beetle Riders preparing to attack their mounds.”
Keel and Tal looked at each other, then grimaced at Anand. “Excuse us, Your Majesties and . . . others,” said Keel. “We don’t want to upset the shit-cart, as it were. Thanks for hearing us out . . . Anand. Perhaps we could move up when a place becomes available. You never know when someone might, you know, get killed.”
“Do . . . not . . . make . . . threats!” said Anand, blasting each word.
“Why, Commander. You’ve misunderstood us. No threats here. Just respect and reverence.”
Anand’s nostrils quivered with rage as he turned to his guards. “Accompany this valiant defender, Citizen Gelk, and his wife, Citizen Canathy, back to the chamber they were granted,” commanded Anand. “And make sure it is empty of all but their own family before they resume it.” He turned to the father and son.
“Do not test me, Keel. Do not.”
“Test you? Why, we are mighty proud of you, Anand. Saved us from your cousin Pleckoo and the Hulkrites, you did.”
“Leave. Now.”
Keel and Tal gave with a low, grunting laughter, then lumbered out as guards escorted in the next group. The plaintiffs were a married couple with dark brown skin who clutched babies in swaddling to their chests. Behind them was their daughter, her face to the floor, who had just reached womanhood. She was clutching a third baby. The women sobbed as they stood before the thrones, waiting for the accused to join them. They were three upper-caste women in lacy widows’ whites with two-tailed trains and layers of underskirts. The guards behind them used the sharp ends of spears to prod them into keeping pace. The oldest and stoutest of them came to a halt and turned on the guards just as they reached the thrones. “If you poke me with that spear again, you dark, brazen trash, I’ll strangle your children too!” she screeched.
The lush costumes of the three were so thick that they bunched up against each other as they stood before Anand. He was amused, for a moment, by the lower portion of their gowns, which were in the shapes of three-tiered pyramids, but his inner state had gone from anger to alarm. The accused curtsied gracefully before Polexima and Trellana, who appeared to know them. They turned to Dolgeeno, fell on their knees, and then rose while rubbing their palms and cocking their heads in imitation of Mantis.
“What are your names?” asked Anand, gesturing to the sobbing family. He heard the gasps of the accused—they were offended he had not addressed them first.
“Klurteth,” said the man. “And my wife is Adelica. Our daughter is Ensay.”
“They can answer for themselves,” said Polexima.
“My daughter cannot,” said Klurteth. “She has lost her speech.”
“What caste are you from?” asked Trellana.
“We don’t ask that question anymore,” snapped Anand. “What is your work?”
“We work at the sun-kilns, baking and roasting—some distilling with those in the fermenters’ caste. I fought in the war,” said the man as he turned his head to show where an arrow of Foondathan obsidian had removed a patch of his hair.
“Thank you for your service in feeding the people of our mound,” said Polexima, “and for your defense against the Hulkrites.”
“What is your grievance?” asked Anand.
“Our babies were killed!” screamed Adelica before she fell into sobbing. “Killed, by those women there!” The kiln workers approached Anand, and set down and unwrapped their bundles to reveal the corpses of infants. Anand gritted his teeth in rage.
“How many children do you have?” asked Polexima over the sobbing.
“We had twenty-seven. We have twenty-one now,” said the man.
Twenty-seven children, Anand thought. We must end the eating of mushrooms.
“As was my right, I moved my family up the mound and into the black-sand dwelling of a Cajorite captain who died in the war,” said Klurteth. “Three of my eldest sons died in the battle and the house was our reward for my family’s sacrifice. We came home from the kilns one night and found our eldest daughter here, beaten and bloody, with the corpses of our triplets at her feet. She told us these women from the neighboring dwelling came in, beat her with a spiked mace, and left her for dead before strangling our babies. They said they would come back to kill the rest of our children until we left what had been their house.”
“Is that true?” Anand asked the silent daughter. She nodded her head through her sobbing.
Anand turned to the widows, who stood with their chins raised in defiance. “You stand accused of the murder of infants and the attempted murder of this young woman,” he said. “Who are you?”
“I am the Widow Gafrexa Chando,” said the stout woman. “And this is Entath and Namity, sisters of my husband, Lieutenant General Chando, who gave his life to defeat the Termite worshippers.” On her forehead as well as those of her sisters-in-law, Anand saw a weaving of widow’s marks they had painted with their own blood. The largest mark was a horizontal slash for her husband; the vertical marks were for sons, and the diagonals were for fathers and brothers.
“My sympathies to you,” said Anand, “and our thanks for their sacrifice. Do you deny these charges against you?”
“We do.”
“You did not kill these babies?”
“We did. But we are guilty of no crime.”
“How can you say that?” shouted Polexima.
“Your Majesties, Polexima and Trellana. We request that you rescind the orders of this Dranverish alien and allow us to return to our rightful home with our children. We reject the ridiculous proclamation of this filthy outsider that allows these feculent lice to displace us from our homes merely because they survived the Hulkrish attack.”
“The defenders did more than survive,” said Anand through a tightening mouth. “They fought . . . and not in some useless, prideful way but in a way that actually won us the war.”
“How dare you!” Gafrexa screeched. “Are you suggesting my husband wasted his life? Our Holy Slopeish Armies sacrificed themselves to destroy the Hulkrites so that your rabble—coated in roach grease—could run over their corpses and steal their glory.”
“I reject your account,” shouted Anand through teeth that were grinding. “And warn you to be cautious with your words.”
“If you have no husband, the edict is that you are to consolidate your household with your siblings,” said Polexima. “I remember you well . . . I reviewed your situation and ordered your evacuation. Your sister is Vereetha, widow of Lieutenant General Gambo. Her chambers are spacious and should be quite accommodating for all your family.”
“Majesty—with all due respect—this Dranverish alien has poisoned your mind,” the Widow Chando shouted. “I will not impose on my sister and her family, as they are dealing with their own grief. My chambers have been in my family since the founding of Cajoria. And I will remain in them with all my family . . . and I will kill anyone who attempts to take them from us, as well as their screaming babies.”
Anand burned with a pulsing anger at the same moment a patch of skin on his thigh bubbled up and sent out a sharp pain that stabbed through his entire leg, then throbbed through his body. He looked down to see the
sharp-edged jaws of something tear through the skin of his blister and reveal itself as an eight-legged creature crawling out of the rupture. He chased it with his hand as it scooted over his thigh, then under it where it jabbed into his skin with its clamping jaws. He stood, clenched his teeth, then tore out the mite and ripped it in two. The widows failed to hold back sniggers. Trellana looked amused. A moment later a second blister was rising, leaking fluid.
Terraclon jumped up and untied his heavy robe to step out of it. He was naked but for a loincloth and the holster for his dagger as he grabbed Anand’s arm. “Let’s go,” he said. “We’re cutting those things out now.”
“No. Others are waiting for justice,” said Anand. “How many seek an audience?” he asked the closest guard who wriggled in pain from his own infestation.
“Commander, we have lost count. There are hundreds, perhaps thousands, waiting to see you. Some have arrived from neighboring mounds.”
Anand scraped at his legs as he walked to the window. He saw a loose queue of scuffling, screaming people threatening each other with blades and blow-darts as guards threatened a greater violence to keep them all in line. At the head of the queue were well-dressed merchants defending themselves with walking sticks tipped with wasp stingers, which they thrust in the faces of their accusers. One merchant’s stinger connected with the cheek of a dark-skinned man who fell to the ground, screaming and clutching his eye. A moment later, all the merchants were on the ground, targeted with darts and twitching and spitting up foam. The accusers were rushing over to strip the merchants of their clothing and possessions, and getting in kicks to their cheeks. Anand was about to run out and call for order when another bubble at the back of his thigh ripped open and a mite crawled up his buttock to sink its jaws.
“Excuse me, Commander,” shouted the Widow Gafrexa at Anand as Terraclon tried to drag him away. “But we should like to return to our home now. Perhaps these people will listen to you when you tell them to get out of our house.”
“You will not return to your old dwelling,” Anand shouted. “But you will pay for your crimes.” He turned to his guards. “Cage these women. Put them on display before the palace entry, near the royal dew station, and guard them day and night. Spread the word that they are baby-killers and will be dealt with accordingly.” He turned towards Polexima.
“Polly, I need your help.”
“Yes,” she said, rising.
“Step outside and tell the people that we cannot address their grievances as long as they are attacking each other. Tell them we will have a compulsory assembly in three days’ time. Until then, order will be kept in Bee-Jor, and anyone who violates the peace will be severely punished.”
“Of course,” she said, and left with her acolytes.
Terraclon stood next to Anand, tugging his arm, as they watched the violence outside the window.
“Why an assembly?” Terraclon asked. “What will you announce?”
“I don’t really know, Ter,” he said as he clenched his teeth to keep from screaming, and failed when he heard another rip of his skin.
Chapter 7
A Time to Get Drunk
Anand and Terraclon raced into Trellana’s chambers, where thirteen maidservants washed and scrubbed surfaces that needed no cleaning. “Please leave,” Anand said, and it seemed like forever as the women gathered up their polishing cloths, brushes, and pods of cleaning potions, then joined in a ritual formation to exit in a slow, grave march. Anand ran to a clay barrel, flung off the top, and dunked his head inside it to suck up what remained of some aphid-milk liquor. He fell to the floor, writhed, and removed his clothes as Terraclon came closer. “All right, cut them out,” Anand shouted. “Start with the one on my right foot. Pry up the skin, then scrape and smash every little fucker!”
“Get rags and mallets,” Terraclon shouted to the nearest guards, who were confused, wondering why their commander was stripping to submit to some strange procedure.
“Do what he said,” Anand shouted, and the guards obeyed. “Dip the knife in liquor first,” he said to Terraclon, who was checking the sharpness of his quartz blade.
“Why?”
“To reduce other infections.”
“Infections of what?”
“Of even smaller parasites. Creatures you can’t see. It’s something I learned in Dranveria.”
“Creatures you can’t see . . . really.”
Terraclon dipped his knife in the liquor, then went to work on a welt on Anand’s foot. He sliced around the raised skin, then peeled it off to reveal a mite that swiveled in the clear liquid. Inside its transparent body, he saw what looked like dark clusters of tiny waving fingers.
“Holy Mother Ant!” Terraclon whispered as he prodded the creature. Anand gasped in deeper pain as the mite sank its fangs into his flesh, injecting venom as it anchored itself. Terraclon slipped his dagger under the creature and jerked it up, then set it on the floor tile where it spun to dry itself before its legs extended to crawl away. Chasing after it, he stabbed it with his knife, then held up its corpse to the light to examine it. “Eight legs,” he said.
“Yes, it’s a mite. But I’ve never known of mites that live under the skin of men until they’re fully grown,” said Anand. “Just how and when did they get inside me?”
The guards returned with rags and mallets.
“Hamlutz,” Anand said to his head guard, a tall and strong young man with dark skin and large, black eyes. “Tell all the men who are infected as I am that they are to report to me now, in the ballroom of this palace. Summon the cutters of the blinders’ caste and ask them to bring their sharpest blades. Tell the brewing caste to bring every available barrel of distillate.”
“Yes, Commander,” Hamlutz answered before he scratched at his own legs.
Anand tore cloth from his tunic and rolled it up into a wad to clench with his molars to keep from screaming. His legs became a grotesquery of wounds as Terraclon continued the extractions. “I need more drink,” Anand shouted over the cloth. A guard rolled over an ornately carved keg of nut liquor and turned the spigot-bladder to Anand’s mouth. He sucked down its thick, sweet contents, then felt the shocking nausea of too much drink. A moment later, he had an inner floating sensation, and some small relief from the torment of the surgery.
Terraclon made faces as his hands and neck grew stiff with fatigue. He looked surprised when he felt something brush the back of his feet and turned to see Trellana, whose voluminous gowns had grazed him. She looked down at his naked back between Anand’s parted thighs with the latter’s genitals on full display.
“Well. It is just as I suspected,” she said. “Commander Quegdoth, vanquisher of the Termite worshippers, likes to get drunk, then fellated by fay young men.”
“Help or get out,” Terraclon said.
“Do not speak that way to me. Not in my chambers. Why are you in here?”
“Because this is where the liquor is,” said Anand.
Trellana blinked, ever so slowly. “Will this take long?” she asked. “I’m tired and I want to go back to bed.”
“I’m sorry you’ve had such a long, difficult morning—having to get dressed and eat breakfast and other taxing labors,” said Terraclon. “But you might have noticed your husband is in agony and in need of your bed.”
“He will not be getting into my bed to muck it up with his bleeding legs.”
“He can’t walk at the moment.”
“Then pick him up and drag him out.”
“You stinking flea-anus,” said Terraclon.
“You scum-eating deviant. Get out!” shouted Trellana, pointing to the hall.
“You get out!” Terraclon shouted, and flung the goop on his knife in her face.
“How dare you!” she shouted, then screamed in pain when her ear was smacked by the heavy end of a staff.
“How dare you!” shouted Polexima from behind her daughter. Trellana, wincing, turned to face her mother, only to receive a second smack from her staff to
her cheek. Stunned and bleeding from punctures to her face, she dropped to kneel in the mass of her gowns.
“Father,” she whispered through her sobs as she stared at the blood that spotted her hand. “I want my father.”
“Then go to him,” Polexima shouted, pulling the staff back for another blow. “Get on your own two feet and walk to his chambers.”
“You are the cruelest people on the Sand,” Trellana screeched.
“Get out of here now,” Polexima shouted, flipping her staff to use the sharp end as a threat.
Trellana tried to back away, lost in the thickness of her costume, falling again and again until the guards lifted her. “Don’t touch me,” she screamed at them. “Mother, tell these dark wretches to stop clawing me!”
“Take her out of here,” Polexima commanded the guards. “Drag her by her hair if you need to.”
Polexima came closer to Anand, and failed to hide her pity when she saw the sickening array of his wounds. “The crowd outside has dispersed. How can I help here?”
Good, he thought. They still obey her as queen.
“Get long strips of cloth and soak them in the purest distillate of fermentation we have,” he whispered as the guards set him in bed. “Then wrap them around my legs. And later, I’m going to need some crutches.” A moment after that, his pain increased to something so unbearable all he could do was shake and shut his eyes. I accept this pain, he shouted inside himself, then felt a strange and sudden relief, followed by a flash of ecstasy. He was plunging into a sweet darkness as sleep fell on him like a heavy rock.
When Anand woke, he saw the brighter light of the noon sun coming through the windows. A pair of fine crutches fashioned from grasshopper femurs had been set by the bed. His legs had been wrapped in lengths of cloth stained with the light brown of a barley liquor. He rose gingerly, his legs throbbing with pain as he took up the crutches to hobble out to a hubbub coming from the ballroom. When he entered the vast chambers, he saw hundreds of his defenders scratching and scraping at their infected legs. They turned towards him, saw his bandages, and quieted to slap their chests and dip their heads.
The Prophet of the Termite God Page 7
