“The Caller and I are going to lure a dragon to this site,” Lence explained, picking up the long knife again. “We’re going to make it look like another dragon made the kill and had to brag about it.”
Lence suddenly began slashing into the exposed side of the hog. Quarrah drew back as the blade carved through the flesh, mutilating the dead animal until it was barely recognizable. Black flies swarmed the bloody mess as Lence stepped back.
“And that’s why we needed the guts here,” he finally explained. “To make it look like this hog was torn to shreds by a hunting dragon at this very site.”
A hunting dragon? That brought Quarrah’s nerves up again. “I thought you said they foraged.”
“Most of the time.” Lence crossed to the pool and rinsed the hog’s blood from his arms and chest. “But sometimes the beasts get a primal itch to hunt. Once they make a kill, they leave it for later feasting, and go off bellowing about how strong and skilled they are.”
“Think of it like this,” said Raek. “Let’s say you baked a right lovely apple pie.”
“I don’t bake,” Quarrah answered abruptly.
Raek rolled his eyes. “It’s hypothetical, Quarrah. Use a little imagination.” He waved a hand. “So you make a pie, and when it’s finished, you’re so proud of it that you set it on your porch for all to see. You head off down the road, telling everybody about it, and when you get back to the porch it’s gone. Your hollering called somebody in to eat the pie.”
“Was it Ard?” Quarrah asked. He was most likely to eat a pie that didn’t belong to him. She glanced up to see if he was following the joke, but Ard still seemed distant.
“Most likely,” said Raek. “Anyway, Lence simulates the kill. Nemery simulates the bragging Call. And then we wait to see if there are any opportunistic dragons nearby, hungry for some bacon.”
Lence uncorked a large flask and poured a viscous green substance into a glass measuring vial. He checked the measurement, and then dumped the liquid over the mutilated hog carcass.
“Everything has to be mixed on-site for maximum potency,” said the Feeder. “If a dragon doesn’t take this bait by nightfall, I’ll have to mix something fresh.”
“What is that stuff?” Was Quarrah really the only one that didn’t know all this?
“Corriloy Perefon,” the old Feeder declared. “Dragon laxative.” He removed the cork on another flask. “It takes a typical dragon about twelve days to drop her slag.”
Twelve days was too long to track a dragon in these mountains. Depending on how much territory she covered, it might take the rest of the crew an extra week to catch up to the Tracer and the Slagstone mound. And it could take even longer to hike out once they’d made the Harvest. That could put them on Pekal for close to a full cycle, with even the slightest delay exposing them to a Moon Passing and leaving everyone sick.
Lence began pouring another liquid, oily and yellow, into the same glass vial. “The laxative will speed digestion. Takes about three days. Might take up to five if the dragon’s a big gal, but I always administer the minimum dosage to avoid any risk of splatting out.”
“Splatting out?” Quarrah’s question was instantly met with snickers from the rest of the crew, and she suddenly had a good idea of what the terminology meant.
“Yeah,” said Lan Kranfel. “The same thing happens to Jip when he eats those garlic shrimp from Gaira’s shack in South Beripent.” This earned the older Kranfel a punch from his scar-faced brother.
“If the slag is passed prematurely,” Raek explained, “the dragon won’t stick around to fire it. Reeks like nothing else.”
“I don’t mind the smell …” Lence poured the vial of yellow liquid over the hog carcass.
“What’s the yellow stuff?” Quarrah was anxious to change the topic.
“Binding agent,” explained Lence. “Helps solidify the slag in the dragon’s digestive tract so it’ll hold together when it passes with the laxative.”
The casual way they discussed this made Quarrah uncomfortable. She wasn’t some royal lady, but Quarrah had a standard of conversational decency, and this fell far below it. “This is disgusting.”
“That’s the problem with society in the Greater Chain,” said Jip Kranfel. “Nobody really understands where the Grit comes from. I mean, they’re taught. But there’s nothing like seeing it. You’ll take nothing for granted after this, missy.”
Quarrah didn’t appreciate the “missy,” but Jip made a fair point. It was beyond educational to see a material turned from an ordinary scrap, to the Grit that fueled the economy of the Greater Chain.
Lence filled a bucket at the pool and deposited it next to the dead hog. “There’s one more crucial ingredient.” He picked up a canteen, holding it at arm’s length as he opened the cap. “Reek Sauce.”
“What kind of a name is Reek Sauce?” Quarrah noticed the other crew members moving away from the baiting area, as though suddenly losing interest. “Should I be nervous?”
Lence Raismus poured half the contents of the canteen into the bucket of water and stirred it with a long piece of driftwood.
“It’s a man-made dragon stimulant.” Lence overturned the bucket on the dead hog, residual liquid running down and soaking the bloody stones. A terrible odor assaulted Quarrah’s senses, and she brought her hand up to her nose.
Lence made his way back to the pool and drew another bucket of water, mixing in the remaining pungent liquid from his canteen. “One of the few useful things that came out of probing Grotenisk in captivity,” he said. “It’s a mix of xanatic, prosium, extract of lithpate—”
“Basically, a lot of potent stuff,” Raek cut in, hand over his face. “Its proper name is Daudre Solution—named after the chemist who perfected it. But Harvesters affectionately call it Reek Sauce.”
“For good reason.” Quarrah thought she might gag.
“It stimulates the bite instinct as dragons draw close to it,” Raek explained. “Gives them an almost overwhelming desire to snap down on whatever is doused.”
“More than doubled the take rate of bait since its discovery.” Lence upended the second bucket on the other side of the bait. “Scary as sparks to walk around with a canteen of it on your back. Got to keep the lid marked with Pichar oil to cover the scent.”
“Should we be standing this close?” Quarrah instinctively drew back a step as Lence crossed to the pool to rinse his hands and bucket. He returned, loading his pack with the various containers and flasks.
“Nemery’s got a Caller hut set up downwind.” Raek gestured across the shallow pool. “We should take cover.”
Quarrah didn’t see anything unusual where Raek had pointed, just a tangle of trees and a crop of stones. The Kranfel brothers were nowhere in sight, and Ard was helping Ulusal ford the shallow neck, where the pool flowed into a clear stream.
Quarrah wondered if Ard would have left her standing out there, wondering where all the others had gone. His sudden disconnect was frustrating. If a new concern had arisen, Ard needed to be forthright enough to talk to her about it.
Quarrah glanced back at Lence Raismus. “You coming?”
“Flames, yes,” answered the old man, slinging his pack over one shoulder. “All the Ashings in the world couldn’t convince me to stick around here when the dragon shows up.”
Quarrah and Lence followed Raek across the stream, catching up to Ard and Ulusal as they reached the Caller hut.
Quarrah could see it clearly now, a type of camouflaged lean-up that Nemery had constructed about fifty yards from the messy bait. Quarrah followed Raek around a jagged boulder to find the hut’s opening next to the repaired Drift crate.
There was so much foliage piled atop the support branches that it gave the illusion of dusk even though it was still hours away. Moroy had returned from his exploring, and the wiry Tracer was seated in one corner of the hut next to the Kranfel brothers. Ard and Ulusal were settling in when Quarrah and the others entered.
“Come on.”
Nemery ushered them at the doorway. “I realize a Caller hut doesn’t typically house the entire crew, but I figured there were so few of us. And it’s smarter to stay together with the king’s Harvesters out there. This really is the safest place. Downwind from the bait at a distance greater than thirty yards. It’s positioned across running water, which should help mask our scent.” She was explaining it as though reciting rules from an instructional book. “Oh, and I’ve stacked Pichar boughs across the top and corners. That should also help mask our smell. Not as strong as the oil extract, but I don’t have enough of that to go around—”
“Nemery,” Ard cut her off. “The stand looks great.”
“You want me to make the Call?” the girl asked.
“In a moment,” said Ard. “Now that everyone is together, it’s time to make some changes.”
Changes? What was Ard talking about?
“From here out, I will no longer be captain of this crew,” Ard began. “I relinquish the position to my partner, the Short Fuse.”
Raek sat forward, his forehead wrinkled with confusion. “What the blazes, Ard? What are you talking about?”
“I’m also moving Moroy Peng to fill Raek’s position as a Harvester,” continued Ard. “And I, myself, will be taking Moroy’s spot as Forward Tracer.”
“You two-faced, conniving rat!” Moroy shouted, leaping to his feet, but standing bent over in the low hut. “I don’t care what you say. I was hired to be a Tracer on this crew, and you can’t make me lug equipment.”
“Actually,” Ard went on, “as captain, it is my prerogative to make changes among the crew.”
“But you aren’t captain anymore,” Moroy griped. “Just demoted yourself.” He looked to Raek. “Change things back, Short Fuse! You know it’s not right to have me pulling Drift crates. I need to be running these slopes. What does this idiot ruse artist know about Tracing? If you’re really captain now, then change things back.”
Quarrah thought she understood what Ard was doing. This was a test for Raek. If he rejected the changes, returning captainship to Ard, or worse, relinquishing it to another crew member, then Ard would know that his friend had turned against him.
“I don’t know, Ard,” Raek muttered. “I don’t think this is the right move. You as a Tracer? I’ve seen you winded from running up a flight of stairs …”
“Blazes, Raek!” Ard shouted. “I know what I’m doing. Do you trust me or not?”
Quarrah saw Ard grimace as the forceful words came out. So much for his test. After a blatant statement like that, there was really only one way Raek could respond.
“Flames,” the big man finally muttered. “The matter is settled. Positions stand the way Ardor Benn reassigned them.”
Moroy swore angrily and stormed out of the hut, leaving an awkward silence in his wake.
“Nemery,” Ard finally said. “Make the Call.”
The young girl paused. “What about Moroy?”
“His fault for wandering off,” Lan Kranfel remarked.
“Make the Call,” Ard repeated coldly.
Nemery looked uneasy about the idea, but she picked her way across the low-roofed hut and dropped to her knees at the front. Quarrah peered over the girl’s thin frame, getting a clear glimpse of the instrument she was about to use.
It was hornlike in shape, though Quarrah couldn’t see the wide bell of the horn since it extended through the leafy wall of the hut to project the sound outside.
The mouthpiece looked just like those of the brass instruments Quarrah had seen during her orchestra rehearsals as Azania Fyse. But this was unlike any instrument Quarrah had seen.
Valves and pull chords were set into a rectangular box on the neck of the horn. Something else protruded from the top, like the thick double reed of a giant oboe—Quarrah had learned that from her training with Cinza. Curious to see how all the components worked together, Quarrah watched carefully as Nemery primed the instrument.
The girl took hold of one of the pull chords and began tugging it, slowly and rhythmically at first, but increasing speed as she went. Within the rectangular box, Quarrah heard something spinning, faster and faster, until it achieved a steady whirr.
Drawing a deep breath, Nemery placed her lips against the brass mouthpiece and blew with practiced precision. At the same time, she reached up with her left hand, depressed a valve, and oscillated the reeds ever so slightly.
A magnificent, bone-chilling sound surged through the large instrument, and Quarrah felt goose bumps prickle across her skin. It was a howl, a groan, and a shriek all tied into one. It had the low reverberation of a prolonged peal of thunder, with all the grinding aggression of a shrill scream.
Nemery made a subtle movement and depressed a second valve, altering the overall pitch as the Call cut through the trees and rolled across the mountainside.
It didn’t last long, maybe five seconds at most. And the silence that followed was almost as awe inspiring. It was as though every bird stopped chirping, and every insect stopped buzzing. The creatures of this island knew that sound. And they knew what was coming.
The chill passed, and Quarrah finally took a breath. That was just the imitation! What would it sound like when erupting from the throat of an actual dragon? Quarrah leaned forward, peering through the gaps in the hut’s front wall. The hog’s bloody carcass remained undisturbed and undiscovered.
“Do you blow it again?” Quarrah whispered.
Nemery glanced up at Quarrah. “Timing is everything. Pacing between the calls keeps the sound organic and believable.”
Quarrah looked down at the girl’s dark hands. Nemery was shaking. Her breathing was steady and full, but her hands were trembling ever so slightly. Quarrah wondered how many times the girl had Called for dragons, and whether experience would numb her to the sensational rush of adrenaline.
The others in the crew seemed far less impressed with the girl’s ability, but Pekal was familiar to them. Quarrah didn’t feel like she could ever grow used to this environment. The towering peaks and steep slopes filled her with a sense of wonder and fear—a feeling that the hillside itself could reach out and hold her forever.
They sat in silence for a long stretch. Quarrah thought that all of Pekal must have heard Nemery’s Call. Sparks, had they just announced their location to the people that were searching for them?
“What if the king’s Harvesters heard that?” Quarrah finally whispered.
“We’re ahead of them,” Ard replied flatly.
“And they’re not going to attack us now,” added Raek. “That was the Call of a boasting dragon. Whether those Harvesters think the sound is real or not, they won’t be stupid enough to go charging toward it.”
In the silence that followed, Ulusal’s breathing sounded ragged, her face glistening with a sheen of sweat. It was warm inside the thatched hut, but not warm enough to be sweating like that. Ulusal needed better medical attention than the simple cloth binding, which had already soaked through again.
Nemery leaned forward and began pulling the cord on the instrument, prepping for another Call as Quarrah crawled over to Ulusal.
“How’s your leg?” Quarrah whispered in the cramped space.
“It feels like flowers and rainbows.” Ulusal grunted. “What do you think?”
Quarrah steeled herself against the chuckles from the Kranfel brothers. Unsavory types without a shred of decency. Just look at Lan Kranfel. He didn’t seem the slightest bit troubled that he had killed the Harvesters’ captain.
“We should take a look at the wound,” Quarrah insisted. Just because she was trapped in a hut with a bunch of lowlifes didn’t mean she had to behave like them. “We have medical supplies. Ointments and salves. We can dress it …”
“Muckmus medicine,” Ulusal cut her off, followed by a statement in the Trothian tongue. It didn’t sound appreciative.
Nemery pealed out another Call, deep, clear, and unsettling. Quarrah paused as the sound rolled out of the instrument. There was no sen
se in trying to speak over the thunderous resonance.
Quarrah waited until the reverberations echoed away down the steep canyon, then she resumed her discussion with Ulusal as though she hadn’t been interrupted. “We should at least make sure that the ball passed clean. And we need to get a fresh bandage around that.”
Quarrah glanced up at Ard, half surprised to see that he was actually looking at her. “Where are the medical supplies?” she whispered to him.
Ard gestured toward the Drift crate outside the hut. “The white pack.”
Quarrah took a deep steadying breath. She had expected Ard to fetch the supplies for her while she began to undress Ulusal’s dirty bandage. Well, if Ard was going to lower his standards to fit the current company, then Quarrah would have to do it all herself.
She ducked out of the brush hut. The Drift crate was already open, but it took Quarrah a moment to locate the white medical pack amidst all the other supplies. She found it shoved near the back and had to crawl into the large crate to reach it. A moment later she withdrew, clutching the white pack against her chest.
Quarrah turned back to the hut and froze. There, beyond the shelter, perched atop the waterfall, was a dragon.
Quarrah couldn’t see its entire body, but the portion currently visible was both terrifying and magnificent. The dragon’s scales were a deep grayish green, with a texture like tree bark but a sheen like glass. The beast’s head was larger than the Drift crate, with horns curling up from its high brow. Nostrils flared in an audible snort, and Quarrah saw shimmering heat waves rise from the snout. The dragon’s mouth was closed, but the two primary upper tusks protruded past the beast’s jaw.
There was an elegance to the way the sow held herself, and her poise seemed to portray an agility, contrary to her gargantuan size.
Forelegs gripped the stone at the top of the waterfall, causing the stream’s flow to part around her talons. Her breast was massive, like a piece of the mountain itself, and Quarrah could just see the tips of her wings folded against her back.
The dragon snorted again, her long neck extending, head drooping low until it almost touched the gently rolling water of the pool. Her golden eyes, shimmering like large clouds of Light Grit, studied the mutilated hog lying on the bloody stones.
The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn Page 45
