by John Brown
The Mother didn’t know he was here. She was crooning to her children, deep in the caves, and watching over the Sleth woman. Nevertheless, he expected to fight her compulsion.
Then he realized she hadn’t said not to eat this one. No, she hadn’t said that.
The man used his good hand to pick up a chair. He hammered at Hunger’s grip. But Hunger did not let him go. Hunger would not bend to the Mother’s wishes like some idiot cow whose only thought was of grass. He was, underneath all this dirt, a man. And even though this Sleth didn’t realize it, he was going to help save Hunger’s family. He was going to be put to good use. And who knew: if Hunger learned the secrets and defeated the Mother completely, then this Sleth would be the means of saving every mother and daughter and son of the Nine Clans.
Hunger felt along the fiber of this Sleth’s being. Soon enough he found an edge. It took only a few moments and Hunger shucked his soul. He was sweet and beautiful and Hunger could not help but bolt great portions of him.
Then the Mother stirred and Hunger froze. He immediately released the man’s soul. The remnants flew to the wind as Hunger waited. He stood quietly for some time bracing himself for her ire. But the Mother didn’t search him. She didn’t walk into his mind. She was too busy. Much too busy.
The man was gone.
Hunger hated himself and yet delighted in the savor of the man. He only hoped he’d eaten enough.
He stepped to the table and fingered the comb. He knew the tune the man was humming. He played it in his mind, waiting for the memories to digest. Waiting for the secrets.
But Hunger did not receive secrets. All he felt was the growing of an unaccountable sorrow. And then the picture of a tall, plain woman with laughing eyes.
He should not have let the man go, but it was too late now. The rest of his secrets were gone. Hunger stood at the man’s table for a long time, handling the things there-a seashell brush, a polished mirror, and a length of green cloth-all woman things. He could not say why, but he threw all these in the fire. Then he watched them burn to ash.
I am a ruin, he thought. He picked up one of the red, dying coals and held it in his hand. But if he had to become a ruin, if he had to become ash, then so be it. He knew the location of another Sleth. He knew where he could find the Shoka’s hammer, where he could find Argoth.
Hunger arrived in the dark of the early morning and walked up to the door to Argoth’s house. He slid a tendril from one of his fingers between the back door and its frame and silently lifted the bar.
The dogs surprised him, but he quickly twisted their necks, gulping down their Fire and soul. Hunger stood in the kitchen with the dead dogs at his feet, but when nobody came to investigate, he proceeded to search the house. He found four rooms. There was nothing in them but beds filled with sleeping children and servants. He creaked down the hallway and found Argoth’s wife asleep. Argoth was not with her.
Hunger retreated to a dark corner of the room and waited for Argoth, watching his wife toss and turn and finally kick the bedcovers to the floor. But when he smelled the beginnings of the morning winds, Hunger exited as quietly as he had come.
He took the bodies of the dogs with him and waited in the tree line by a fat chestnut. He would catch Argoth when he returned.
The night turned to morning. Argoth’s daughters came out to hang clothes on a line to dry. The wife stood in the back doorway and whistled for the dogs that lay at his feet. Meanwhile, a group of servants walked out to the vineyard with baskets and cutting knives and began to pick grapes.
When he was a man, he would have salivated at the thought of the red table grapes, the skin colored with a blue dust, and all of it bursting with a tangy sweetness. But grapes held no appeal to him now. It was only a memory of a desire that ghosted by.
He supposed Argoth would be conducting a search for him. But could they track a man of dirt? He did not think so. Morning grew toward noon, and then the breeze brought him a whiff of magic. The scent was barely detectable, almost a lie, but it was there.
Hunger prepared himself, but the scent disappeared and did not return. It hadn’t come from the direction of Whitecliff. The breeze was blowing from a different direction.
What did this mean?
It meant Argoth had simply crossed the wind’s path and had moved on. Argoth wasn’t coming home.
Or maybe it wasn’t Argoth at all. Maybe it was someone else entirely.
That idea burned in his mind. Someone he might use to remake that collar. Someone different. Someone he would not have to fight the Mother’s compulsion to eat.
He had been stupid with the other man. He would not be stupid with this one.
Hunger jolted upright and ran in the direction of the breeze. He kept to the wood line, not because he feared attack but because he did not want to raise an alarm and scare off whomever it was.
For a few minutes he lost the scent. But he ran perpendicular to the general direction of the breeze, and then there the stink was again, more powerful than before.
He traced the scent, moving like a dark animal through the woods, avoiding clearings and meadows as best he could, and when he couldn’t, running with utmost speed through the grass.
The scent grew and grew. He realized it was taking him toward Whitecliff, but Hunger ran out of woods before he caught up to the source of the stink.
He stood in the tree line at the foot of a hill and looked over the acres of fields that lay between him and the walls of Whitecliff and the shinning sea beyond.
Leagues to his left rose the ridge of white cliffs for which the city was named. The forbidden cliffs, riddled with crumbling warrens and wondrous carvings wrought by creatures that had vanished long before the first settlers arrived. Below him ran the Soap Stone River. A toll bridge spanned it.
Hunger looked along the road to the bridge and then beyond. It was crowded with people. The Festival of Gifts was not too far away, and then the whole land would be celebrating the blessings of the Creators given this year. There would be games and dances. Sacrifices. And the Divine would grant boons to even the most humble petitioner.
A bearded man on a wagon rode out from behind the bridge house. Beside him walked two boys. Hunger recognized the man. It was the Koramite who had been with Argoth.
A mighty stink rolled toward him in great waves. It was more potent than anything Hunger had encountered so far. More potent than anything he’d experienced from the Mother. He must have incredible power, that Koramite.
But, no, it wasn’t the man.
Hunger could see it clearly now. Small fingers of brightness rose from the boy like steam rose from wet clothes in the winter. They were fingers of Fire, fingers of his life spilling out into the wide world.
It was the boy making the overpowering stink.
Hunger looked closer. Was this the young male the Mother spoke of? The band around the boy’s arm wasn’t a normal godsweed band. It was a weave, smoking with power. He wondered if that weave was the cause of this reckless waste.
He opened his mouth and took in a great breath of the stink. None of the Mother’s magic was in it, which meant this was not the male they sought. Another memory tumbled into him. The second boy, the Mokaddian, was Argoth’s son. Suddenly Hunger knew who the man was. Argoth had a Koramite brother-in-law. That’s who this man was; he was sure of it.
But why release Fire like this? Why waste it? Fire, spilled like this, would draw frights just as a dead carcass would draw crows. Frights were creatures not completely from the world of flesh. Most were small and very difficult to see because they only gained substance in this world as they fed. They were leeches, but not of blood. There were three parts to all living things. Frights fed on Fire. They did not have the power to separate a living thing like he did. But sometimes, if someone was mortally sick or wounded, their Fire might bleed out. And this gave the frights an opening into which they could burrow and feed.
Hunger did not know the full powers of such creatures, but it didn
’t matter; he would deal with them. And he would be careful of the boy. Who knew, perhaps the boy was not being used to bait frights, but Hunger himself. To throw off a stink he could not resist. Perhaps these Sleth thought to trap him.
But what trap could hold him? He could see none here. He should take them, the Koramite and his son. He should chase them down now. And while the Mother had commanded him to bring the Koramite to her, she hadn’t said anything about the boy. Surely he knew some secrets.
Hunger identified the the line of pursuit that would cut them off, then stopped himself. The Koramite and his boy were Sleth; they would simply multiply themselves and run away, and then, when they were safely surrounded by the thousands in the city, they could cease their magic. The stink would die, and Hunger would lose them. They’d disappear, leaving Hunger exposed. The trap, if there was one, was in the city.
Hunger sat down where he was next to a tangle of red-flowered trumpet vine.
The Koramite lived on this side of the river. He and his burning son would surely return from the city before long. And Hunger would be there along an empty stretch of road to greet them.
Talen had never received so many hard glances in his life. He doubted they would have been allowed to cross the bridge had Da not been wearing the token of the Council-a sash that was sewn with the patterned cloth of all Nine Clans and draped over one shoulder.
Almost everyone they passed or overtook on this overcrowded road to Whitecliff looked at him like he himself had committed horrors. And the one man that hadn’t given him the eye had shouted and waved his goose stick, rushing his gaggle of geese off the road so quickly you would have thought Da, he, and Nettle were a pack of wolves just come out of the wood. It was obvious the events of Plum Village had only turned the ridiculous rantings of the Fir-Noy against Koramites into truth.
The road ran almost straight to the Farmer’s Gate in the outer wall of the city, taking them through fields that stood half harvested and on to the gaming fields.
Every fortnight two or three of the Clans would send their best to compete here. Their best horses, runners, archers, slingers, and swordsmen. Along with the competition there were jugglers and singers, storytellers and alewives. When the weaves had been full, the dreadmen would compete, sometimes against each other, sometimes against an animal. Only recently had Koramites been allowed to compete in the games. But Talen was sure the events of the last week would reverse that privilege.
Between the gaming fields and the city moat stood plots with timber houses on them. At one a woman sat outside her door delivering well-spaced blows to the bottom of a kicking boy she held across her lap. At another a girl with long black hair stood feeding old vegetables to a number of piglets. At yet another, two brown-and-white goats stood on the low-hanging branch of a tree chewing what leaves they could find. A third attempted to clamber up the woodpile next to the house to get to the grass growing on the sod roof, but she only succeeded in slipping off and bringing pieces of wood down with her.
Beyond the plots rose the outer wall of the city. Four men, tiny in the distance, worked on the red roof of one of the newer stone towers set in the wall.
The city of Whitecliff had three rings of defense: an outer wall, a fortress wall, then the fortress inner wall. The fortress walls were made of stone. But the city wall was made of a steep embankment and timber palisades, like the many walled villages. A few years ago the clans had begun to replace that outer wall with stone, but it was far from finished. More than half of the seventeen towers were still made of timber.
As they approached the Farmer’s Gate, a guard motioned Da to pull the wagon into a separate line from the Mokaddians.
At least a dozen guards stood on the rampart with strung bows. From their colors, he could see they were a mixture of Fir-Noy and Burund. Down at the base and off to the side of the gate, a guard held a dead rabbit up by its hind legs, baiting the two mastiffs chained to the wall. He told the handful of guards standing with him to watch, then he tossed the rabbit between the two dogs. The result was a violent scuffle, but in moments the smaller dog had most of the rabbit and gulped it down, leaving only a tuft of fur and one leg that had flown off into the weeds when they’d pulled it apart.
“See,” said the guard. “That’s the one to watch. And now I’ll take your coppers.”
“They’ve posted double the men,” said Nettle.
“It won’t do them any good,” said Da. “Not against that creature of grass and stone.”
Two guards motioned Da to come down off the wagon. One told Da and Talen to strip completely.
“Do you not see the token of the Council?” asked Da. “I’ve been summoned.”
“Then we’ll have to be double sure, won’t we?”
“They’re not going to strip,” said Nettle. “I vouch for these men.”
“You little piss,” the second man said and reached out to strike Nettle, but the first grabbed his arm and stopped him.
“That one is Captain Argoth’s.”
The second man wrested his arm from the other man’s grasp. “Well, well. The Koramite lover’s boy,” he said. “All alone out here while daddy is in the fortress. Where’s your wet nurse?” He pointed at Nettle’s belt. “I see they’re letting you dress up like a man, are they? Good for you.”
Nettle clenched his jaw, but he didn’t say anything.
So Talen spoke up. “He’s man enough to knock one of your armsmen about.”
“Quiet!” said Da.
The second guard licked his bottom lip. “Our orders,” the first guard said, “are to search every Koramite. Now strip.”
“And you,” the second said to Nettle. “You may move along. Wouldn’t want you to get a boo-boo.”
“Don’t listen to them,” said Nettle.
Da held up his hand. “Talen and I will satisfy the requirement.” Then he began to pull off his tunic.
Dozens of Mokaddians in the other line stood and watched. One wife stood with her arms folded and a scowl across her face as if this were his just desserts. Talen turned his back on her and gave her the bum. Soon the two of them were naked except for the poultice around Da’s neck, standing in the sun, their legs spread and arms held wide, while the guards and flies came to investigate.
When the guards found no Sleth-sign, they allowed Da and Talen to pull their clothes back on and bring the wagon round. But another guard stopped them there.
“It’s four coppers to enter,” he said. One of his ears looked to have been chewed off.
Da shook his head. “Every man who works on the wall has rights to enter.”
“Every clansman,” said the guard.
“No,” said Da, “every man.” He pointed at the Sea Gate in the distance. “I helped build that tower.”
The guard looked over the contents of the wagon. “Four coppers, and I want that small sack of barley.”
Da did not raise his voice in anger, instead he enunciated every word. “I am here at the Council’s request.”
The man put his hand to his sword. “There are many who think we should just beat you on principle. I’m doing you a favor.”
“You’re robbing me.”
The guard shrugged. “Everything has its price.”
Da clenched his jaw.
The guard flipped open the basket with the smoked meat. “Ah,” he said. “This looks good.” He pulled out a strip of salmon and took a bite. Then he grabbed another handful and tossed it to the other guards. “See,” the man said. “I’ve got to let you in, but I don’t have to let your wagon through.”
“I’ll pay you four coppers,” said Da.
“No,” said Talen.
“Be quiet,” said Da.
“Very good advice,” said the guard.
Da reached into his purse and withdrew the coins. “The Council’s going to hear about this.”
“Give them my regards.”
Da picked up the reins and flicked Iron Boy on.
Smoke from a mu
ltitude of chimneys trailed into the sky, the wind blowing it like a sooty smear toward the sea.
Talen hated the Fir-Noy. But he was beginning to hate some of the members of his own race. The smith and his wife. They had tainted all the rest of them. Brought down a load of grief. He was happy the smith died. He deserved it. His wickedness was treachery, a stab in everyone’s back. He thought about what Da was doing with the hatchlings. That was treachery too. Couldn’t Da see that?
The farther they traveled, the houses became taller and more closely placed. More and more were made of brick and stone. Yet, between roofs, Talen caught glimpses of the temple on its hill and the seven statues for the coming Festival of Gifts. At the end of the festival, the community would pull down the statue for Regret, tie it to a boat, and send it out to sea. And while it burned upon the water, thousands would sing the hymn of defiance along the shorelines. This same ritual would be repeated by the other clans in their cities, but none would match the festival held here in Whitecliff.
Of course, this year it would not be the same. Usually, the reigning Divine would bestow gifts during the festival, including healings for man and beast. The festival was one of the regular times for people to offer the days of their life up for the good of all by letting the Divine draw quantities of their Fire. It was also during the festival that common men were raised to the ranks of the dreadmen. But none of that would happen this year.
Talen took his eyes from the temple and looked up the road. They were almost upon the lodgers field. Not all of the merchants could afford to raise a booth or tent in the central square. Those slots went to many of the permanent families who held homes in the city itself. But there were three other spots in the city where merchants paid to set up their business. This was the largest of those, a ten-acre field filled with tents of all colors-blue-and-white trimmed with yellow, scarlet-and-black, green-and-blue-each with pennants above them declaring who they were and what they sold.
“Look,” Nettle said and pointed. “The Kish.”
