A Star-Reckoner's Lot (A Star-Reckoner's Legacy Book 1)

by Darrell Drake

  Ashtadukht carefully stepped over a series of staggered depressions that would have been invisible if the king hadn’t been pointing them out as they went.

  “If you’re genuinely sorry you’ll do this for me,” she pressed, not at all proud of it. “I’m asking for your help. Haven’t I been kind to you?”

  The half-div groaned, although yieldingly. “Okay.” She gave her injured ribs a conciliatory rub, then added a more true to form, “Maybe. Mostly.”

  She tentatively tapped the toe of her boot on the nearest pressure plate. It clicked. They all froze in place, Waray only because the others had. An enormous axe swung a hair’s breadth in front of Ashtadukht’s nose. What sounded suspiciously like a brood of chickens clucked from deeper in. Spears corroded by rust screeched out ineffectively around Tirdad. The king side-stepped the drop of a hammer. It was all very run-of-the-mill as far as traps were concerned.

  Ashtadukht swallowed. She stood still as death while the axe creaked and oscillated in front of her.

  “Close call,” said the king. “Keep alert. Doubt we’ll be as lucky next time.”

  Once the axe’s swinging had wound down to a listless sway, Ashtadukht carefully shimmied by, her nerves taut as a bowstring. She swept her gaze from spear tip to trembling spear tip as she hurried through and made it around the hammer with an audible outbreath.

  “Who did that?” Ashtadukht asked restlessly, one sleeve crushed in a fist. She felt as if she were the leather over which someone stropped a knife. “Who activated that?”

  If the others weren’t too busy watching for pressure plates to see her, they’d be afraid she’d do something an irrationally high-strung person would do. Like run straight through the remaining traps while trumpeting the arrival of the final Renovation, during which molten metal will coat the earth and immolate the wicked.

  They all believed that to be true—even Waray—but none would run around screaming it without sufficient evidence. The sun and the moon blinking out, eternal winter: that sort of thing. “At least own up to it,” Ashtadukht grumbled. “You nearly cut my nose off.”

  Waray sniggered.

  They reached the birthing chamber, as the king venomously called it, without incident. That same rotting moonlight-like glow permeated the room, and illuminated what they all assumed to be the broodmother.

  Ashtadukht had seen many divs in her years as a star-reckoner. Some were more, well, div-looking than others. And this had to be the most div-looking div she’d ever seen.

  First of all, it stunk. Not your everyday stink that makes a person gag, but the stink that makes your nose run, burns your eyes, and evacuates your stomach. She managed to keep her food down, but only because she’d grown accustomed to these reeks.

  The broodmother brought to mind a pig whose body had been caught in a waterwheel and twisted into three bulbous segments with patches of greasy hair. Those vaguely fleshy masses were connected by disproportionately small tubes like wet rags that had been recently wrung, and still dripped the oily liver-colored swill they’d soaked up. She lay on her side, middle segment erratically deflating and inflating, with miniature abominations lapping at the oils her, for lack of a better familiarity with broodmother anatomy, wet rags secreted.

  “You . . . make love to this creature?” Tirdad whispered, squinting to see the mandibles that reached pitifully from beneath carpets of loose, blistered skin.

  “Not in those words,” answered the king, patently disgusted by the thought. “And only once a year. She’s efficient with what I give her.”

  “Must be one doozy of a grower,” Waray commented with a low whistle. “To be able to drive her. Like a šo-tucked away date tree.”

  “What now?” asked Ashtadukht, screwing her face up at Waray but otherwise ignoring the observation. It was true that the broodmother looked immobile at any rate; her four stumpy legs were so atrophied that one was on the verge of falling off. “This is well beyond my expertise. Probably a one of a kind case. How do we get Waray . . . in? Or her in Waray?”

  “Same as the sappers,” replied the king. “She likes to use the tubes on me when . . . let’s just say she has them.” He motioned toward the broodmother. “Ready?”

  Waray buzzed, setting her head sharply askew and toward her rear as she did. “Maybe.”

  They snuck around the back of the broodmother, unnoticed by the nursing abominations, to a patch of what Ashtadukht had first assumed to be hair, but were actually individual proboscises. The king took hold of one and extended it to Waray.

  “Here.”

  She curled her upper lip at it. “Huh?”

  “Open wide and let it wiggle down.”

  “No one said anything about wiggling down.”

  “It might slither,” Ashtadukht offered.

  Waray cut a sneer short to scratch at her head, cocking only an eyebrow this time. “Slithering? That’s šo-crazy it just might work.”

  She grabbed the tube-like tongue and directed it to her mouth, whereupon it wiggled in before she could object. And if her transient moment of panic before losing consciousness was any indication, she would have objected vehemently.

  Tirdad caught her and eased her to the floor, which turned out to be bare earth. Whoever had built this structure had only worried about containing the broodmother rather than ensuring comfort or lavish palatial furnishings. They may as well have been in a cavern.

  “I would’ve liked to give her some . . . uh, pointers,” said Ashtadukht, realizing half-way through that she wouldn’t have much to say. She frowned worriedly at the half-div. Much like the scaled div they’d dispatched after their romp through Waray’s world, sleep had the effect of softening her appearance. She looked so vulnerable. It hadn’t even occurred to her that Waray might not survive; she’d been too preoccupied with stopping the spread of sappers.

  “I shouldn’t have coaxed her into it like that,” she said. “Reckless of me. Heartless, too.”

  “She’ll be fine,” the king reassured her, though his tone did have a touch of uncertainty to it. “You’re not exactly in friendly territory anyway. This isn’t the time for dallying.”

  “He is right,” said Tirdad. “You acted. It had to be done.” He patted her back, which was rigid with concern. “The rest is up to her. Never let it be said that Waray is not tenacious.”

  Ashtadukht grunted. Her jaw throbbed relentlessly. “That isn’t the word I’d use, but I guess it fits nonetheless.”

  “What would you use then?”

  “A liability. Reckless. Eccentric. Maddening. Hoarding.” She could have gone on; she guiltily decided that would have been unfair and undeserved. “Courageous,” she added. “And strangely sentimental.”

  Tirdad acknowledged her point with a nod. “I suppose I cannot argue with any of those.”

  “What’re you doing travelling with someone like her?” asked the king. “Don’t think many humans would be keeping that sort of company. And star-reckoners are meant to dispose of divs. Unless that’s changed to befriending them in the time since I’ve been imprisoned.”

  “No, that’s still the goal,” Ashtadukht clarified. “Although I ask myself that more often than you’d think: why I put up with her. It’s a long story, but she’s a friend. Or something like it.”

  “You’re either the most disappointing or most impressive star-reckoner I’ve ever met.”

  Ashtadukht chuckled dryly. “Probably a case of the latter due to the former.”

  “She is too humble,” Tirdad proudly remarked. “My cousin is an exceptional star-reckoner. During my years in her company I have been witness to feats you would never believe. She has such a big heart, too. In fact—” He caught a glimpse of her troubled expression and, not entirely sure what to make of it or where he was going, cleared his throat.

  Ashtadukht scuffed her boot on the floor, fiddling with her sleeve as she did. She didn’t need his praise. She didn’t want it either. But in the time between hearing his words and deciding they dis
pleased her, they’d made her feel like a little girl again.

  Waray twitched.

  The broodmother trembled. This excited ripples in her pulpy hind division.

  Waray opened her eyes, which might have been comforting if her irises were there. She muttered—that is to say she made speech-like vocalizations with her mouth-parts. Ashtadukht got the impression that even if she put her ear to the half-div’s lips it’d be absolute bilgewater, a gibbered syllable away from language. She confirmed her supposition by squatting and planting one palm beside the half-div’s head.

  “Domf lmf thumf namf gimf mmf eummf!” Waray mouthed in what seemed to be in dire need of a hiss. “Drimf thumf thmf namf bamf tomf thumf nomf! Gumf mumf mimf fimf emf!”

  Ashtadukht pulled away. She imagined it’d be difficult to articulate with a tube down your throat. She closed one hand around the oily phalange and held it there in deliberation. Waray’s chest heaved; her fingers moved as if trying to play a lyre.

  Her irises surfaced and crept down into their normal position, swaying there as if they’d just docked and waited to be moored. The ropes were soon secured; Waray looked once more, squinting now.

  Ashtadukht towed the broodmother’s tube out, and Waray let out a hiss.

  “Don’t let the Nasu give my eulogy!” she hissed. “Drive the šo-thwarted bitch back to the North. Sacrifice mighty fine eggs in my name. Let no—” She furrowed her brow. “Oh.”

  Waray scrambled to her feet and struck the sort of pose you’d find immortalized in stone. “How is it?” she asked, “Heroic?”

  Ashtadukht took a step back. “Heroic?”

  “Hurry! Critique me! I don’t have all day!” The half-div stood as still as possible. “Do I look like a hero? Like I’d smite you but raise your children afterward?”

  “I guess?” Ashtadukht replied, more than a little nonplussed.

  As if Waray had somehow delayed the effect until she got her confirmation, the broodmother exploded. There was no expanding of her shriveled thorax, no ominous rumbling, just a sloppy boom. Like the meat had suddenly had enough of being party to something so vile and had fled all at once in every direction.

  Ashtadukht clutched her ears. They keened unbearably, adding another dimension to her already multidimensional headache. She hadn’t been knocked off her feet, though; the only real strength in the blast had been in how utterly revolting it was.

  Having naturally turned away from the explosion like any sane individual would, she turned back to find Waray striking the same questionably heroic pose, a slab of meat stuck to her shoulder. The half-div looked pretty happy with herself.

  “I hope you’re happy,” Ashtadukht said, disgustedly flicking a chunk of flesh from her tunic. There was nothing to be done about the less solid gore; perhaps it was time for new clothes. She hesitated, then added, “Well done. And thank you.”

  “All in a day’s work,” Waray replied with false humility. She beamed, holding her pose. “All in a day’s work.”

  “I was not expecting the div to just . . .” Tirdad made an explosive gesture with his hands. “Boom. That falls well into the territory of overkill.”

  Ashtadukht took a look around. The king had vanished. She thought this was the case anyway, until she noticed the outline of a splatter within the splatter, and shreds of golden brocade. She let out a low groan. “I think we should get going.”

  “I suppose we have accomplished what we set out to do,” said Tirdad, pivoting to bid the king farewell and, after his initial surprise, reaching the same conclusion she had. “We should be on our way,” he agreed. “Do you think he knew this would happen?”

  “I think he was looking forward to it,” she somberly replied. “Can’t say I blame him.”

  “He mentioned something about being immortal.”

  “I’d wager he was connected to the broodmother, but I’d rather not stick around to find out. Whether he lives doesn’t change what his royal guard think about us—what they’ll think about us once they discover this mess.”

  “Agreed.”

  Ashtadukht swept her gaze over the gruesome, viscera-tossed chamber. A few just-weaning abominations were searching futilely for a wet rag to lap at. She’d inflicted a heavy blow on the Lie today. She hoped.

  “I need a drink,” she stated.

  “A celebration of my heroism,” said Waray. “Against all odds, The One Most Slithered, as all the little children will come to call me, prevailed over the šo-slothful Mother of Pigs.”

  “Sure,” Ashtadukht replied. And she figured the half-div deserved some indulgence after what she’d done. “We’ll toast to it.”

  IX

  Ashtadukht stared at the missive. Hindsight being what it was, she wished she’d never stuck her nose where it didn’t belong. Now that she had she couldn’t just burn the thing and leave it at that.

  “I have to tell her,” she said, more to herself than Tirdad.

  “You are beholden to do no such thing,” he argued. “You would be doing her a favour by pretending you never found out.”

  “Would I? What happens when it comes to her in the middle of battle?”

  He levelled a disappointed stare on her. “You cannot play damage control with something so personal, cousin.”

  “That’s not at all what I meant. What if she’s all alone? Wouldn’t it be better to have it happen somewhere that she can be comfortable. Where we can help her weather?”

  Ashtadukht looked pensively into her old bedroom, where Waray sat casually crunching eggs at the far end. “I can offer her more here. Ways to cope. Unlikely as it seems, she could very well live beyond our deaths. What if it takes that long for her to come to terms with it?”

  “She has managed on her own until now. Somehow.”

  “Somehow,” Ashtadukht repeated incredulously. “All that time . . .”

  “Yeah. Thinking about it only makes me more depressed.” He let out a weary sigh. “Do what you must, cousin. We are only at odds because there is no favourable approach, and we simply cannot know which is the least destructive.”

  “Thank you.” She squeezed the missive in both hands, all pins and needles, nodded to herself, and strolled in to confront the half-div. “Waray,” she called, which had the uncommon effect of actually getting her attention. Ashtadukht drew to a stop in the middle of her old room, the moisture stolen from her tongue.

  “What?” Waray canted her head and slowly inserted a pearly-blue egg between her lips, nibbling as she did. A sliver of yolk seeped from the corner of her mouth. “Good batch,” she chatted idly. “Your birds are šo-virile. Or something. The birds here really have their ducks in a row when it comes to egg-laying, I think.”

  She canted further and eyed Ashtadukht inquisitively before shrugging and returning to her nests.

  Ashtadukht watched silently. She held the missive like an anointed dagger, thinking that poison would surely be less devastating and more humane than the message it contained. Waray hummed contentedly, and without harmony. It brought to mind one restful Mehrgan years earlier.

  Heaving a sigh, she strolled over and seated herself beside Waray. Like any other div, she smelled. Being half div reduced that to a faint scent of eggs. All things considered, Ashtadukht wasn’t certain it had anything to do with her heritage beyond the compulsion to devour the things.

  “Waray,” she said, drawing some confidence from the lack of a response it elicited this time around. “There’s something I need to discuss with you. Something serious. As your friend.”

  “We’re chummy,” Waray said at length, smacking her lips. She plucked a spotted, oval-shaped egg from her assortment of nests and gave it an appraising look. She might’ve been a decorated oologist in another life. “Thereabouts.”

  Ashtadukht fiddled with her sleeve. “I’ve a missive here. Took some doing, getting one of the priests to search the royal archives for me. They’re busy with, well—” She paused when the half-div began re-organizing her haul. “Waray.”
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  “Huh?”

  “Are you listening to me?”

  Waray gave a deliberate nod. Too deliberate, Ashtadukht observed.

  She pressed on. “I’d like to discuss it with you.”

  “Disgusted about what?”

  That was more like it.

  “Waray.”

  “We’re discussing,” Waray flatly replied.

  Ashtadukht carved her lips into a wan smile, taking extra care to ensure it reached her cheeks. She watched for a while longer. It’s one thing to mentally establish an itinerary for a conversation; it’s another entirely to actually see it through in the order and emotional state you’d planned. She tossed it aside. “I loved my husband very much,” she said.

  “Mmmn.”

  “I always will. I’ve loved him since we were children. I still believe we were fated for one another. But I lost him one day.” She glanced at the entrance. Tirdad had respected her request for privacy. “And I still haven’t gotten past it. I don’t honestly believe I ever will. I don’t like to admit it hurts, but it does. Every waking moment of every day.”

  Waray stopped eating. She brought her eyes up, and trained a brittle grin on Ashtadukht, who recognized it as the same affected breed she’d come to favour. The half-div hesitantly drew her arm up and stroked her back. It was an immensely strange exchange—too normal for the two of them.

  Ashtadukht returned the smile. “Thank you,” she said. “But I’m not here for your comfort. I’m telling you that because I want you to know I’ve been there. I never left.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you remember when I told you I’d try to find your family?”

  “Maybe,” the half-div muttered, briskly looking away.

  “I found . . .” Ashtadukht took a deep breath. “I found word of them.” She took Waray’s hand, cupping it in hers. Scales dominated this one, smooth and cool to the touch. She squeezed it gently. Waray had already begun to take on her thousand-yard stare.