by Marc Secchia
TAMPING A HANDFUL of azarite slivers into the bowl of his pipe, which was as large as her two cupped hands put together, Manrax said, “Now, don’t you get any ideas, young Whisper. Smoking’s a foul addiction and I don’t want anyone claiming I tried to corrupt an innocent young damsel. Especially, don’t you even dream about smoking azarite. It’s a nasty habit only suited to men of nasty, unsociable bent, like me. I never smoked anywhere near my children, mind. I’d rather choke my apprentices – why, by Azar, there’s a revealing slip of the tongue!”
Manrax turned the beautiful, crystal-carved pipe in his hands, showing her the exquisite silver filigree decorating the bowl and stem, which was as long as her arm and slightly curved. He said, “It’s something, isn’t it? You don’t see work like this anymore. This is my fair Myra’s work, bless her hands and all that she is to me and the kids. Tongue like etching-acid, mind. Don’t tell her I said that. Nor how much I love her. I can only admit that out here, where my soul’s feeling mawkish over all this beauty.”
Did an appreciation of beauty make her sentient?
Standing next to Whisper as she perched upon the railing, the Head Engineer indicated the auroral sky. “The old Draco-Mages chose this spot with the greatest care. The lay of the land mitigates against sunstrike, see? Whitesun will rise over those hills, where the Igneous Dragons live – you know that, of course. Immediately after it rises, those sentikor trees on that headland shade the bridge almost completely. Next, look four miles closer. Notice how the canyon wall bulges out beyond those graxite and gold ores? That shields her for the next hour. Then you’re into the foliage higher up, in the normal way of canyons sheltering their denizens. It’s just that this one is unusually wide, that was always the problem here. When those Draco-Mages came, they sank pilings three hundred feet deep into this cliff face behind us, girl. You could hang mountains off these, I’d wager.”
Meditatively, he scanned the scene. “We designed the bridge to withstand sunstrike. There was cooling built into the pilings and especially into the bridge-cars, but you still wouldn’t be wanting to take a ride at any time but now, from before dawn until the fourth hour, or so. Then it’s just too crystal-shattering hot. You’d sweat your waters dry by the time you reached the far side.”
Sensing he wanted to talk, Whisper kept quiet.
“Whispers were like –” he sighed deeply, thinking something through for so long that she suspected he had nodded off briefly “– they were like glue that kept people together, that’s what they were. Society’s glue. You just kind of assumed they would always be there, see? They connected things, from governments and monarchs and cities, to a poor man with his sweetheart. You could send them just about anywhere, between villages and across bulwarks. Of course, times were also dangerous. That’s why they kept these way-stations – do you know what they might be called?”
“Whisper Beacons,” said Whisper.
“Aye, that’s a good name. We never knew what they were. It seemed Whispers stored something of themselves inside, so that who they were never became lost.” The man shook his head slightly, and, holding his pipe beneath his arm, clicked two stones together above it. Shortly, the stone caught and he puffed reflectively. “There was such a Beacon twenty leagues beyond Azarinthe, in the village where I came from. I was that poor man, Whisper. I worked hard, but my father was a spendthrift and an addict, and he beat us bad when the black moods took him. A Whisper helped me. She took my messages to every department in the entire government of Azarinthe, I guess, and she never asked why or refused, or wanted any payment, or nothing. I never even found out her name.”
“Anyways, I was accepted for a job as a cleaner of the Engineering Apprentices’ barracks. Just that. A cleaner. That’s where it began, my girl, and there, my love of engineering was kindled. Later, the Head Engineer at that time saw my good work and offered me a place in classes, if I worked at my job in the evenings and nights. I thought I had such good fortune. When that man died and I took over his job, I found a record in his office of a conversation with a Whisper. She had begged him to take me on. She paid for my place in those classes.”
Gruffly, he said, “There. Dab your eyes with my handkerchief. Sorry, but that’s my tale. All that I have today, all that I have enjoyed of a career I love close to as much as I love life itself, was a Whisper’s gift to me.”
“It was sure strange, then, how we never really noticed when the Whispers disappeared. Did we not want them? Did we not care? Perhaps not at first, as the numbers thinned, but certainly we learned to regret it later on, as Human messengers and systems replaced the Whispers of old, and by the time we knew to look for what had been lost … it was too late. They were gone. Cities became insular. The trade routes began to break down, or to grow dangerous. It seemed that along with the connectedness fostered by the presence and tireless labour of those incorruptible Whispers, trust also flourished. And without trust, we became what we are today. Village against village. Guild fighting guild. Cities cut off from other cities, and colour from colour. It’s a travesty.”
His gaze met her questing eyes a little warily, yet with a glint of hope. “I keep expecting to blink and see you gone. But here you are. Forging, by your strength of will, links and relationships in the most unexpected places and ways. Arbor to Azarinthe. King Xan seems a man transformed, and any Azar soldier will tell you, for not even the price of a bag of crystal dust, they’ve never seen Queen Xola laugh until the day she met you. It’s as if we’ve started to climb out of a deep, dark canyon, and we didn’t even know we were stuck down there. Aye, these things seem so fragile, like silk blown on the wind. But, just as crystals grow an inch a day, bits stick – the worthwhile bits – and we start to see things happening that we never thought could be. Like … bridges in the air.”
Whisper bowed her head, fighting to keep her emotions in check. Nonetheless, a huge teardrop slid down either side of her muzzle to drip onto her thighs. “I don’t know what I’m doing here, Manrax. I don’t even have a name. All I’m doing is running the paths set before me by others.”
“Aye? Was that what brought you to Azarinthe?” Smoke, unexpectedly fragrant, wafted past her on a curl of breeze. “It strikes this old bolt-cutter that some names can only be earned, not given nor bought.”
Words to make a soul oscillate, and her memories to dance like a flock of dragonets in her mind, and resettle into a wholly new configuration.
She said, “Whisper? What does that even mean?”
“Haven’t a clue. Helpful, aren’t I? Look, here comes the Queen. Don’t you be telling her I made you cry.”
Whisper whirled upon her rump, and hugged the Engineer warmly. “You’re the best.”
“Huh?” he snorted, lifting his pipe away from her fur. “Surprised you put up with all my prattling. One last thing. Seems I recall that the Draco-Mages vanished just around the same time as all the Whispers. What do you make of that, eh, girl?”
She flicked her ears cheerfully. “Haven’t a clue. I guess that by the time I reach your age, I still won’t.”
Manrax prodded her ribs with the stem-end of his pipe. “I’ll wager you two random scales of any draconid you care to name, that I’ll make you eat those words one day.”
Whisper prodded him right back. “And if that happens, you’ll stop smoking, alright?”
“Bah.”
* * * *
Xola arrived strapped to another of the cable-crawlers, towing a fourth cable, the start of the second ring and a cable that would allow two-way traffic in a limited fashion. Behind her came cohorts of soldiers, scouts and more engineers, and then a wave of supplies. Once the cable was hooked up and drawn taut, Manrax started sending the wound-up cable-crawlers back on the new cable to be used for ferrying supplies. While he questioned his engineers closely about developments on the far platform, Xola found her way to Whisper’s side.
“Good flight,” she said. “You veered seven feet to the right. Very disappointing.”
> Manrax mimed squeezing the Queen into his pipe right behind her shoulder. Whisper had to fake a cough to cover a howl of laughter. “Ah … thank you for your magic, o Queen. I put it to good use.”
“Good,” she repeated, glancing behind her.
Manrax puffed his pipe peaceably. The engineers seemed as red-faced as boys caught red-handed. There was much coughing and shuffling of boots in the crystal dust.
With a parting scowl that threatened instant evisceration, Xola turned back to Whisper and growled, “I think we’ll want your help for the first section on this side, Whisper. Then, I believe the time is ripe for you to run ahead, setting the agreed way-signs and suchlike, to assure Arbor of our coming. You will need to use all of your cunning. I’ve no doubt that Warlock Sanfuri will send part of his army against us, to prevent us from reaching and joining the Arborites. That part will likely be Dragonkind.”
“Aye, and we should travel carefully through Arboreal territory,” said Whisper, already plotting the trail in her mind. “They’re very fond of their trees, and of eating creatures that threaten their trees.”
“Then, prepare yourself. The scouts and soldiers depart in ten minutes.”
“Aye, Queen Xola.”
The Queen spun away to badger the engineers. “Hurry! The sun’s already rising. We don’t want anyone to be caught out there when sunstrike hits.”
* * * *
Whisper had certainly overestimated the ability of Humans to keep up, but the Element Enchantress’ orders were firm – and, she wearily acknowledged, necessary. They would have been hopelessly lost twenty times over in the maze that abutted the air-bridge. The engineers had to roughly cut and smooth the trail in many places in the hope that the first freight cars carrying the canodraconids would be able to cross the air-bridge within two or three days, bringing necessary support to the troops. Queen Xola had the soldiers mucking in; they did so unashamedly and with a dint of zeal that put Whisper’s annoyance to shame. To break the monotony, she had begun to take lessons in weapons and unarmed combat from appointed experts among the troops. Skills. Always develop the skills.
A Whisper alive was better than a Whisper floating in the Brass Mirror.
It was fun, seeing all the men coated up to the ears in white assumbi pollen. The female soldiers had no end of diversion teasing their male compatriots.
After passing the broken and fallen-in maze, however, the Azar column progressed much more quickly. They pressed through the grove of mighty sentikor giants, which filled the floor of a narrow canyon so that the soldiers were forced to file carefully around the fifty-foot-wide boles of the trees, and duck beneath the huge, twisting roots or clamber above, until they broke out into the verdant canyon beyond, where Whisper had fully expected an ambush to take place if the Warlock was at all sensible about picking locations advantageous to Dragon attacks.
Nothing.
That was either good news, or the Warlock was more devious than they thought.
Whisper voted for the latter, as did Xola. King Xan still snored like a royal rug, despite a few attendants on hand to spoon water and gruel into his mouth and massage his throat until the swallowing reflex kicked in. Anyone who could sleep like that had to be seriously magical. However, Rhyme might be less impressed with her dozy catch.
No mind, this was the canyon of a thousand steps. She eyed the trail ahead eagerly, bouncing on her toes.
Queen Xola waved her right hand majestically. “Alright, Whisper. I hereby permit you to go find trouble.”
“Can I? Can I?”
“Are you still here? Honestly. We all know the Warlock will have been busy. I’ll send a few scouts after you. If they see you along the trail, it had better be because you’re dead – that’s how careful I want you to be. Understood?”
Whisper cracked off a passable Azarinthine salute. “Aye, Commander!”
The Enchantress eyed her balefully. “Funny. Go serve Arbor, Whisper. I do have one special request, however …”
“Pickled head of Warlock, freshly served on a bed of grey canyon rice?”
“Good girl.”
Trotting off, Whisper told herself she really had to stop wriggling with pleasure when Humans called her ‘girl’. That urge to reach for identity and purpose was just so powerful; so inbuilt. Was there something wrong with being born to serve, as the Warlock had alleged – and at this thought, intuition struck her mind so sharply, she jumped – for he had noted that Whispers appeared when the times were ‘needful unto fruition’. Mystifying. Who or what, therefore, controlled the appearance or reappearance of Whispers? A creature of force and purpose greater than Sanfuri himself? Or … what? The unseen, unknowable presence?
That was thought enough to make her toes curl.
Meantime, she had a barrel of Warlock filth to track and an army that needed to reach Arbor last week already. Whisper set her paws to the trail.
* * * *
Triggering her Whisper reflex, the small creature hurled herself off the canyon’s edge once more, long before daybreak. Her fur rippled with more than the wind’s buffeting. She remembered that first, overwhelming rush of life in her veins as she soared out over a three-mile drop; the glorious imperative of senses tingling with the scents and essences of every manifestation of life’s vivacity surrounding her, and the need to flee blindly into the jungles and canyons. Fleeing from pain. Now she saw pain, and fled toward its embrace. Was this what it meant to serve with every last whisper of her breath?
She swept through the night-still air, just a passing ripple in the streaming starlight, such as she could see through the sentikor trees miles above. This meeting place of four canyons would be dappled with sunstrike later on, but the scouts had already ascertained the problem and planned to move the army through within the next two hours. Xola also expected the canodraconids to catch up shortly. How would one stop a ground-bound army? She imagined even a winged Dragon force would be restricted in close quarters such as those waiting ahead, the mighty Bracer-giants filling a narrow canyon with no room for wings and manoeuvring. Perhaps that might be the place where a cunning Warlock might lay his traps to stop the movement of troops. Aye.
Flaring her skin sharply, until the long gliding-flaps pulled beneath her arms and along the outer edges of her thighs and between her knees, Whisper pulled up to a relatively neat landing on the far cliff wall, well up the stone-cut steps.
She bounded upward at once, filling her lungs with every scent, over and over. Trail-memories assaulted her in a riot of glorious colours and impressions. Incredible. She noted particular overturned stones. A few new dragonet-droppings. The changed orientation of a pile of sticks indicating the possibility of a nest of dracoworm eggs beneath. She saw every detail lucidly, her mind primed to the environment as though it sang through her senses in close harmony, cataloguing and sorting and searching for patterns in that frantic manner she remembered from before. Whispers were like crazed data-mining sponges, she told herself, feeling the pull of increasing altitude in her lungs as she dashed a vertical mile up the rough steps, and paused at the lip of the crack just where the trail entered a gloomier, heavily-shaded realm. Again, the deep, rich scents played upon her awareness. Vanilla blossoms. Sweet anise-like tensulilies and piquant, nostril-tingling terhissa flowers, the vibrant crimson flowers appearing much more sinister by night. Aye. The airstream stirring the forest giants had just the slightest tang of wrongness about it.
Metal. A Warlock’s toys, or she was a tailless …
Whisper sighed. Melancholy. What could the tail do that the rest of her could not? She had learned to survive without it, yet how she yearned for the day that its regrowth might be fully realised! Would she ever regain all of her abilities, however? That was unknown.
Had she been alone, Whisper would have raced up high through the Bracer-giant jungle, dancing amongst the toxic mauve blossoms with ease. Now, she needed to consider the passage of an army through this wilderness. Pensively, she slipped a message tube out
of her carryall and scrawled rapidly upon a curl of metal with the stylus she had been provided. Activating a tiny Mage-trace, she set the scroll in an abandoned penpiper’s nest just beside the entrance.
Pretending she was a clumsy Human, she sidled into the wilderness, searching with all of her senses alert.
When eventually she found the first trap, it was because the trap found her. Snick. Whisper blurred aside, throwing up her right arm reflexively. Poisoned darts sprayed the area, but her dagger blade deflected one which had searched out her nose with coincidental but deadly prejudice. A mechanical trap triggered by a wire invisible in the gloom. Of course. There would be a variety of nastiness, because stored mana was often detectable, Shivura had taught her. It depended on one’s perspective, but the natural leakage of mana was either annoying or highly useful.
Picking up a fallen branch, Whisper rapidly trimmed a few leafy tufts with her left-paw dagger, and then started poking about from a safe distance where she thought there might be further traps.
Help – leap!
“Alright, that was stupid,” she grumbled, picking squashed green magisberries out of her fur with a grimace of annoyance. She popped half a handful into her mouth. Always grazing. Trail hunger … “Safe for two seconds. You’re evidently as clumsy as any Human.” At least she had not lost her overconfident head to the Warlock’s spinning-blade trap.
Whisper hauled herself out of the bushes and plucked a thorny spine out of her smarting derriere. “Punishment. Right. How’s about adopting an approach with the slightest whiff of intelligence about it, Whisper?”
It took her a good half-hour, but Whisper eventually found the two things she was looking for. Hungry draconids, and a fresh, juicy carcass of the most irritating avian she had yet encountered, the yellow-crested hoopoe, which seemed to enjoy following a certain Whisper through the trees while constantly cawing and cackling at her.
After flicking a few bloody gobbets at the olivine murka-draconids, a variant of forest-dwelling draconid no bigger than her, but with a far more factious temper than a Whisper with a dozen burrs stuck in her fur, she charged down the trail waving a bloody flag of meat. Result! Within twenty seconds, she had a good fifty draconids in tow. In forty seconds, the number had swelled to over a hundred and she had undoubtedly booked her place at their dinner table.
