Jatal studied the man as he turned to light one of several tall yellow candles that cluttered the table. He gathered the impression that this man wouldn’t care a whit should just about any or every thing be swept from the face of the earth, very probably including Jatal himself. A detached part of him wondered whether this was calculated to intimidate or impress. In any other man he would assume so; yet this one struck him as different from any other he had ever met. One who did not give a damn what he or anyone else thought. And so he decided that in fact, no, this foreign Warleader was not trying to impress or intimidate or overawe him in any way at all. That would presume that he cared, when he very clearly did not. So he opted to pursue the issue, if only to shake the bushes, as they say, to see how the man would respond. ‘You have formed no agreement with them, then? No sort of alliance?’
‘I did not say that,’ the man answered flatly. He waved a hand to direct the fumes of the candle to his face and inhaled.
Ye gods, this man is difficult! Jatal set his glass aside. ‘Care to provide the particulars?’
The man shrugged his shoulders, still wide and powerful despite his age. ‘Certainly. They approached me and explained that while you noble Adwami might have foolishly and shortsightedly rejected the offer of their support, they would advance in any case. And would strike to achieve their goals.’
‘So, an alliance.’
‘Not at all. Convenience. When the lion strikes, the jackals and vultures also get their share.’
‘I’m sure the shaduwam do not see themselves as jackals or vultures.’
‘I am certain as well. Yet that is irrelevant.’
Jatal sensed more here than was being admitted, but he could not press further at this time. And in any case, this explanation could adequately serve should the relationship ever become known. He studied his hands clasped on his lap. ‘I see. Thank you, Warleader, for the intelligence. However, may I suggest that in the future you convey to the council all information regarding the campaign?’
The Warleader regarded him from heavy-lidded eyes. Like something inhuman – a creature of legend or myth. ‘And just who would you suggest I report to?’ he asked, rather drily.
Beneath the coldly evaluating stare, Jatal cleared his throat. ‘Why, myself, of course. As the council’s representative.’
A smile that was more like a death’s grin came and went from the man and he looked almost saddened. ‘You see, my prince, I was right about you.’
More uncomfortable than ever, Jatal rose, collected his glass, and crossed to replace it on the side table. ‘Good evening, Warleader. Perhaps we could retire together again, to discuss other, more pleasant matters. Philosophy, possibly? Or history?’
The man suddenly appeared wary. As if Jatal had just somehow challenged him. He retreated from the table, waving vaguely. ‘Of course. It would be my pleasure.’
Jatal accepted the dismissal – this was, after all, the Warleader’s tent – and turned to go. Pushing aside the heavy cloth it occurred to him that he had glimpsed not two used glasses upon the side table, but three.
That night he waited long after the mid-hour but Andanii did not appear.
* * *
The native chief, or warlord, Oroth-en, had sent one of his warriors ahead to give notice – and no doubt warn – of their advance. He then guided their column through the forest. Between the thick tree trunks, Murk caught occasional glimpses of the local warriors. They moved with as much ease and familiarity as any of the wild inhabitants of the woods, which, he reflected, in fact they were.
They came to a natural meadow of stiff knife-edged grasses taller than Murk’s head and here Oroth-en had them halt. He indicated that the majority of the company should wait there while Yusen and a few chosen attendants should accompany him. The captain signed to Burastan to remain, then gestured Murk and Sour forward.
‘I don’t like it,’ the Seven Cities woman muttered aside to Murk.
‘Our friend can’t very well lead a pocket army into his village. As far as he knows we might just up and take over the place.’
She wrinkled her nose in annoyance. ‘Why would we want his wretched village?’
‘Well, for one thing they have food in their wretched village. Which is a lot more than we have. And second, they’re probably always fighting their neighbours for territory and resources and such. It’s a way of life.’
The tall woman wasn’t convinced and she snorted her derision. ‘Resources? What resources?’ She waved to the tangled trees. ‘This is a wasteland. It’s like one of our Seven Netherworlds, only here on earth.’
‘Burastan, Lieutenant, they’re here and that means this ain’t no wasteland. Get it?’
Then Yusen urged Murk on again, but he flicked his gaze to the travois and its wrapped burden. The captain frowned, uneasy, then let out a breath. He signed to Burastan: guard it. The lieutenant nodded her understanding.
Murk peered around for Sour but couldn’t find the man anywhere. Finally he spotted him bent down all the way to his stomach studying a fat blossom growing out of a notch in the roots of one of the trees. To Murk, the sky-blue flower appeared almost obscene the way its swollen petals seemed to burst from the tree. He pulled his partner up by the collar of his rotting leather hauberk. ‘What in the name of D’rek are you doing? Let’s go.’
‘Ain’t never seen one like that afore,’ Sour explained as he dragged him along.
‘This ain’t no natural philosophy hike, Hood take you!’ Murk growled. ‘Stay focused.’
They caught up with Yusen and Oroth-en, and the village elder led them on.
Through the afternoon he began to see more and more signs of human occupation. The seemingly meandering way they walked met a narrow path and this in turn merged with a definite trail travelled enough to expose naked beaten dirt. As they went, Sour kept pointing out more and more of the fat, vaguely hand-shaped, dusty blue blossoms. Some clung to the trunks of trees or hung from branches overhead. He kept grinning and winking at Murk, as if he’d put them there himself.
Murk just rolled his eyes. Fine, so they grow around here. Big deal.
‘Climbing Blue!’ Sour suddenly announced as he walked along, all hunched and side to side in his bow-legged gait.
Murk scowled his annoyance. ‘What’re you going on about?’
The mage waved a hand, flapping his tattered leather and mail gauntlet. ‘Them flowers. I’m gonna name them Climbing Blues.’
‘Climbing—’ Murk caught himself almost taking a swipe at his partner. ‘You can’t just up and name some plant! What makes you think you can do that?’
‘’Cause I discovered it. That’s why.’
‘Discovered it? You didn’t—’ The astounding claim stole Murk’s breath. ‘Idiots tripping over things is no way to hand out names. And anyway, what about these local folks? Don’t you think they know it? Or have a name for ’em?’
Sour scrunched up his already wrinkled face, thinking. ‘Well … we don’t know any of that, do we?’
‘Oh, so because of your ignorance their hundreds of years old names for everything get tossed aside. Well, that’s just great.’
‘Well, maybe I’ll ask then!’
‘Well, fine! Go ahead.’
‘I will.’
‘G’wan.’
Sour opened his mouth but he and Murk noted Yusen glaring back at them and both hunched guiltily. They passed another of the blue flowers and Murk quelled an urge to kick the damned thing.
Later Sour bumped him then flicked his eyes aside. Murk followed his gaze to catch a fleeting glimpse of one of the locals watching from the dense cover. After this he spotted a number of them. They carried bows and braces of javelins, or short spears, on their backs. Murk had yet to see any signs of metal on any of them – weapons or armour.
Then, with startling suddenness, they emerged into a village. It was arranged in a great oval hacked out of the surrounding jungle. Its centre was an open clearing dotted by fire-pits. The c
ircle of huts all faced the clearing. Most of the huts stood upon short poles and most were no more than walls woven through with branches of broad leaves. The roofs were thick layers of thatched grass.
The villagers stilled, watching them, silent. Some tended low fires, or beat gathered branches. Some were sitting hunched over making implements, weaving plant fibre twine, or carving sticks – making arrows or darts, perhaps. Many lay in hammocks within the airy huts. An old woman pounded a mortar with a pestle, both made of wood. All wore little more than simple loincloths together with numerous ornaments, amulets or charms, tied to legs and arms. Bright stones glimmered from the ears and noses of some. Naked children watched from the open doorways of the huts. Some sort of welcoming committee waited in the clearing.
Murk cocked an eye to his partner, who nodded, but then shut his eyes, his hands twitching at his sides, and abruptly fell to the ground. Murk froze, surprised, then rushed to help him up. The little man fought for a moment, flailing his arms. After this he calmed to peer about, surprised. Blood ran in a crimson torrent from his nose and he wiped it away with the back of his grimed gauntlet. ‘Gods! That ain’t never happened afore!’ he told Murk, stunned wonder in his voice.
Yusen peered down at them, his gaze narrow with worry. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah.’ Sour straightened up. ‘Okay.’ He sent Murk a significant look, signed, ‘Her.’ ‘Was just surprised by somethin’, is all.’
Murk said nothing, but he was quite alarmed. Her! So it must be true, this antipathy between Ardata and the Queen of Dreams. ‘Did you get it?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.
While Oroth-en watched, Sour straightened his torn hauberk. ‘Yeah. I got it … Barely.’
‘Okay then.’ Murk gestured, inviting Yusen to keep going. The captain flicked his gaze between the two mages then nodded his cooperation. He continued on.
The warriors, both male and female, crowded round Oroth-en. None looked happy. One young fellow spoke, and thanks to Sour’s efforts Murk could now understand their language: ‘Why have you brought these Isturé demons?’ this one challenged. ‘They will murder us!’
‘I do not believe these are of the Isturé,’ Oroth-en answered, calmly enough.
‘They are like,’ another observed. ‘They carry iron.’
‘True. They are foreigners. Most foreigners carry such things. That is their way.’
‘If they are not of the Isturé, then we should kill them and take their iron,’ one of the female warriors declared.
‘Their numbers are too many,’ Oroth-en explained.
‘Numbers? How many are there?’ another demanded.
‘Many hands.’
This quietened the warriors for a time. Then the female warrior who had spoken before, hefty and scarred, eyed Yusen and scowled bitterly. ‘I see. So … what are their demands?’
Sour’s brows shot up and he looked to Murk, who raised his gaze to the open sky. Why does it always have to be me? He stepped forward, his hands open. ‘Do you understand me?’
All gathered went quiet once more. Oroth-en turned to regard him, and even his gaze was now suspicious. ‘Why did you not reveal this before?’ he asked, quite coldly.
‘Because only now can I do so.’ He gestured to Sour. ‘My partner and I are what we call mages. You understand mages? Yes?’
Oroth-en edged backwards, eyed him and Sour anew. ‘You are shaduwam?’
Shaduwam? Ah – shaman. ‘Yes … of a kind. You have your own shaduwam, yes?’
The warriors exchanged uneasy glances, but none said anything.
So. Something here. Something they won’t reveal. Fine. None of my business. He addressed Oroth-en. ‘We are lost and hungry here in this jungle. We ask your aid. Aid in returning home. And food – whatever you can spare.’
Oroth-en turned to his warriors. ‘You see? They come as guests asking our help. Are we so heartless as to turn them away?’
The large female warrior scowled her displeasure. Her hair was a great mass of locks about her head and shoulders, and her cured leather shirt, her armour, strained to contain her chest. She planted the butt of her spear and tossed her heavy mane. ‘So might the snake beg entry to the hut.’
‘Then keep an eye upon them, Ursa.’
‘I shall!’ and she fixed her critical gaze on Murk.
It seemed to him that Oroth-en hid a quirk of a smile as he half turned away. ‘Very good. Come, guests, sit and eat with us,’ and he gestured to the largest of the huts, the main house, perhaps.
The meal was the oddest one Murk had ever had, or failed to have, as he actually ate almost none of it. They sat in a great circle on a raised floor of woven mats over slim wooden poles. He and Sour translated for Yusen, as Sour wasn’t about to attempt to raise his Warren again. Food was carried in and served round on broad leaves that went from hand to hand. One ate with the right hand and received the leaf with the left. Children tottered about in between, begging titbits from everyone, but only peering fascinated at the strangers.
He wondered how to get any of this food to their companions now squatting in the jungle, waiting. From the lean figures of these natives he could guess that there was hardly enough to go round as it was. How could they possibly take on fifty additional mouths? They’d probably have to completely despoil the surrounding acres to manage it. And then there’d be nothing left.
Yet he was reluctant even to name what came across his lap as ‘food’, let alone try it. Some leaves arrived heaped with what looked like inoffensive mashed plant matter, pulped roots perhaps, yet smelled vile, or crawled with ants. He thought the ants nothing more than an unavoidable nuisance until a leaf arrived with a great steaming heap of them cooked in some sort of a sticky sauce. Much worse was to come. Leaves covered in beetles and fat white grubs, still writhing, that the locals popped down like candies. Then more of the vegetable mush which they gathered up in their fingers like porridge. Murk didn’t know what was more disgusting: the idea of eating these dishes, or the sight of Sour eagerly sampling each and every one that came by.
Eventually, he could stand it no longer and he sent a dark scowl of disgust Sour’s way. ‘Gods, man,’ he hissed, ‘do you really have to?’
The skinny fellow cocked one walleye, half a black beetle pinched in his fingers, chewing. ‘Wha’?’
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. ‘Eat, man. This … stuff.’
Sour popped in the last of the huge beetle. ‘Stuff?’ he said around his mouthful. ‘It’s food. This is what they eat!’
Murk flinched away, wincing his distaste. ‘Yeah … but how can you?’
‘Food’s food, friend.’ He tapped a dirty finger to his temple. ‘It’s all in the mind.’
From where he sat down the circle Yusen raised a hand in the sign for manners, then turned to Oroth-en who sat next to him. ‘Thank you for the meal,’ he said, loudly. ‘It is greatly appreciated.’
Oroth-en translated for everyone and they all smiled and nodded, then proceeded to push more of the heaped leaves on them. Sour sat up and spoke to Oroth-en: ‘May I go to thank those cooking?’
The elder appeared quite bemused by the request but waved his agreement. ‘Of course.’
Sour ambled off. Watching him go, Murk frowned his confusion. What in the name of all the gods is he doing?
Movement on his other side distracted him and he turned. He almost jumped to see that now sitting next to him was the considerable bulk of the woman warrior, Ursa. Gone was the thick leather shirt, the skirting and the weapons. The woman now wore a simple cloth wrap tied at her immense breast. She glowered down at him.
He decided that he ought to take Yusen’s warning to heart and so nodded a polite greeting. ‘Yes?’
‘You are not eating,’ she accused him.
Smiling and giggling, women round him held out the leaves of insects and pulped plant matter.
He struggled for a time, desperate to find a reason, only to finish, lamely, ‘I am not hungry.’
Murk felt his brows climb. ‘Oh? Why?’
‘Why? Have you not guessed?’ The women nearby hid smiles behind their hands. He eyed them all. A terrifying possibility began to form in his mind.
‘You are the first foreigner sorcerer male I have met,’ the woman continued, undeterred. ‘I have heard all sorts of rumours about your kind. That your members are so tiny you can only bugger boys. That those sorcerers to the west have sworn off all mating whatsoever. And that the shaduwam to the south slice them off entirely!’ She made a cutting motion with her fingers across Murk’s lap. He flinched away, almost slapping his hands down to cover his crotch. The women, young and old, giggled anew.
‘So which is it?’ she demanded.
‘Which what?’
‘Which are you?’
‘Me?’ He peered round and caught Yusen’s amused gaze. He glared in response then turned to Ursa. ‘I’m quite healthy in that – area, thank you. No need to wonder.’
She looked him up and down, as one might a horse at auction. ‘I will decide that, foreigner. Now, come with me.’
‘Come with … you?’
She stood to peer down at him from over the wide shelf of her bosom. ‘Yes! Come. Let us see how much of a man you are.’
Well – how could he let such a challenge go unanswered? He stood also, and bowed his farewell to Oroth-en who answered with a nod, the same small smile at his lips as had been there before. He’d known all evening. Next to the elder, Yusen used the marine sign-language to send: onward!
Murk gave his own emphatic sign to the captain then followed the big woman out.
* * *
Much later he was thoroughly exhausted, content and dreaming when the very floor of the hut seemed to rise up and throw him aside. He sat up, dazed, to see Ursa tying on her wrap.
‘I heard something,’ she whispered, snatching her spear. ‘Something I’ve never heard before.’
‘What?’
The Malazan Empire Series: (Night of Knives, Return of the Crimson Guard, Stonewielder, Orb Sceptre Throne, Blood and Bone, Assail) (Novels of the Malazan Empire) Page 298
