After a time the jungle was quiet again – as quiet as it ever was as the calls of night hunters rose once more to the moon, insects hissed and chirped, and bats flitted overhead.
‘Well done!’ another voice called, this one from above. Pon-lor scanned the darkened treetops. ‘Can’t have the fellow dragging us all down, can we?’ Pon-lor spotted the source: a blob of night, all shaggy round the edge, at the notch of a thick branch.
‘And you are?’
‘Varakapi is the name.’
‘Brother to our friend?’
‘Only very distantly,’ the creature answered, not at all amused. ‘I have been watching you.’
‘To what end?’
‘To pose a question.’
‘Oh?’ Pon-lor heightened his concentration once more, though he sensed nothing inimical for the moment. ‘And that is?’
‘What is Himatan?’
Pon-lor blinked, rather startled by such simplicity. ‘That’s it?’
‘Yes. That is all. You could say the question is nothing – yet everything.’
‘How very … philosophical,’ Pon-lor answered drily.
‘As a trained Thaumaturg, I thought you would appreciate that.’
Pon-lor narrowed his gaze upon the shaggy blotch. Long pointed elbows stuck out. The shape reminded him of a huge ape or monkey. ‘And the purpose behind this question?’
‘It is for you to muse upon. I hope you will find in it fertile ground for speculation.’
Frowning now, Pon-lor turned his attention to the dying fire. He pushed more of the dry brush in upon it. Speculation? What speculation could such a question evoke? When he looked up once more the beast was gone. Well. That is one thing Himatan is: very odd. One might find oneself nearly pushed into a monster’s mouth at one moment, then challenged to philosophical debate at the next! He hoped this was the last of his visitors; he’d been planning to get some rest. Leaning back, he shut his eyes. He tried to calm his mind, but the simple plain question kept circling there round and round.
What is Himatan?
* * *
Okay, Murken Warrow, it’s time to get a grip on the situation. Everyone’s countin’ on us to get their puckered sphincters out of here. And who am I lookin’ at to pull that off? Fuckin’ useless Sour! We’re sunk. Absolutely had it. Might as well slit our own throats.
‘So, Mage – what now?’
Murk flinched, almost tottering over from where he crouched studying the jungle. He peered up, squinting in the blinding sunlight, to Burastan glowering down. He straightened and as he did so darkness gathered in his vision. Gotta get some food in me. ‘What do you mean?’ His answer sounded defensive even to his ears.
The tall Seven Cities woman rolled her eyes. ‘Which way now?’
‘East.’
Burastan leaned forward to bring her sweaty grimed face closer to his. Speaking very slowly, she asked: ‘Which way east?’
Murk looked away. He swallowed though no spit would come. ‘Have to talk that over with the scouts.’
‘You do that.’
‘If you’re all done …’
She waved him away. He went to find the scouts – and Sour.
These days the Thyr mage was spending all his time with the scouts. Murk had come across him actually teaching them how to pick flowers! Could you believe it? And these hardened veterans of Seven Cities and the Quon Insurgency campaigns. Murk couldn’t credit it. When did this happen?
It all started going haywire after they spent time with Oroth-en and his people. Sour took to it like a fish to water an’ now he’s runnin’ around wearing leaves and preachin’ all this living off the land crap. Well, as far as Murk was concerned it was all going to end badly for them. A pig can’t be a tiger no matter how hard it tries, as his old pa used to say.
He found his goggle-eyed partner showing a plant to four scouts. He was explaining something about the roots being edible at one time of year, the leaves at another, and the berries fine so long as you boiled them.
‘Boil them in what?’ Murk asked.
His partner blinked up at him, one bulging eye higher than the other. ‘Well … you could use a helmet, I s’pose. If you had to. Fill it with water and drop in heated stones.’
‘An’ who’s going to do that?’
The fellow shrugged. ‘Better than starvin’.’
Was it really, though? Eating grasshoppers and beetles and such? There was no way he’d do that.
Sour nodded to the scouts and they melted away among the broad drooping leaves. Droplets of rainwater pelted down in loud explosions all round them.
‘Which way?’ Murk asked.
‘I’m thinkin’ on it.’
‘Thinking,’ Murk repeated sceptically. ‘You’re thinking. Well … time’s passing, you know.’
‘I know.’
Murk studied him. There was something new about the man – beyond the natural colouring and dirt powders he’d painted himself in. He wore leather sandals that appeared to have been cut from someone’s cast-off armour. His only other covering was a loin wrap of ratty old cloth. The paints had smeared and faded and become mixed with sweat to a smooth layer over his limbs, chest and face. His hair was a greasy mat that was so muddy he looked as if he’d stuck his head into a hole in the ground.
Murk gestured helplessly to the man’s head. ‘What’s with all this …?’
Sour blinked at him, innocently. ‘This?’
Murk flapped his hands. ‘The hair – the mud!’
The mage’s brows shot up. ‘Ah! Keeps away the crabs and lice an’ scalp-rot ’n’ such.’
‘An’ all this crap you’ve smeared yourself in? Can’t be healthy.’
The man shrank, examined his hands. ‘Well … the dirt keeps the bugs off. No bites from the chiggers or flies or midges or mites. The layer keeps the sun off too, so no sunburn. An’ it helps keep you cool so that keeps down on the sweating too.’ He tapped a dirty finger to his chin. His nails were blackened and broken from all the digging he’d been doing. ‘That’s about it.’
Murk kept his scowl. ‘Well … you smell like a damned privy.’
Sour snapped his fingers. ‘That’s right! Yeah, an’ the animals can’t smell you so it’s easer to hunt. You smell just like the jungle … you see?’
Murk glared his hardest. ‘You smell all right. I can attest to that!’ He waved his hand in front of his nose.
Sour’s face fell. He kicked at the ground, his shoulders hunching. ‘Sorry. But … you know … you could maybe … it keeps the bugs off.’
Murk just glared. ‘Which way?’
Sour rubbed a hand on his head, smearing his hair all about. He winced as if contemplating something painful. ‘Don’t know. Can’t choose! There’re so many choices – so many ways things could go south round here. Don’cha sense it all?’
‘No, I don’t. Shadow’s no help.’ Murk glared now at the gloom of the thick brush. ‘It’s like all its attention’s elsewhere, you know? It’s like the shadows are all standing still, afraid to move.’
Sour was nodding eagerly. ‘Yeah! I know what you mean.’ He pointed to the lurid jade star that was the Visitor clearly visible in the full daylight. ‘It’s that. It’s so close now. I feel like it’s hangin’ right over my head. Like it was gonna fall right—’ He covered his mouth and staggered as if punched, his eyes huge above his hand. ‘Burn forgive us!’ he murmured into his fingers.
Murk had seen his partner like this before and each time it had saved a lot of lives during the campaign in north Genabackis. ‘What is it?’ he asked, reaching out to steady him, then pulling his hand away as he remembered he had no shirt. ‘What’d you see?’
Sour was gazing off into the distance. ‘It could happen,’ he breathed, awed by what he’d glimpsed.
‘What?’
Sour’s gaze snapped to him as if just noticing he was there. He edged close and lowered his voice. ‘There’s a chance it could fall right here on us,’ he whispered. ‘I sa
w it.’
Murk immediately glanced about to see if anyone was within hearing. ‘Don’t start talk like that.’
‘I know,’ Sour answered, fierce. ‘But it’s real.’
‘We have to run this by the captain.’
Sour blinked, quite startled. ‘Really? I thought you was just gonna tell me to shut the Abyss up.’
Murk glanced back towards camp and froze. ‘Naw,’ he murmured, ‘if there’s a chance …’ He tilted his head in that direction and Sour glanced over, grunted.
Burastan was headed their way. She halted, set her fists on her hips – wide and muscular ones beneath her tattered and frayed trousers that Murk didn’t mind resting his eyes on. She gave them a withering glare up and down. ‘What’re you two whispering on about like a couple of kids?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ Murk replied, all airily. The woman’s presence quite tied Sour’s tongue.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t try that mysterious mage act on me. I know you’re nothing but a village wart-healer.’
‘Got any?’
She frowned warily. ‘What?’
‘Warts.’
Her lips tightened to colourless and her hand went to the wire-wrapped grip of her curved Seven Cities blade. ‘You’re wanted,’ she hissed through rigid jaws.
‘Okay,’ Murk answered.
‘Not you,’ she snarled, dismissing him. She raised her chin to Sour. ‘You.’
Sour pointed to his own chest in disbelief. ‘Me?’
She rolled her eyes once more. ‘Yeah you – gods help us. C’mon.’
Burastan led them to a trooper leaning up against a tree, one unshod foot crossed over the other. ‘He can’t walk,’ she told them.
Sour knelt before the man. He unceremoniously took hold of an ankle to study one foot. The man tensed in pain. Sour waved Murk in for a closer look. He indicated the sole. ‘See?’
The skin of the sole was an angry engorged red. The skin was covered in blisters and was peeling in thick layers as if it had been boiled. ‘What happened?’ Murk asked.
‘Poisonous plant.’ He regarded the man, shook his head. ‘Walked round in your bare feet, didn’t you?’
‘Just to take a piss,’ the man answered, his voice whip tight.
‘Well don’t – walk round in bare feet, I mean. Ever. Until you know what plants to touch and which to stay away from.’
‘How am I to know that? We’re surrounded by damned plants everywhere!’
‘Then keep your sandals on.’
The trooper gestured helplessly. ‘The damned things is all rotted away and won’t stay on, will they!’
‘Watch your tone, Manat,’ Burastan growled.
Murk looked to the scowling woman, rather bemused by this defence of Sour. Order among the ranks, he supposed. Sour just bobbed his head. ‘Fair enough.’ He tapped a knuckle to the trooper’s hauberk of layered leather bands. ‘Cut that up for sandals and tie them on.’
The infantryman, Manat, stared at Sour as if he’d gone mad. ‘Cut up good armour to make sandals?’ he repeated in wonder, too stunned by the idea to be scornful. He sent an entreating look to Burastan. ‘I’ll keep my armour, thank you very much.’
‘Oh yeah.’ Sour rummaged in the large shoulder bag at his side. He drew out a flattened and bruised blossom of large sky-blue petals. The blue orchid that he had been going on about for days now. He took the trooper’s hand and pressed the flower into it. ‘There you go. You won’t be attacked now. Not unless you stick your finger into a leopard’s eye, or somethin’ dumb like that.’
Manat shot another look of disbelief to Burastan. He pointed to Sour. ‘What fucking mumbo-jumbo is this?’
The lieutenant lunged forward to lean over the man. ‘You’ll fucking do what you’re told,’ she hissed, ‘or I’ll cut the skin from your damned feet and make you walk point! Am I understood?’
Manat shrank under the lieutenant’s fury. ‘Okay – sir. If you say so. But … I’m not walkin’ anywhere right now.’
‘I’ll go get something for that,’ Sour said. ‘Don’t you worry. There’s an easy cure for that – you just have ta know where to look, that’s all.’
Manat’s brows rose. ‘Really? You c’n cure this? Man – you do that and I’ll eat your Burn-damned flowers.’
Sour straightened, laughing. ‘Don’t eat that one. Wear it next to your skin. In your shirt, maybe. And when you see a fresh one, pick it and replace the old one. Yes?’
The trooper studied the flattened blossom, still dubious. ‘If you say so … sir.’
‘Okay. I’ll have a look. You rest here.’ Sour looked to Murk as if seeking his permission, or approval. Murk waved him towards the woods; Sour grinned and headed off. Murk followed. Burastan also came along.
Some distance into the dense undergrowth of a grove of young bamboo, Burastan cleared her throat to call a halt. Sour turned to her; Murk found himself standing aligned with the lieutenant, facing his partner, arms crossed.
‘All right. What was that all about?’ the Seven Cities woman demanded.
‘What?’
The woman reached out as if she would snatch hold of the man’s shirtfront, if he had one to grab. ‘The Hood-damned flower nonsense. I don’t approve of lying to the troops. Even if it’s to a good end.’
Confusion wrinkled the man’s brow and around his eyes and from long association Murk recognized honest puzzlement. ‘She means that fairy tale about the stupid magic flower. Things aren’t that bad yet.’
The puzzlement remained in the mage’s lined brow and his bulging misaligned dark brown eyes as they flicked from Murk to Burastan. The woman kicked the ground with one rotting boot. ‘Look,’ she began, exhaling, ‘I understand. The men and women are starting to wonder whether any of them are going to make it out. But you should’ve cleared it with the captain before you started some damned fool story like that.’ She raised a warning finger. ‘I know this crew. They’ll give you the chance. But when you’re proved wrong – you’re out. Like a pariah dog, you’ll be out.’
The little man’s brows now climbed his lined and seamed forehead in growing comprehension. ‘But it’s true! I think I’ve got a handle on this place. It’s got its own rules. You just have to hunt them out.’
Murk exchanged a frustrated glance with Burastan. ‘So, the flower?’
The crab-like fellow gave a sharp nod. ‘Right. I think I’ve figured somethin’ out. Here, in this jungle, it doesn’t matter what you look like or how you crash about making noise or whatnot. What really matters,’ and he took a deep breath before plunging on any further, ‘what really matters … is what you smell like.’
‘What? Smell?’ Murk blurted out.
Sour flinched, but nodded firmly.
Burastan let out a long breath, obviously disappointed. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to talk to the captain about this.’
Sour raised his chin, defiant. ‘Fine! ’Cause I want to too. I just decided which way we should go.’
Murk wouldn’t meet Burastan’s searching gaze; it was a hard thing to witness. The poor guy. Just has to dig a hole for hisself.
They found Yusen with group of resting troops, talking. Burastan approached and cleared her throat. Yusen gave her a nod then exchanged a few last words with the soldiers. Straightening, he signed for them to move off.
He stopped next to a fat tree Oroth-en had told them was called a Golden Shower. It was not as broad about at the base as many others, but carried a very wide spread of hanging branches. Murk realized they must be near another village as this giant’s trunk was festooned with faded garlands of flowers, lengths of woven hair, ribbons, and other bits and pieces such as stones and shapes moulded of clay set here and there as votive offerings. What were they worshipping here, he wondered. This particular tree itself? Or was it merely the altar, or representative, of the forest at large?
Yusen, he noted, now wore merely a long gambeson shirt, belted, with trousers tucked into tall moccasins. He was without a helmet over
his brush-cut, retreating greying hair. His scalp showed through red and raw beneath, but his eyes glowed just as bright and sharp as ever. Like sapphires, Murk thought them. Cut gemstones.
‘What is it?’ the captain said, crossing his arms. His gaze was steady on Burastan.
She indicated Sour. ‘This one’s laying a line of shit on the troops. He’s taking advantage of their trust of the cadre mages. Handing out flowers and claiming they’re safe if they wear them. Claims he can’t keep.’
The steady gaze shifted to Sour. ‘Is that true, soldier?’
Murk felt for the poor guy but he couldn’t step in. This was a hole his naivety had spilled him into. His partner squirmed and rubbed a hand over his head, his odd eyes seeming to look in two directions at once, but he was nodding firmly. ‘Yes, sir, Cap’n sir. It’s true. You wear that flower and you’re safe from the jungle. I believe that completely.’
Yusen returned his piercing gaze to Burastan. ‘There you are, Lieutenant. The man stands behind his claim. Has it been disproved?’
The woman almost gaped but caught herself. ‘Well. No – that is, no, sir.’ She waved at Sour. ‘But he’s not even cadre! Spite told us she pulled them out of prison! Why should we—’
‘Hey now!’ Sour cut in. He motioned to Murk. ‘We’re cadre! We even served with—’
Murk loudly cleared his throat and Sour clamped his mouth shut, hunching.
Yusen’s glittering gaze shifted between the two of them, settled on Murk. ‘You have something to add, soldier?’
Murk raised his open hands. ‘No sir. Nothing at all.’
The mercenary captain looked as if he was about to press for more, but something stopped him and he drew a heavy breath instead. His sharp gaze moved to the tree and roved among its clutter of offerings. Murk studied the man. Why won’t you press? Ah, because then we’d push back asking about your past, yes? And just what is that past, Captain Yusen? Seven Cities, wasn’t it? Were you a green lieutenant then? Did you side with the damned Insurgency?
Burastan recovered enough to shake her head. ‘Talk. All talk.’ She turned to Yusen. ‘Sir, the men and women don’t deserve this. Order these two to keep to their place.’
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