Gritting her teeth against her exhaustion, she struggled to her feet to limp over to where the lad indicated. Some distance off lay Hanu. He was on his side, immobile. She slumped to her knees next to him and shook him, water dripping from her clothes. ‘Hanu! Wake up. Can you hear me?’
‘So there’s someone in there?’ the lad said. ‘Is that one of those living statues that are the slaves of the mages?’
‘It’s just fancy armour,’ Saeng answered dully. She was so very tired. Was he dead? How could she even tell?
‘Is it?’ the lad answered in an oddly knowing tone that brought her gaze to him, squinting. ‘I’ve called Moon,’ the boy said, and he blew another piercing blast on the flute.
Saeng blinked, studying him. She must be more worn out than she’d thought. ‘I’m sorry? Did you say you called the moon?’
The boy made a great show of his scorn. ‘Not
the
Moon. Old Man Moon. He’s coming. But he’s slow. Not what he used to be, is Old Man Moon.’ And he blew a jaunty little tune.
Saeng just blinked anew, her brow clenching. What was going on? Something was, she was sure. She pressed a cold hand to her ringing head. ‘Where are we?’
‘In the jungle.’
‘Thank you.’ Saeng squinted up to the canopy of high branches where the sun glared through. It looked to her as if … ‘Are we east of the mountains?’
‘East. West. What is that to those who live their lives in the shadows of the jungle?’
She bit down on her exasperation – she suspected that she wasn’t really dealing with a young boy. She ventured: ‘Does the sun set behind the mountains?’
‘Of course it does. Why shouldn’t it? For a grown-up you don’t seem to know very much.’
‘Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.’ So, they’d made it. Passed through to the other side. Entered Himatan, where, she’d always heard, one walked half in the realm of spirits. A realm ruled by the most powerful spirit of all, Ardata, its Queen.
The lad blew a quick series of notes. ‘Ah! Here’s Moon.’
An old man emerged from among the tangled undergrowth. At least, he had the skinny hunched shape of an old man, but he appeared to be covered in black fur.
‘What’s this?’ he called. ‘Strangers in the jungle?’
Walking carefully, he edged his way down to the pond, his limbs stiff and stick-thin. Closer, Saeng could make out that what resembled a thick black pelt was in fact a dense matting of inked tattoos that covered him from head to toe. He studied her, peering down with tiny black eyes under greying tangled brows and surrounded by spidery glyphs. A lively humour seemed to dance in those eyes. ‘And what is your name, child?’
‘Saeng.’
‘And who is this unfortunate?’
‘My brother Hanu. Is he – can you tell, is he alive?’
The man’s brows rose in surprise. ‘
You
, of anyone, ought to know who is alive and who is not. But … he is your brother and so emotion intervenes. Try to see – calm your mind. See through your fears.’
Saeng nodded at the old man’s words. Yes, of course she should be able to sense this. It was just … she so dreaded the answer …
Yet
she had to know, and so she closed her eyes, still nodding, and reached out.
She found a slow steady heartbeat.
A half-gasp half-laugh of relief escaped her and she covered her mouth.
Thank the Ancient Cult!
‘There!’ the old man announced. ‘That wasn’t so hard. Yes, he lives. But he dreams – he has taken a blow to the head, perhaps? I will have to examine him.’
‘Examine him? How can you? He’s – do you know how to remove the armour?’
A wave dismissed the difficulty. ‘I could if I had to, I suppose. But I needn’t. Now, let’s get him back to my house.’
Saeng looked the frail old man up and down. ‘You’ll send the boy for help, I imagine.’
Another wave of a hand completely covered in a web of hieroglyphs and symbols of power – even down to the fingertips. ‘I live alone but for my young offspring.’ He clambered down to Hanu’s side. ‘Now, the sooner we start the better … I am not as swift as I used to be.’
Saeng knew two hale men couldn’t lift her brother, encased as he was in his stone armour. It would be like attempting to lift an ox. ‘You can’t possibly …’ Her objection died away as the old man picked up Hanu’s arm and hiked her brother on to his back so that his armoured limbs hung down over the skinny shoulders that jutted no more than bare bone under tattooed skin.
Bent practically double, his head no higher than his waist, the old man pronounced: ‘There! Not so bad. Follow me, yes?’
Saeng stared, astounded, then quickly shuffled backwards out of the fellow’s way. ‘Yes. Yes … of course.’
‘Ripan! Lead the way.’
‘Must I, Moon?’ the youth sighed.
‘Ripan …’
The youth rose, sullen, rolling his eyes. Kicking at the stones and spinning his flute, he wandered into the jungle. The old man followed. His pace seemed no slower than when he emerged. Saeng brought up the rear.
As they went, Saeng heard the youth, Ripan, unseen ahead through the dense leafed underbrush, begin singing: ‘Poor Old Man Moon! How he has waned! Forgot his powers and learnin’. Now he is no more than a beast of burden!’
‘Ripan …’ the old man warned once again, his voice quite unstrained beneath his enormous burden. ‘We have guests.’
In answer the youth blew a blast upon his flute. Then he started
up
once more: ‘Poor Hanu stone soldier! Banged his head. Now I wonder … is their blood red?’
‘Ripan! Manners …’
A raw piercing blast from the flute answered that. Silent throughout this exchange, Saeng found it oddly reassuring that no matter where you were, or who, or what, it seemed that family relations were the same everywhere. After a time Ripan contented himself with playing quick irreverent tunes upon the flute, as if in sly counterpoint to Moon’s ponderous progress.
They came to a small clearing and at its centre a hut on tall poles, its walls and roof built of woven leaves. A rickety ladder of lashed branches led up to the slouched dwelling. It reminded Saeng of the poorest and most wretched huts of any village she’d ever visited. It frankly wasn’t at all what she’d been expecting.
To her gathering horror Moon started up the ladder, her brother draped over his back like a great sack of rice far larger than its bearer. She rushed forward. ‘Perhaps we could remain outside …’
‘No, no. No problem at all.’ He climbed a rung. The wood creaked and bent, but held. ‘You are my guests! You must stay within.’
‘What – both of us?’
‘Most assuredly. I insist.’
Grunting, he reached the top of the ladder, and in a great heave deposited her brother inside, his arms scraping the sides of the entrance, his legs sticking out. Moon pushed him in further then crawled in behind. A tattooed arm emerged to beckon: ‘Come, come!’
Fearing the entire structure would collapse at any moment, Saeng set one tentative foot on the ladder. The lad, Ripan, now leaned with his back to a post. He sighed his boredom while studying his flute. Gritting her teeth, she climbed. Within, there was only enough room for her to sit cross-legged next to the opening. Moon knelt at Hanu’s side, studying him. Her brother lay on bedding of grass and rough woven blankets, all tattered and moth-eaten. Other than this, the hut was empty: utterly without any other feature, possession, or item. No bowl, no pots, no utensils or any other personal touch.
This fact made Saeng the most uneasy. After watching Moon hunched over her brother for a time, she opened her mouth to ask how he was but noticed something that stilled the words in her throat. The dense forest of tattooed symbols and glyphs that covered Moon’s back in band after band were actually moving. Each pulsed, individually, almost imperceptibly. Waxing and
waning,
they revolved in their separate bands while the entire panoply appeared to be edging ever so slowly across the curve of his bent back.
Like the arch of the night sky turning
came the thought, unbidden.
She swallowed and steadied herself against the pole of the opening. ‘How is he?’ she managed, her voice weak.
‘He has suffered a severe blow to the head. His mind has become unmoored and wanders now in a deep fugue.’ Grunting, the old man shifted, facing her. ‘He may never awaken again.’
‘Can you – is it in your power – to heal him?’
The man’s gaze flashed again with humour. ‘It just so happens that such matters are my particular area of specialty. You are lucky to have met me.’
And what does luck have to do with anything here in Himatan?
was Saeng’s first thought, but she smiled her gratitude, letting out her breath. ‘I am so very relieved. Would you … please?’
His tangled salt and pepper brows rose. ‘Ah … as to that. We must strike a bargain, you and I.’
‘I would give anything to have him healed.’
Now those brows lowered in disapproval. ‘Do not be so quick to give everything away, child. There are those in these wilds who would take advantage of such an offer.’ Then he barked, loudly, ‘Ripan!’
The ladder swayed, then the youth’s comely head appeared. ‘Yes?’ he sighed.
‘Bring food for our guests.’
Ripan eyed Saeng up and down, almost grimacing his distaste. ‘Food?’
‘Yes.’
‘Such as …?’
‘Fowl, I would suggest. Cooked over a fire on a stick.’
Disgust twisted the youth’s angelic face. ‘That’s a vile thing to do to a bird.’
‘Do so in any case.’ He waved the youth away. ‘Go on.’
Ripan rolled his eyes again and heaved a sigh. ‘If I must.’ He slid out of sight.
Moon faced Saeng. ‘Now. As to our bargain. Over many years I have struck countless such. A favour for a favour. And with each bargain I have always asked just one service in particular.’
It was difficult for Saeng to find her voice but eventually she managed to ask, hoarsely, ‘And that is …?’
In a silent yet eloquent gesture the old man swept a hand down
his
bony ribcage and the round pot of his stomach, over the tangled maze of tattoos that covered every exposed wrinkle and bulge of skin.
Saeng drew a shuddering breath. Her palms suddenly pricked with sweat and her heart lurched from beat to beat. ‘Ah. I see …’
* * *
It was now only in passing that Osserc noted how the gathering glow of daylight outside the House’s grimed glazing dimmed into night and the watery green wash of the Visitor rippled across the table and Gothos opposite, only to give way to the bronze of dawn, and again, and once more, until he ignored the count of the changing light.
What does this creature want?
More than all else, this troubled him.
Jaghut!
How they troubled everyone. He’d never been satisfied with his understanding of them. He studied the figure, as immobile as if carved from stone. What cast was that he saw in the line of the lips, the crinkle of the lined flesh at the corner of the amber eyes? Sublime amused condescension? More of their typical assumed superiority? Or was that just what
he
saw within them? If only he could know for certain.
Finally, he could no longer fight the rising strength of his resentment and he cleared his dust-dry throat to demand, loudly and harshly, ‘And why are
you
here? What do you believe will accrue to you?’
The bright golden eyes slit by their vertical pupils blinked. Gothos stirred, brushed cobwebs from his gnarled hands. ‘Nothing, I assure you. In this I am the mere messenger. The disinterested observer. As always.’
‘Why am I not assured?’
Gothos plucked another cobweb from his elbow. ‘Yes, why are you not? It would seem that otherwise this effort is entirely futile. Yes?’
‘Assure me.’
The glowing eyes narrowed almost dangerously. A long hissed breath escaped the Jaghut. Then, his lips drawing down in obvious distaste, he began, ‘For how long have I been accused of scheming, conniving, or otherwise plotting dark plots? Ages of machination …’ He lifted his hands to gesture about the empty room. ‘And look where I am …’
‘I propose you are just where you choose to be.’
‘It is true that my choices have brought me to where I am.’ Gothos
tilted
his head, his long grimed hair swinging. ‘The same is true for everyone.’
‘Events and the agency of others always intervene …’
‘True. One exists
in
the world. Categorically speaking, things will always happen. The test, then, is the choices one makes in response.’
Osserc noted a cobweb on his own shoulder. He brushed it away. ‘Can we set aside the mountain ascetic philosophizing?’
‘Yes, can we? I find it tiresome.’
Now Osserc glared. He clenched his teeth until they grated. Through clamped jaws he ground out: ‘So … why are you here?’
The Jaghut touched his fingertips together. ‘I do not know for certain. Nothing was said, of course. I merely found myself here. For a time I wondered – why me? Why of all those the Azath have at their disposal should I find myself here? And of course the obvious answer came that it is something
of
me, a quality or character, that is desired. Therefore, I am merely being me. That is all that is required. I am here to be your goad. Your adversary. A spur.’ He bared his scarred yellowed tusks in a mocking grin. ‘In short, I am to act as a prick.’