“Haurrg!” No-Face howled as he jerked his hand away. She’d bitten straight through the chain. His little finger and a fair chunk of the side of his hand were missing. She slapped him where his ear should have been, knocking him off her. He writhed as he clamped his good hand over his mangled fingers. Blood spurted between his knuckles.
The Whisper stood and chuckled as she looked at Father Ver. “Is that the best you have to defend you?” She stalked toward the Truthspeaker. “If you’d like, I’ll wait around and finish off the ogress and the knight as well, crushing your hopes one by one. You’re going to die, Truthspeaker. There is absolutely nothing you can do about it.”
“There is no need to wait,” Father Ver said, kneeling before her.
The Whisper raised both hands above her head, knitting her fingers together, then swung with all her might to bash in the priest’s skull.
Father Ver lifted his right hand and caught the blow, stopping it with no more effort than he might have spent to catch a drifting leaf. He looked at her with a look of utter calmness, and said, “I do not fear you. You are nothing but a dream, and your dreamer is dead.”
And then she wasn’t there. The stink mist that had clung to her hung in the air for a fraction of a second, then dispersed in the breeze.
A shadow grew on the ground as Lord Tower dropped from the sky, cradling Reeker in his arms. He landed with a
clang
, spinning around swiftly to survey the scene. No-Face still writhed on the ground. Father Ver was on his knees with a bloody nose and a placid look in his eyes.
“What attacked you?” Lord Tower asked.
“Nothing,” said Father Ver.
I could see Lord Tower’s eyes narrow through the slits in his faceplate. “This is a lot of damage for nothing.”
Father Ver nodded. “This nothing mistakenly believed it was something. We won’t be bothered further by it. We’ve lost both Blade and the Whisper, by the way.”
“What? How did... how....” He paused, sniffing the air. “By the sacred quill, what is this wretched odor?”
“The scent of victory,” said Father Ver. “Without the half-seed’s miasma clinging to her, I wouldn’t have seen the Whisper about to strike.”
“Wait,” said Tower. “The Whisper did this?”
Father Ver nodded. “It is good that we culled her out this early. Blade endangered us all with his reckless dabbling in dream magic. Our chances are improved without him.” There was no hint of remorse that he’d caused Blade’s death with his ill-thought command.
No-Face sat up, cradling his injured hand. “Yurga bunnah juh!”
“He’s right,” buzzed a hummingbird that hovered into the clearing. The bird flitted closer to Lord Tower, and suddenly Menagerie stood before the knight. The contrast between the two couldn’t have been more striking; the tattooed man in nothing but a loincloth facing the knight encased scalp to sole in spotless armor. “You came here with a team of six and you’re three down before we’ve even gotten close to the dragon. We’re professionals; we don’t like to work for amateurs.”
“That’s enough of your insolence,” growled Father Ver.
Menagerie opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
Lord Tower said, “Your concerns are noted, but matter little. I’ve taken a sacred vow to complete this mission. You are free to retreat if you wish, but I must carry on until the dragon is dead, or I am.”
Menagerie took a deep breath then said, in a respectful tone, “You have something better than a vow from us. You have a contract. We’ll continue on as long as you do.”
Tower looked up the slope. “I spotted a stream a short distance from here. We’ll make camp there while we continue to gather our gear and tend our wounded. If Blade is dead, we have a burial to perform. Tomorrow we’ll press on.”
“We’re right on the edge of forest-pygmy territory,” I said to Relic. “They’ll be out for blood after what the Whisper did to them. We should retreat back to the cave.”
We have nothing to fear
, thought Relic.
Even with these setbacks, we still have the power to kill any pygmy that dares to threaten us.
“You’re right. We’ll slaughter them when the come to drive us out, which they will. I’ve seen enough dead pygmies lately. Let’s retreat.”
I had no idea you were so tender-hearted, Blood-Ghost. Very well.
Relic turned to Lord Tower he said, “I believe we are on the edge of forest-pygmy territory. It would be wise to go back to the cave. We can be assured of our safety there.”
Lord Tower shook his head. “We’ve paid dearly to cover even this small amount of ground. I won’t give up the progress we’ve made.”
Relic nodded. “As you wish.”
“Where is your War Doll?” Tower asked. “Have we lost her — I mean it — as well?”
I didn’t wait for Relic to answer. It struck me that Infidel should have been back by now. I tuned myself to the knife and mentally leaned in its direction, flying to it at the speed of thought.
I found myself once more upon the vine draped platform where I’d left her. She was surrounded by forest-pygmies, easily a hundred of them. To my relief, they weren’t fighting her. Instead, they were gathering up the dead. A dozen of them stood around Infidel, holding her at bay with pointy sticks. I knew that Infidel could have easily fought her way out of the situation, but instead she just stood there with her hands in the air.
“Look,” she explained, in a calm voice. “I didn’t do this. I’ve got no grudge against you. Just put down the sticks. You’re only going to hurt yourself.”
“Ugamadebasda!” the lead pygmy shouted. “Ugamadebasda!” Every forest-pygmy tribe had its own dialect; I could understand most east-slope pygmies, but these west-slope pygmies slurred all the syllables of a sentence together into a single word, which made it tricky to follow. Still, from the general tone I gathered he was saying, “Shut up and keep your hands up.”
“I don’t speak the lingo, guys,” said Infidel. “I do know a little river-pygmy. Nanda chaka? Gratan doy bro?” Her accent was atrocious. She probably meant to ask if anyone knew river-pygmy, but instead she was asking if anyone had a canoe in their mouth. It didn’t matter; the forest-pygmies didn’t seem to understand her anyway.
She sighed. “I’m not getting of here without hurting a lot of you, am I?”
“I think there’s been enough hurting here today,” said a man’s voice from high in the trees above. The speaker used the crisp, finely enunciated syllables of a Silver Isle accent; it could have been Lord Tower speaking, except the voice wasn’t as deep or forceful. “Are you responsible for this slaughter?”
“Not me,” said Infidel. “There was this invisible woman who went crazy and, uh... hell, that’s just not believable at all is it?”
“Not terribly,” said the voice above.
Infidel shrugged. “If I was any good at lying, I’d make up something. But, there really was an invisible woman. She cracked a few swords over my head as well. I’m not here to hurt anyone.”
The branches above rustled. Suddenly, a patch of green, the color of moss, lowered down toward the platform on a slowly descending loop of vine. It was no pygmy. It was an elderly man of normal stature, wearing only the same gourd codpiece as the pygmies, his skin dyed green. He was all bones and skin, his flesh covering his thin limbs like aged leather. His hair was a few long green strands braided down the back of his scalp. His eyes were a sharp and penetrating blue.
“Who are you?” he asked, as his vine brought him to the platform.
“Who are you?” Infidel answered.
The old man scowled, then cocked his head, as if he was searching for some bit of information just beyond his grasp. “It’s been a while since anyone asked that question. The Jawa Fruit tribe calls me Tenoba. It means old long gourd. Among your people, my name... my name was...”
He paused, trying to remember how to say the words. It didn’t matter. I knew what he was about to say before he said it.
A light flickered in his ancient eyes. “My name,” he said, “was Judicious Merchant.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ENOUGH
I
WAS TOO
stunned by my grandfather being alive to closely follow the swirl of activity that unfolded. A wounded pygmy at the edge of the platform verified that they had, indeed, been attacked by something invisible, and confirmed that Infidel hadn’t hurt anyone. Forest-pygmy scouts were rushing up, telling about the fight further down slope, and how a group of long-men had killed the invisible assassin. I would have focused more on what they were saying, but I was too busy doing math in my head. My father had me when he was twenty-three. Judicious had been twenty-five when he sired Studious. So... that meant the man standing before me was ninety-eight.
For a man two years shy of a century, he looked pretty good. He still had all his teeth, for starters, even if they were the same jade hue as the rest of him. When he moved, he was as fluid as a jungle cat, without a hint of the stiffness or weakness that hampered most people his age. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him; his wrinkled leather skin sat atop wiry muscles so sharply defined you could have taught an anatomy class using them. Of course, I was seeing more of that anatomy than I truly wanted to. It’s one thing to discover your long lost grandfather is still alive. It’s another thing entirely to learn he’s a grass-colored nudist with his privates stuffed into a dried fruit.
“I knew your grandson, Stagger,” said Infidel.
Grandpa frowned.
“His real name was Abstemious Merchant.”
I winced on hearing my birth name. I must have been really drunk to have told her. Abstemious means someone with control of his appetites... perhaps my father’s lapse on his vow of celibacy inspired the choice. Stuck with this moniker, it was only a matter of time before I became an incurable drunkard.
My grandfather frowned even deeper. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve had seven wives. My children have produced scores of grandchildren. I’m afraid the name isn’t triggering any memories.”
The words were like a slap in the face. I’d revered this man. I lived on the Isle of Fire in imitation of his greatness. He didn’t even remember my name?
Infidel produced the bone-handled knife. “You gave him this when he was ten.”
My grandfather took the blade, sliding it in and out of the sheath. He scowled as he saw the dried blood smeared along the metal. “He didn’t take care of it. It’s dirty.”
“He took great care of it,” said Infidel. “He kept it clean and sharp for forty years. If it’s dirty, it’s my fault.”
“Hmm.” Suddenly, a light flickered in his blue eyes. “I remember this knife. The handle was carved from the tibia of a dragon.”
Or so he thought. He’d told me this when he gave me the knife, but one of the monks who specialized in the study of anatomy had assured me the bone was merely that of a bull. But, what if the monk had been wrong? If the hilt truly was dragon-bone, could the magic that infused dragons explain how my spirit had become ensnared by the knife?
As Judicious turned the knife over in his hands, he nodded slowly, as if he were accepting the memories flooding back to him. “I had a son who became a monk. Studious, I think? He had a bastard child raised in an orphanage. That was Abstemious?”
“Yes.”
Grandfather grinned. “I recall him now. Bright kid. Voracious reader. He became a monk?”
“He became you,” said Infidel. “Or, at least his dream of you. He was an explorer, a scholar, and a storyteller. No one knew more than him about the ruins of the Vanished Kingdom. He lived in your old boat in Commonground.”
“I notice you’re speaking in the past tense.”
Infidel nodded.
Grandfather sighed. “I outlive many of my relatives.” He looked down the slope, in the direction of Tower’s party. “I suppose, if you’re friends of the family, I should show a little hospitality. Go tell your companions they’re welcome to stay the night in our huts.”
“I’m not sure they’ll take you up on the offer,” said Infidel. “The leader of the party is kind of snooty.”
“Still, extend the offer.”
Infidel nodded. “If they accept, you need to know that I’m pretending to be a machine. I don’t talk around them.”
“Ah,” said Grandfather. “I wondered why you were dyed silver. I thought it might be some new fashion. You fooled me, by the way. When I first saw you from the trees, I mistook you for one of the ancient engines, and wondered how you were still intact. You reminded me of a mechanical dancer I once excavated. A lovely, wondrous thing, though I never found her head. The clockwork that used to drive her had long-since corroded, but I’m still left breathless by the cleverness of the men who once lived on this island.”
T
HE PYGMY HUTS
were better described as tree houses. I’d never been in one before, though I’d caught sight of them often enough. The floor of the forest can be a quiet place; the real action is unfolding high above in the canopy. Here, the forest-pygmies had woven together seemingly endless ropes from blood-tangle vines and strung them together in a complex network of swinging bridges. Houses were built with floors of dense netting spread from branch to branch, with roofs of still-living vines and branches woven together overhead. The floors seemed solid enough when the pygmies flitted across them, but once Lord Tower began to carry the party up to the huts, the platforms sagged ominously beneath the weight. The floor weavers had probably never planned for someone as large as Aurora to visit. No-Face swiftly moved toward the thick trunk of the tree that formed one corner of a large communal area and wrapped his chain around it, with his good arm still coiled in the links. It was hard to read the mood of a man who didn’t have expressions, but I got the distinct impression he didn’t like heights.