“And those Urmen you keep here, are they so different from us?”
“They are Khungarrii.”
“Not Urmen then?”
“Khungarrii Urmen. They smell Khungarrii, they belong to Khungarr.”
“They are kept here by force?”
“They submit to the will of GarSuleth daily in their decision to wear the mark of Khungarr. It is reapplied, willingly, every day. By doing this they show their obedience and gratitude.”
“But surely if these Urmen of yours are as much a part of the colony as you say, what culture do they have left for you to study?”
“It is true their culture is now that of Khungarr. They, too, worship GarSuleth but their ancestors and the wild Urmen, the remnants of their culture, fascinate me. I have been studying them for many spinnings.”
“And Sirigar allows your studies?” said Jeffries, probing to see where the cracks between them lay.
“That One tolerates them,” Chandar replied. “There are those of us among the dhuyumirrii that have long believed Urmen have a place in our Osmology. Other Ones, Sirigar among them, dispute this, believing that Urmen can have no other purpose but to serve the Ones.”
A theological schism, thought Jeffries. That would certainly account for the animosity between Sirigar and Chandar and was certainly something he could exploit. “But you believe differently?”
“Come, let me show you something,” said Chandar.
Intrigued, Jeffries followed Chandar back to the temple. He noted again the niches all round the walls. Hieroglyphic script of some form covered each niche. Chatts had their faces to the walls of the niches, their feelers moving dextrously over the surfaces.
“Here dhuyumirrii read and study sacred texts and debate on points of interpretation,” explained Chandar.
Jeffries could see now that what he took to be contemplation, praying and bowing, was in fact the action of their antennae over the glyphs. Now he understood. Not only was there information contained within the hieroglyphs themselves, but there were other olfactory layers of meaning contained within chemical scents attached to the text. Layers of nuance, subtlety and context lay impregnated within the glyphs. Chandar led him on through the archway through which Jeffries had been taken previously. It led to the chamber of trench equipment. Along the way they passed through the alchemical chambers he had seen only briefly before. Now Jeffries was able to study it in more detail. Its walls were filled with small niches and recesses. Galleries led off the large room, each one containing bays crowded with stone bottles, pots, urns, beakers and amphora; ceramic vessels of all shapes, sizes and ages.
“This is the receptory of Khungarr, the repository of all our knowledge. The sacred odours stored here are the thoughts of our prophets and gon dhuyumirrii.”
“A library,” said Jeffries, nodding in appreciation at the vast accumulation of containers and the knowledge they must represent. Each bottle, each jar, contained what must have been an essence of scripture or holy aromas; bouquets of bibles, prophetic perfumes, olfactory encyclopaedias. There was so much he might learn, but it was like giving a blind man the key to a library.
He was not allowed to dwell on it for long as Chandar ushered him into the next series of interconnecting chambers. They passed through what looked like an apothecary’s storehouse, hundreds of niches filled with earthenware bottles, jars, tubes filled with oils, essences, liquids, tinctures, extracts, secretions, resins, saps, powders, pastes, samples of plants, leaves, flowers, barks, bones, skins, fur, shells, all arranged, classified and organised. The smell was overpowering and made Jeffries’ nostrils sting and his eyes water. Beyond them, blinking though teary eyes, he could see further chambers where more of the Khungarrii priest caste, the dhuyumirrii, were engaged in their great alchemical endeavours.
“For many generations the dhuyumirrii have been attempting, amongst other things, to distill the true quintessence of our creators’ odour of sanctity, the scent of GarSuleth. Some believe certain notes of the Urmen musk may yet be relevant to our studies, but teasing out the lone indivisible base notes is a long and arduous task.”
“Why?” asked Jeffries. “Why Urmen? They’re not Chatts, I mean; they are not of the Ones. Why should they be relevant?”
“GarSuleth dwells in the Sky World, his web spanning the firmament above us. Ancient incenses tell us in his wisdom he once descended from his web to spin this world, this orb, where his eggs were laid and his children, the Ones, hatched. The Ones, the children of GarSuleth, then spread out across the world and begat the colonies,” Chandar picked one of the knotted tassels on the cloth draped over its shoulder and lifted it up, almost nostalgically, its antennae stumps waving feebly. “Although this one can no longer read this odour, this one has committed its scents to memory. It tells how, many generations ago, a sickness infected the line of Queens who now ruled each colony. Eggs laid to be djamirrii — workers — hatched malformed and continue to do so to this spinning. Djamirrii populations were decimated and the Ones struggled to survive. The Ones knew of the Urmen’s existence, but treated them as competition for scarce and hard won resources, until some came to believe they were created by GarSuleth for the Ones’ own use.”
“You used them to replace your own shortage of workers.”
“Not without price. There came a dark time. The Urmen then worshipped a different god, the forbidden one.”
Jeffries saw his opportunity. “This is all very interesting, but what I require is specific knowledge. Tell me about Croatoan.”
Chandar rounded on Jeffries, its mandibles chattering, the vestigial limbs at its abdomen fidgeting.
“That’s right,” Jeffries said, deliberately relishing the opportunity to say the name again and forming each syllable clearly: “Croatoan.”
Chandar glanced around at the alchemist dhuyumirrii. None of them seemed to have heard. “That name is forbidden!”
“Nevertheless, that is my price. You want my cooperation then tell me what you know,” said Jeffries firmly. “Or should I shout the name out loud, here, now?”
“No! You must not,” said Chandar, rising up on its legs in the threatening manner Jeffries had seen Sirigar use before.
“But your own studies? If you could tell me about your… forbidden one, how much might I be able reciprocate, to advance your own Urman studies with information I have? What is it that Sirigar and its acolytes don’t want you to know? You have hinted yourself that passages in your scriptures concerning Urmen are ambiguous at best, maybe excised at worst. What if my information could shed light on them?”
Jeffries held the Chatt’s gaze, looking deep into its dark orbs. He had the old fool’s measure now. Give this old louse enough rope and it’ll hang itself. It was like leaving a trail of sugar for an ant.
“Very well,” said Chandar. It shrugged its shoulders and waved its antennae stubs in a way that seemed to indicate agitation. “But not here, I have somewhere we can talk. Come with me.”
Chandar led him out through the chamber where they had stored their collection of items pilfered from the entrenchment. The jumble of trench stores and arms were still there, no doubt waiting to have their odours investigated, distilled and broken down. From there the passage became narrower and showed signs of disrepair. It seemed to be a little used part of the colony.
“Where are we?” asked Jeffries, a hint of suspicion in his voice, the reassuring pressure of the pistol barrel pressing against his abdomen.