‘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.’