Seeing him, Sour straightened. Yusen, where he sat aside, also rose. Sour signed that he wished to talk privately and Murk gave a nod. They came together opposite where the swordswoman lay back, apparently asleep. The sorceress also approached. And now Murk noted a strange thing: the clumsy, awkward Sour actually bowed to the woman to invite her to join them.
So, ranked higher than Sour in their Warren. Not too difficult, I s’pose. Murk grimaced then. Dammit, remember, give the man a break, for Fanderay’s sake. ‘Sour,’ he greeted his partner. ‘What’s the news?’
‘Bad.’ Sour nodded to Yusen, bowed again to the sorceress Rissan. ‘I’m sorry, um … ma’am. I stopped the infection — an infestation actually — but I can’t save the arm. Too far gone. Too much damage.’
The woman crossed her arms over her broad chest. ‘So … you are saying …’
‘Have to amputate. At the elbow, possibly.’
Rissan’s gaze slid to where Ina lay half reclining, her mask reflecting the firelight like a multicoloured rainbow. ‘That could be … problematic,’ she murmured, her voice low.
‘I see your point,’ Yusen added.
‘You could suppress her awareness,’ Sour said to Rissan.
‘Yes … I could. However, I am currently very preoccupied.’
‘Preoccupied?’ Murk asked sharply. ‘How?’
The sorceress’s gaze moved to Yusen. ‘You are being hunted. Hunted by a particularly tenacious and, dare I say, spiteful enemy.’
The captain started, his hand going to his sword. Murk snapped up a hand to sign wait. He addressed the sorceress: ‘What of it?’
‘I am currently disguising this location. I really ought not to stop doing so.’
‘I’ll take over,’ Murk said.
Rissan raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? You? She is quite … implacable.’
‘I’ll handle it.’ He gave the woman a toothy smile. ‘You could say it’s my speciality.’
The sorceress answered the predatory smile. ‘Meanas,’ she observed. ‘Far too full of himself.’
In the silence that followed Yusen cleared his throat, nodded to Sour. ‘What will you need?’
While the various short weapons were being collected, Murk paced the camp searching for just the right tree. It had to be far enough away from the distractions of camp but not too far out. It would help an awful lot if it offered a little bit of comfort too. He selected a tall kapok that seemed to fit his requirements.
Sour emerged from the night while he stood peering up at its canopy and the shifting clouds above.
‘Rain’s holding off,’ Sour commented.
‘Yeah. Hope to have some cover though.’ He lowered his gaze. ‘Got what you need?’
‘Yeah. You gonna … y’know. Manage?’
‘Yeah. Sure.’ Murk raised the leaf-wrapped packet and took a bite. The cooked leaf wrapping was brittle and smoky, but the inside was soft and creamy. It tasted sweet. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.
The man’s anxious expression brightened into eagerness. ‘Ants and grubs and a particular plant stem all pulped together.’
Murk suppressed his gagging reaction, forced the mouthful down. ‘Really?’ he managed, hoarse. His eyes started watering.
‘You like it?’
‘Oh, yeah. Sure. It’s … good. Thanks.’
Sour looked relieved. ‘That’s great. Listen. You get into trouble — don’t hesitate to call on, er, Rissan. Okay?’
‘Why? She some kinda heavyweight?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Okay, partner.’ He raised his chin to camp. ‘She really one o’ them Seguleh?’
‘I think so, yeah.’
He snorted. ‘Good luck cutting off the arm of a Seguleh.’
Sour almost flinched. ‘Had to put it that way, didn’t ya?’
‘Look at it this way. It’s a fucking miracle we’re still alive, hey?’
Sour laughed. ‘Yeah. Funny — that’s how I always see it.’
‘Okay.’ He held out his hand. ‘Good luck.’
Sour took it. ‘See you tomorrow.’ He offered the old salute of hand to heart then headed off into the night.
Murk watched him go. He raised the leaf packet and examined it. Funny how the damned thing tasted like toasted nuts. He threw it aside and sat snuggling down into a fork in the roots until he was as comfortable as possible. Then he set to readying himself for a journey as close to the half-existence of Shadow as he dared.
The shades all about him multiplied as his Warren rose. Some shifted, cast by an unseen moon or moons. Others lay as dark and thick as pools of water. He cast his self-image upwards towards the top canopy. Here he found the treetops a shifting nest of shadows that rippled and brushed like the leaves themselves. Above, the night sky shifted from dark overcast to clear starry expanse as if he were witnessing a pageantry of nights all passing like shifting winds. He spread his Warren outwards to encompass the camp and set to work binding each shadow to deflect, mislead, or slip away from any direct questing.
While he worked he slowly became aware of a presence next to him. He spared himself the degree of attention to glance aside and there among the branches sat the faint glowing image of Celeste.
That gave him pause in his work, but he managed to carry on after a beat, and murmured, ‘Welcome.’
She sat with her knees drawn up to the slightly pointed chin of her oval face. She broke off a stem and studied it. ‘Murken — I have a question.’
He strove to keep himself calm and to maintain his concentration. ‘Oh yes?’ What might it be now? The birds and the bees?
‘What happens to you when you go away?’
He could only half listen as he worked on his maze of shadows. ‘I’m sorry? Go away? What do you mean?’
‘I mean … when you die.’
Murk flinched as if a burning stick had been touched to his arm. The multitude of filaments he was manipulating slipped from his grasp like so many wriggling fish. ‘Die?’ he blurted. ‘Who’s gonna die?’
Celeste continued to examine the twig. ‘Well … everything. You, everything. Even, possibly … me.’
Ah. That question. He regarded her: she took the appearance of a child but was no child. So, too, was the question she had arrived at. A child’s question that preoccupied so many adults.
He glanced away to the sky because something there had moved. He took great care not to peer through his Warren actively. He sought to passively receive the shape, or presence. A moment later the movement solidified into a great winged silhouette. It circled high above in a wide lazy arc covering leagues of jungle.
‘I’m kind of busy right now,’ he said. Funnily enough, even as he said it, he heard his own father so long ago.
Celeste glanced up. ‘Her?’ She flicked the twig aside. ‘Do you want me to get rid of her?’
‘Ger rid of her?’
‘Destroy her.’
Far below, nestled in his notch of roots, Murk coughed as if punched in the chest.
In the treetops, his presence faded and wavered while coughing, a hand at his neck. Mastering himself, he finally managed a croaky, ‘Let’s not destroy anyone right now.’
Celeste shrugged. ‘Very well. She is powerful, but easy to fool. I will hide everyone while we talk — agreed?’
Murk hesitated, mainly because he dreaded the talk to come. Yet he could find no reasonable way to fob her off. Unlike his own father, who just pushed him away or told him to get lost. He nodded. ‘Okay.’ Questions of life and death. ‘But Celeste — you won’t die. You’re not like us. Like mortal beings who are born then die.’
‘I am trying to use terms you are capable of understanding,’ she said, sounding very unchildlike.
Murk raised his brows. ‘Ah. I see.’
‘Translate into another state of being, then, if you must. The potential for identity loss. This scares me.’
‘Identity loss? But you’re just a-’ He stopped himself, embarrassed. She merely eyed him sidelong, silent. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
She sniffed, raising her chin. ‘My identity may seem slim to you but it is the only one I possess. I find myself clinging to it. I feel that it is me. Even if it isn’t.’