Lizanne took the meat, putting the whole piece in her mouth and discovering Cerath meat to be both flavoursome and tender. “She exiled you,” she said, chewing and swallowing.
“She had little choice. And I believe she thought she was being kind. I had often spoken of this place, you see. Idle talk about its many mysteries as we lay together in the small hours. It was a surprise to find she was actually listening. Ah!” She turned as fresh rustling sounded from the jungle. “It seems our guests have arrived.”
“Guests?”
“I invited a few old friends. I hope you don’t mind.”
Lizanne’s polite response died as a figure stepped out of the jungle, a tall figure carrying a spear and a war-club. His face, adorned in a black-and-white mottling of war-paint, was the distorted, scaled and hostile visage of a tribal Spoiled. Lizanne lunged for Alestine, catching her by the wrist and tearing the knife from her grip. Lizanne whirled to face the Spoiled as he dropped into a fighting crouch and charged, teeth bared in a snarl.
She side-stepped the Spoiled, lashing out with her knife in an attempt to sever the veins in its neck. It was too swift, however, dancing out of reach and countering with a fast sweep of its spear, aiming for her legs. Lizanne leapt over the weapon, rolled and cast her knife at the Spoiled’s face, an expert throw that would have skewered it through the eye. Instead the knife shuddered to a halt in mid air, where it continued to hang.
“That’s hardly the way to greet an honoured guest,” Alestine reproached her, moving to pluck the knife from the air before turning to the Spoiled. “Tree Speaker,” she said. “Good of you to come.”
The Spoiled continued to glare in challenge at Lizanne for several seconds then abruptly straightened into a calmer posture, the hostility fading from its face. “Maker of Things,” it greeted Alestine, speaking with such calm affability that Lizanne realised it was conforming to a pre-set sequence of events. This trance had been crafted with such care it was easy to forget the entire thing was essentially a narrative dream.
“You made yourself a pet Spoiled,” Lizanne said, watching Alestine lead the tribal to the fire where she cut him a portion of meat.
“I didn’t make anything,” she said with a laugh. “I merely discovered some new friends.”
She inclined her head at the jungle where more Spoiled had begun to appear. There were about fifty of them, male and female, all of fighting age and carrying weapons. They were clad in a similar garb of soft dark leather, albeit with a few individual embellishments. Some wore face-paint of various hues whilst others didn’t. Some wore necklaces of bone or beads, whilst others were unadorned. She had had little opportunity to study the tribal Spoiled that attacked Carvenport but she did recall a rigid uniformity of appearance amongst the different tribal groups. Her experience during the final moments aboard the Profitable Venture had provided a partial explanation. They share minds. It’s how the White controls them.
“There was a Gathering,” Tree Speaker told Alestine with grave formality. “Your words were heard. Agreement was reached.” He pointed his spear at the temple above the trees. “We will go with you to end what must be ended.”
“And very decent of you it is too,” Alestine replied, handing him some meat. “Best eat up. From what I recall you’re going to need your strength.”
Lizanne spent some time in confused contemplation, gaze roaming the assembled Spoiled as they came forward to share in the feast. “Language,” she said finally, one particular realisation rising through the babble of thoughts. “Are they speaking yours or you theirs?”
“Does it matter?” Alestine asked and Lizanne realised that it didn’t, at least not here. In the trance, language was thought.
“But if this is a memory you must have found a way to communicate,” she persisted. “Did you . . . change them somehow?”
Alestine gave a full, hearty laugh that lasted long enough for Lizanne to find quite aggravating. “No,” Alestine said when she finally sobered, shaking her head and wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “If anything, it was the opposite. They found me not far from here, a few years before all this. I’d had the misfortune to encounter some of their less friendly cousins and was in rather dire need of medical attention. Tree Speaker’s daughter found me, bleeding away and close to death.” She smiled fondly at the Spoiled, who was now busily gorging himself on Cerath flesh. “He’s a healer as well as a warrior. They have a remarkable knowledge of the healing properties of Green, and all manner of medicinal herbs to be found in this jungle. They usually kill our kind when they find us, the Sickened they call us. But for me they made an exception.” Her face took on a more serious aspect and she turned to regard the temple. “I think because somehow they knew we would share an important task one day.”
“What’s in there?” Lizanne said, moving to her side. “Your empress’s treasure?”
“I suppose you could call it that. The greatest treasure and the greatest danger.” She raised her gaze to the sky as a rumble of thunder sounded. “It appears you’re running out of Blue, Miss Lethridge. Do be sure to call again soon. Tell your musician friend to take a look at the Follies of Cevokas.”
“Wait.” Lizanne winced as a pulse of confusion went through her, the sense of dislocation that indicated the end of a trance. “You locked your memories in Tinkerer’s head for a reason. You knew we would meet. I need to know why.”
“You already have what you need,” Alestine said, the jungle turning to mist around her as the trance neared its terminus. She gestured at the Spoiled as they transformed into vague, wisp-like ghosts. “For now, at least. I look forward to your next visit . . .”
CHAPTER 16
Clay
“They should call this place Bug-aria,” Loriabeth said, slapping a hand against her neck to squash yet another fly. They hung over the water in thick swarms and would plague the Lady Malynda at regular intervals as she ploughed her way north along the Quilam. Lieutenant Sigoral had the best map-reading skills amongst them and reckoned it had taken two days to cover some twenty miles of river. Skaggerhill blamed the current, which had a tendency to force random shifts in the boat’s course as well as impeding progress despite the efforts of her engine. As yet there had been no change in the green wall of reeds that covered both banks, if anything Clay thought they had grown taller as the miles wore on.
“Seer dammit, you little bastards!” Loriabeth cursed, slapping at her arms and neck as the Malynda carried them through another swarm.
“Cover up more,” Sigoral told her, pulling a duster from beneath his bench. He had donned a seaman’s jacket to ward off the flies, finding the sweat and discomfort caused by the humid atmosphere preferable to the attentions of the insects.
“In this heat?” Loriabeth said, more in resignation than protest, and she voiced no further objection as the lieutenant settled the heavy garment around her shoulders.
Kriz was the only member of the crew who didn’t feel obliged to cover her skin as the constant pall of smoke from the Malynda’s engine proved a deterrent to the bugs. Chief Bozware’s design was ingenious but not especially efficient, being prone to emitting a variety of unpleasant miasmas, a sooty, oil-tinged smoke being the most copious.
“We’ll need fuel soon,” Kriz told Clay, blinking at him above the handkerchief she used to shield her lungs from the engine’s vapours. “At this rate the coal will be exhausted by tomorrow afternoon.”