Leddravohr nodded. “I suppose they’ve earned that much.”
“They’d also like to start on the women.”
“Not until we secure the area. Make sure it is fully patrolled, and get the slimers brought forward immediately — I want those trees on the ground fast.” Leddravohr moved away from the lieutenants and began a circuit of the clearing. The predominant sound was now that of the Gethan women screaming abuse in their barbaric tongue, but cooking fires were beginning to crackle and he could hear Railo shouting orders at the platoon leaders who were going on patrol.
Near the base of one of the brakka trees was a low wooden platform heavily daubed in green and yellow with the matt pigments used by the Gethans. The naked body of a white-bearded man lay across the platform, his torso displaying several stab wounds. Leddravohr guessed the dead man was the priest who had been conducting the ceremony of sacrifice. His guess was confirmed when he noticed high-sergeant Reeff and a line soldier in conversation close to the primitive structure. The two men’s voices were inaudible, but they were speaking with the peculiar intensity which soldiers reserved for the subject of money, and Leddravohr knew a bargain was being struck. He unstrapped his cuirass and sat down on a stump, waiting to see if Reeff was capable of any degree of subtlety. A moment later Reeff put his arm around the other man’s shoulders and brought him forward.
“This is Soo Eggezo,” Reeff said. “A good soldier. He’s the one who silenced the priest.”
“Useful work, Eggezo.” Leddravohr gazed blandly at the young soldier, who was tongue-tied and obviously overawed by his presence, and made no other response. There was an awkward silence.
“Sir, you generously offered a reward of ten nobles for killing the priest.” Reeff s voice assumed a throaty sincerity. “Eggezo supports his mother and father in Ro-Atabri. The extra money would mean a great deal to them.”
“Of course.” Leddravohr opened his pouch and took out a ten-noble note and extended it to Eggezo. He waited until the soldier’s fingers had almost closed on the blue square of woven glass, then he quickly returned it to his pouch. Eggezo glanced uneasily at the sergeant.
“On second thoughts,” Leddravohr said, “these might be more… convenient. “He replaced the first note with two green squares of the five-noble denomination and handed them to Eggezo. He pretended to lose interest as the two men thanked him and hurried away. They went barely twenty paces before stopping for another whispered conversation, and when they parted Reeff was tucking something into a pocket. Leddravohr smiled as he committed Reeff s name to long-term memory. The sergeant was the sort of man he occasionally had use for — greedy, stupid and highly predictable. A few seconds later his interest in Reeff was pushed into the hinterland of his consciousness as a howl of jovial protest from many Kolcorronian throats told him the slimers had arrived to deal with the stand of brakka trees.
Leddravohr rose to his feet, as anxious as anybody to avoid getting downwind of the slimers, and watched the four semi-nude men emerge from the surrounding forest. They were carrying large gourds slung from padded yokes and they also bore spades and other kinds of digging implements. Their limbs were streaked with the living slime which was the principal tool of their trade. Every artifact they carried was made from glass, stone or ceramic because the slime would quickly have devoured all other materials, especially brakka. Even their breech clouts were woven from soft glass.
“Out of the way, dung-eaters,” their round-bellied leader shouted as they marched straight across the clearing to the brakka. His words provoked a barrage of insults from the soldiers, to which the other slimers responded with obscene gestures. Leddravohr moved to keep upwind of the four men, partly to escape the stench they were exuding, but mainly to ensure that none of the slime’s airborne spores settled on his person. The only way to rid one’s self of even the slightest contamination was by thorough and painful abrasion of the skin.
On reaching the nearest brakka the slimers set down their equipment and began work immediately. As they dug to expose the upper root system, the one which extracted pikon, they kept up their verbal abuse of all soldiers who caught their gaze. They could do so with impunity because they knew themselves to be the cornerstone of the Kolcorronian economy, an outcast elite, and were accorded unique privileges. They were also highly paid for their services. After ten years as a slimer a man could retire to a life of ease — provided he survived the lengthy process of being cleansed of the virulent mucus.
Leddravohr watched with interest as the radial upper roots were uncovered. A slimer opened one of the glass gourds and, using a spatula, proceeded to daub the main roots with the pus-like goo. Cultured from the solvent the brakka themselves had evolved to dissolve their combustion chamber diaphragms, the slime gave out a choking odour like bile-laden vomit mingled, incongruously, with the sweetness of whitefern. The roots, which would have resisted the sharpest blade, swelled visibly as their cellular structure was attacked. Two other slimers hacked through them with slate axes and, working with showy energy for the benefit of their audience, dug further down to reveal the lower root system and the bulbous swelling of the combustion chamber at the base of the trunk. Inside it was a valuable harvest of power crystals which would have to be removed, taking the utmost care to keep the two varieties separated, before the tree could be felled.
“Stand back, dung-eaters,” the oldest slimer called out. “Stand back and let…” His voice faded as he raised his eyes and for the first time realised that Leddravohr was present. He bowed deeply, with a grace which went ill with his naked and filth-streaked belly, and said, “I cannot apologise to you, Prince, because of course my remarks were not addressed to you.”
“Well put,” Leddravohr said, appreciating nimbleness of mind from such an unlikely source. “I’m pleased to learn you * don’t suffer from suicidal tendencies. What’s your name?”
“It is Owpope, Prince.”
“Proceed with your labours, Owpope — I never tire of seeing the wealth of our country being produced.”
“Gladly, Prince, but there is always a slight risk of a blowout through the side of the chamber when we broach a tree.”
“Just exercise your normal discretion,” Leddravohr said, folding his arms. His acute hearing picked up a ripple of admiring whispers going through the nearby soldiery, and he knew he had added to his reputation as the prince with the common touch. The word would spread fast — Leddravohr loves his people so much that he will even converse with a slimer. The little episode was a calculated exercise in image-building, but in truth he did not feel he was demeaning himself by talking to a man like Owpope, whose work was of genuine importance to Kolcorron. It was the useless parasites — like the priests and philosophers — who earned his hatred and contempt. They would be the first to be purged out of existence when he eventually became King.
He was settling down to watch Owpope apply an elliptical pattern of slime to the curving base of the brakka trunk when his attention was again caught by a movement in the sky to the west. The airship had returned and was scudding through the narrow band of blue which separated Overland from the jagged wall of trees. Its appearance after such a short time meant that it had not landed at G1, the area command centre. The captain must have communicated with the base by sunwriter and then come directly to the forward zone — which made it almost certain that he was carrying an urgent message to Leddravohr from the King.