IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume
II: Tests of Fire and Blood
Chapter 27 The Power of Information
Sunday, May 17, 2708,
continued. Lucinda doesn't always
stick by Cyran's rule about skipping supper unless there's night
work--especially when Gaziley comes back with a full-grown jungle-hog that has
to be eaten right away before the meat goes bad. And all the hungry teenagers with us rejoice! (Soskia serves a divine paté, from the liver of a wild jungle-hog,
hunted by her groundskeepers for the occasion.
Almost too rich; if I ate here regularly I wouldn’t fit into my uniform! But a little on a cracker wouldn’t hurt.) He hunted it by spear, to
save us the bullets, he said, and I can see by his scratches and scrapes that
the hog didn't make allowance for his tender age. In silence we help him skin and butcher the
beast as the sunset bleeds into the night.
Aichi knows the routine as well as anybody, though Fatima sometimes has
to slap her hand and say "dirty!" whenever she licks the blood from
her fingers. (The old woman laughs
nervously as a maid brings us drinks. “I
feel a little dirty,” she admits. “Don’t
you?” I relish her discomfort as much as
the hors d’oeurves. “Maybe just a bit,” I say with a wink, “Delving into the men’s
world of war. But my dear, doesn’t the
very naughtiness of it appeal to you?
That, and the power!” “Ooh, I like it when your eyes flash like that, Layne!” “Too long have we left men to run everything, and they’ve made a
pretty tangle of it, haven’t they? Our
first president, after all, was a woman, and she set things up nicely, all in
proper household order. The country ran
well under her watch.” I take a sip and
say, “Besides, darling, it’s not like you yourself dive in up to your elbows in
machine grease. You simply finance the
operation, and come up with brilliant inspirations now and then.” She smiles coyly. “It’s not
original, really. But you needn’t tell
anyone that.” “Still inspired, to dig deeply into what everyone else considered
the least interesting shelves of your family library.” “Everybody just assumed that the mechanics section of the collection
must have become outdated by now—can you imagine? As though we had already rediscovered
everything that the Ancients understood!
But, to be honest, I just couldn’t stand to see those old books crumble
from neglect. I gave orders to include
them in the restoration—and imagine my delight when they turned out to have
military applications!) As we roast our hog over
the campfire (thank you, Kiril, for finding such savory herbs to go with it!)
safe within our golden shell of light, Lucinda briefs us on our coming mission,
her voice soft, hardly louder than the sizzle of the meat. She has an action planned in Sargeddohl: dart
in, dart out, do as much damage as possible.
(Together we pull meat off the spit and divvy it up, to go with the
roots roasting in the coals.) Kief will
lead the twins, plus Imad and Teofilo.
I'll get Kiril and Lufti, of course, as well as Damien and Kanarik--my
just reward for picking all greenies.
(Oh Heavens this tastes good!
I’ll have to ask Kiril what herb gives it that garlicky touch.) Chulan and Fatima, as always, will serve directly
under Lucinda, and she'll take Aichi and Gaziley under her wing as well. (Time to get down to business.
“So when will you have my order ready, Soskia my dear?”) I finally slow down my
feasting enough to ask what our target might be. "What's the biggest
threat to us in Sargeddohl? The tank
factory, of course." I choke on memories and
suddenly the aroma nauseates me. I hand
my rib over to Aichi unfinished, and she squeals with delight. With noisy enthusiasm she gnaws the meat off
the bone, as I say, "An excellent choice.
Especially since Peshawr Productions hasn't built enough heavy-duty
engines to go around." If we stop
them now, I might never have to fling another Molotov into a cockpit full of
human beings. (I excuse myself to powder my nose. Gratifying, what Soskia said. I’m glad that somebody in this pathetic country takes my opinion
seriously. She put the plan into
operation even before my promotion, she told me. It made sense then, and more so now. I stare into the mirror, dismayed to see a couple lines, about the
eyes, that hadn’t been there before. As
I daub at them with make-up, I overhear the servants talk in the bedroom beyond
this restroom, laying out all the little things that make a guest’s night
comfortable. They don’t know that I’m in
here. They speak freely. Interesting…) A rat skitters across the
rim of our campfire's light. Aichi stops
her gobbling long enough to chuck a rock at it, hits the skull dead-on and
drops her bone to clap her hands at the sight of the rodent corpse. "Aichi good girl, Aichi good girl,"
she chants, eyes sparkling bright in firelight. "Aichi did good!" Monday, May 18, 2708 Fatima teaches the younger recruits, as we push through
rain-damp foliage. “Always, after a
battle, every chance you get, loot the guns and ammunition off the
soldiers. That’s where weapons come
from. Cyran can talk all he likes about
buying as much as he can, but the shops ask too many questions when we’re not
the right caste to hunt legally, and the smugglers don’t much like to sell us
the means to raid them.” (“The
changing-tiger,” I read out loud by will-o-watt, “is a large feline, native to
the Island of Bortatoulin, probably kin to the lions of the mainland.” The sand of Our Cave feels familiar and
supportive at my back, and the light dances on the folded colors of the
water-polished rock. I can hear the echo
of the ocean-growls beyond the old, warped door. “Still fascinated
by the region, eh?” Randy asks, as he tries to strum some simple chords that
I’ve shown him on guitar. But they don’t
come easy; enhanced neurology can’t compensate for stubby fingers. “Borta, Toulin,
Kinnitch or Vanikke. Something draws me
there.” “I’ve heard the
situation’s tensing up in Vanikke. Maybe
you’re picking up on a coming mission there.” I shrug, sitting
up. “And maybe I’m picking up on the
beauty of the fauna. Listen to this. ‘The stripes of this feline change according
to the season, triggered by shifts in temperature.’” “Mmmm.” He almost has the D chord down, but has
trouble shifting it to A. “And what do
these creatures eat?” “I dunno. I haven’t read that far yet. Meat, I imagine.” “Just so it’s not
mine.”) “Know which side your bread is buttered on,” Fatima
continues, her hands folded before her as she speaks primly, her eyes straight
forward. “No revolution succeeds without
mass support from the people. We do not
rob them, we do not bully them into making donations, we do nothing to make
them take against us in any way, shape or form.” With her straight posture and her even
stride, she could almost be a nun, going through the rounds of her rosary, if I
didn’t know any better. I stifle a
giggle. Maybe I didn’t stifle it fast enough, because she glances
over with one arched brow and I feel like a kid in trouble. (“Go on,” Randy says,
pausing in his strumming. Why do I feel
like a kid in trouble, just because I paused to reflect on…I’m not sure
what. “You were saying about the
changing-tiger?” “Throughout most of the
year it has reddish brown fur, streaked in black shading to chocolate at the
edges. In the first frost the fur
between stripes starts to bleach, going through phases of burnt orange, orange,
amber-gold, straw, and ivory, eventually paling to pure white by first
snow. The dark stripes remain
unaffected. The fur also thickens, becoming downright shaggy. Thawing reverses the process.” “Sounds lovely.” His fingers slip discordantly. “Dang!
I know this!
I should get it!” “The tiger may change his
stripes, Randy, but you’re not going to change your hands quite so easily. And why should you care? You’re an excellent drummer.” “Ah, but the guitarist
gets all the action.” He laughs at my
startlement, and says, “I didn’t mean it that way! I mean the music always follows his lead.”) “In any action,” Fatima pronounces, “make sure that at
least one person in your band knows the terrain well, and make sure that this
person keeps the rest well-informed at all times.” She smiles faintly and nods to her best
friend. “In this part of The Charadoc,
that would be Chulan. Soon we shall
enter a region best known to me.” And
the smile slips from her face. For many
paces we hear nothing but the birds and insects and the rustle of a thousand,
thousand leaves going on for miles all around. (For awhile I just
listen to him getting better and better at shifting from D to A to G and back
to D. The simple repetitions sound sweet
to me, because they come from him. Then
I turn back to my book. “Oh here we are,” I
say, turning the page. “You asked what
the changing-tiger eats. ‘A predator not to be
trifled with, it actually derives most of its diet from fishing, but will not
turn its nose up at a lamb or child.’” “Lovely!” Randy
exclaims, his fingers slipping on the strings again. I grin. “Somehow I don’t think you meant quite the
same thing by that ‘lovely’ that you did before.” ) After awhile I notice Fatima’s lips moving faintly, her
hands no longer clasped before her, and I catch how her thumb moves from
fingertip to fingertip, first on one hand, then the other. She really is praying a rosary, and her eyes
look haunted. |
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