IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume
III: Responsibility
Chapter 13 Enough Fooling Around
Saturday, June 13, 2708,
continued Frost covers us this
morning, riming our hammocks, and the fuzz of our blankets, and the curls of
hair that escape our close-clutched coverings.
We all wake up stiff and shivering, though we had intended to sleep the
day away, as the cold splits our skulls like frost in the rocks. We wear our blankets for cloaks, hunched like
elders, breathing puffs of clouds. Gaziley says, with a weary
smile, "The weather just keeps on getting better and better for
tapping." "I don't want to hear
about it," I groan. No mention,
please, of anything remotely associated with our taverness's specialty. I go huddle over the coals of last night's
fire. Kief hands me a water-skin,
which I gulp at greedily, though the ice in it sends a shudder through me. "Season's getting colder even at this
altitude," he says. "We need
to do something to get everybody's blood circulating." "I'm in no mood for
calisthenics," I grumble, and poke the coals into a thin little flame. "I had something more
vigorous in mind--like maybe a raid." I stare up at him
suddenly. "You're joking,
right?" "The test of blood has
to come soon after the test of fire." "Kief, the troop's
hungover, cold, and hungry." "Good--that'll make
them mean." "Couldn't we just have
Bakr and Aziz slit a couple soldier's throats in their sleep?" "That lacks heat. Cowards could do that and stay cowards
still." "Kief, we're
guerillas, not bloody shock troops!" He pulls up, suddenly
inflamed by my sharp tone. "Don't
tell me what we are, Killer-Virgin! You
don't know the proper way to do anything."
My face burns as the others suddenly stare at me. "You can't kill anybody in their sleep
the first time." I overhear Aziz whisper to
Bakr, "Is she really a nun?" and I fume inside. Kief motions our bard over,
who'd spent the night for the celebration.
"Damien, give them your report." "Sanzio Whitesleeves
holds Malcolm prisoner right under our noses.
And he torments him." "What!" Lufti and Gaziley both cry
at once, while I drop the water-skin gurgling into the dirt. “What about his lawyers?”
the taverness cries. “He said he could
afford lawyers!” "I don’t know about
any lawyers,” Damien tells us, “but I saw him myself, the night before last,
when the soldiers wanted a musician for a birthday-party and they let me into
the commissary. They cage him there like
an animal, so they can eat in front of him while they give him nothing, hoping
to make him betray us all for food." "He'd never do
that!" Lufti protests, but Chulan pales, remembering the rage with which
he'd gobbled down dried beans. "He won't," she
says with her arms around the boy, "because we're going to get him out of
there before they torture him out of his mind.
Isn't that right, Kief?" "You betcha. This puts the whole game beyond invisible
harassment. But if we can't break him
out, we'll have to kill him." "No!" Lufti
cries, but Chulan holds him back. Damien turns dark eyes on the younger boy. "He'd thank us," the bard
says. "He'd not only destroy us if
he snaps, but his own soul, too--for the very thing that he hates about himself
the most. I saw his face--if he had
poison, he'd drink it now." ("Your uncle's time
has run out," Sanzio says with a grin.
I stare at those teeth, as white as his shirt. "You've got quite an
overbite," I tell him, hearing the rasp of my own voice. "You should see an orthodontist about
it, before it gives you headaches." He ignores me as he pulls
on rubber gloves. "All your uncle's
money has gone into your bank-account, as he’d arranged. In an Istislan bank, as I recall. But there isn't a banker in all of the
Charadoc that will give you access to one penny of it--someone in Istislan will
get very rich by investing money that the owner can't claim." He lays out the
tools--common kitchen objects, for the most part, though I daresay he can find
uncommon enough use for them, the sharp ones and the blunt, the ones to heat,
the ones to leave as cold as vengeance.
Then he smiles, shakes his head, and pulls the gloves back off. "How foolish of me to forget," he
says. "The third breakfast shift
should arrive at any minute. And soon
after them comes the first lunch, without a decent interval between to really
get things going. We mustn't spoil
anybody's appetites." Hoarsely I ask him,
"Is this the one?” "Huh?" "Is this the torture
that will justify all the others for you?
Do you hate me so badly that it could purify you to drag me down? Purify what you do?" He shakes his head. "You're delirious. You flatter yourself." But he doesn't quite sound as fully in
command. "It will only work for
a little while, you know. You'll go to
bed content, all right, filled up with what you think you want, but you'll wake up
hungrier than ever in the morning." "You're babbling, Dr.
De Groot. You're talking, but you aren't
telling me anything I want to hear." I sigh. Isn't that the way it always goes? He rises, but he leaves the
tools right there. A sudden smile
restores his poise as a thought overtakes him.
He walks over to the kitchen, back again, and places a single, freshly
baked baugette in amongst his implements.
“One name, Dr. deGroot. One name,
one mouthful. That’s all it takes.” Just one? Somebody already known perhaps? Or somebody not important? They’re all important. And once I started, it wouldn’t stop with
one. With care he breaks open
the flaky crust, exposing the soft and steaming bread within, then slowly
slides a golden pat of butter into it, so that I can watch and smell it melt. In
response, without a word, I take out my dentures and set them down beside
me. But his smile only falters for a
moment. "I'll be back,"
he says, "We can get started right after the third dinner shift,
tonight. But I'll come by sooner if you
care to talk. I want you to think about
all of the ways that things can go, depending on what you say or don't say. Just remember, Dr. deGroot, my dear, dear
friend: if you want anything, all you have to do is ask.") “Kiril,”
Kief calls, “Stoke up the breakfast-fire.
“Cook everything we’ve got. Every
crust, every crumb, every bean. We’ll
either feast on the enemy’s fare tonight or have no more need of food.” Our
taverness brings out a jug of syrup.
“And pour this on it—all you want.
And anything else you’d like, for the asking.” She tosses a tube of eyeliner to
Gaziley. “Here,” she says with an uneasy
grin, braving herself to accept. “Put on
your warpaint before you go.” “But
not yet,” Kief says, with a yawn and a stretch.
“First we rest the day away, right after breakfast. I want us all in good shape for tonight.” I
feel myself smiling. “What about
fighting meaner with hangovers?” He
gives me back an equally ironic smile and a wink. “Don’t believe everything I say. |
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