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IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume
IV: Braided Paths
Chapter 16 Leaving Koboros
Monday, August 31, 2708 I don't know what to say to
Malcolm or Rashid, on this, our last day together, and they don't know what to
say to me. Silently we tend the wounded,
and the routine feels so homey that I can almost breathe the rainforest perfume
of our lost Home Base, I halfway listen for the jungle birds. But all I smell is medicine and disinfectant,
all I hear is wind and distant water bubbling through its ice. No one in the entire
Charadoc can understand me as well as these two do, knowing what it means to
fight to save lives right in the midst of this war that compels us to cause
death. No word exists for the specific
kind of love that grows between people dedicated to the same work, who struggle
together to make some important thing take place, who endure the same
sacrifices and feel failures and triumphs together. And so we don't say the word that doesn't
exist, we just show its meaning by the way that we support each other, as we
have so many times before. Tuesday, September 1, 2708 Our ranks have swollen on
the way back, with soldiers that Rashid has healed, even after I sent back
messengers to Cyran with Rashid's plans for the pass. Some might be too quiet, and some too loud,
but you can always feel something a little bit different in the soldiers who
have fallen to wounds, risen again, and gone right back into the fray. And we shall have even more
soldiers than this, soon. Cyran made hir
instructions clear: recruit all the way home, and take the long way around to
pick up more, looping into the Midlands.
Recruit twice as many peasant supporters and saboteurs. Create or bolster stable rebel territory as
much as possible. I review in my mind
Damien's last minute lessons on the art of sedition, lessons that he learned
from kinsmen long dead, perfected in Cumenci till an entire village sacrificed
itself for us. I don't much feel like
singing the songs that he taught right now, with the heaviness still in my
heart, and I know for a fact that I will never sing them as well as he could,
anyway, but we all do things for freedom that we didn't think possible a year
ago. We shall also shed some
veterans as we go, to train new rebel cells, but that won't drop our numbers
much; we'll need armies soon, we need them even now. The war changes, like ourselves. After generations of blood-soaked stability,
for better or for worse. Rashid had unearthed maps
in Koboros, one of which shows alternate routes less likely to crawl with the
enemy. So now, following it, we skirt
past a slightly live volcano that stinks like rotten eggs. "Spirit Mountain," says the map; I'll have to
ask Damien about its history, if ever we meet again, both of us alive. Tanjin says that government soldiers won't go
near the haunted peak for fear of ghosts boiling up from Hell. But hey, we have so many ghosts on our side
that these local haunts can't scare us anymore.
I'd camp us up there, safe between the fumaroles, if I didn't fear the
fumes more than anything supernatural.
Even so, I avert my eyes from the rising smokes and mists, knowing that
I would see shapes in them, and I don't need that. My nerves still haven't gotten back to what
they should be, greenfire be cursed. Rashid. As we march I think upon our parting. Malcolm hugged me for a long, long moment,
strong muscle in his arms under drapes of extra skin. "You'll be careful of the greenfire, won't
you?" he'd asked of me. "Of course," I said, and
tried to smile. I'd watched for Rashid, but
he stayed working indoors. I accepted
that—his right, to snub me for leaving
him yet again. Or maybe he just had his
hands full this morning with the wounded. But I had already begun the
march out when suddenly he burst from his infirmary, running after me, his gingery
curls wild and bouncing all about, just like that time when Jonathan nearly
bought my freedom, when I had seen that same look on his face, the one that
told me I could never go free, the chain had reached my heart. He stopped short, though, catching his
breath, flushed with the thin air, and left it to me to turn back the rest of
the way. When I reached him he
clutched my hands and said, breathlessly, "Remember me, Deirdre. Remember what I need from Cyran. Don't forget us out here—the war rages here,
too, long after the bullets have all stopped flying. Remember me." I do. I remember how I clutched him to me, his head
nestled on my breast, how I felt the shaking of the sobs that he couldn't give
voice. "How could I ever forget you,
Rashid?" I said at last. And then I
turned away. Wednesday, September 2,
2708 (Why does my mind keep going back to...to
somebody left-handed, like me?) How
could I ever forget any of them, ever, more dear to me now than my own
friendclan? The guilty thought beats
through the tramp of the hard, cold road.
Zanne, Merrill, Jake, Randy, Don and Lisa seem farther away than miles
could measure. (Why do I think of taciturn ol' Jake right now? Why do I miss him more than my husband—he who
I know, despite his caution to conceal the fact, would never take a wife?) September—moving towards spring. Icicles have begun to drip from every
outthrust rock, sparkling in the sharp glare off the patches of snow that
linger between boulders. (September—Autumn's on the way, here in the
northern hemisphere. At home it would
almost be Spring. Silly Zanne! There
is no "home"! My chief base of
operations lies in a shapeshifty institution with nothing stable enough to
miss, really.) The
mountains have grown fangs, it seems, and they drool in the hungry waste. Scratch that thought. Greenfire residual. (Enjoy the late summer, enabling me to wear that off-the
shoulder piece that I bought just yesterday, before the nip in the air sets
in. Open the window, let in some fresh
air...no, it's not very fresh, is it?
Everyone in Vanikke drives around in vehicles powered by noxious
combustion engines, squandering precious taroleum just because they can,
because the only known tar-peat marshes lie southwards on the same continent,
lucky us. I close the window.
I also close my eyes, till I can recenter on my cultural immersion, and
then open them with a bright smile once again.
I allow myself just one more of those divine cream-puffs that Cybil
brought over, and sit down to the stacks of Meg's papers, waiting for me to
sort out the problems that plague this country.) (I sit down to paper and pen, to practice "Gentlemanly
Penmanship"—the art of packing as much grace as possible into a limited space,
though the Toulinians no longer lack for paper.
A nuisance for a lefty like me, the extra care to keep from smearing the
wet ink—but it's beneath an agent to miss a proper console. At least I've found something where my prior
education won't show.) (Uh huh. Evidence
of corruption. Naughty, naughty! Pitting ethnic and religious groups against
each other, oh my yes, divide and conquer.
Time-honored diversionary tactic—look how well it worked for Earth. And more evidence of corruption...more corruption...oh
you bad boys! I see I have my work cut
out for me. But wait a minute...) (Wait a minute...) (What are they after?
Some of this doesn't seem to serve venality at all. Or secret affairs, or anything. More and more the pattern seems to fit
undermining the social order just to do it.
What'n'erth?) (Why do I keep practicing a capital Z, over and
over? I have it down—time to work on
something else. My hand won't obey. It
draws more ornate, larger variations on Z, as if my left hand remembers
something and tries to tell me about it.
What?) (I'm sure it all has some explanation. I'll figure it out eventually. No need to suspect pure evil, or a country
going mad.) (What is it...gone.
Whatever I was thinking, gone.
Start over, now, with the letter A.) What
was I thinking anyway? I used to feel
that icicles were pretty. Thursday, September 3, 2708 Snow comes down again. Another stony mountain village nestles ahead
in the natural rubble, complete with a rough little chapel, a general store,
one smithy, one cobbler's shop, an office each for the wool-buyer and the
sulfur assayer, and six bars. Sulfur
miners come here to hack out the last of their lungs and watch their paychecks
vanish, while llama-herders render down their year's work to a few small coins
for drink. I steer the kids towards
the most wholesome-looking of the taverns, Hara's Haven—one that rents rooms
and serves meals along with the beer.
Nobody enforces drinking-age laws this high up in the mountains, nor do
I, although we should. After all these
young veterans have seen, though, they deserve a bit of R&R. Their scars still gleam a satiny pink, and
careless moves still give a tug of pain.
We have pooled together a little cash; we can afford it. Besides, this looks like a good place to try
my hand at recruiting. We trudge gratefully into
the dim warmth, steamy with aromas of cooking food and alcoholic esters, surrendering
layers of wool and fur to the pegs by the door.
How gladly we wash hands and faces at the basin grimed by many a miner
before us, the shock of cold water not half so bad with a fire crackling on the
hearth. How like men and women
grown do we accept our mugs of beer while waiting for our food, sipping
cautiously, more afraid of falling asleep where we sit, before the chance to
eat, than of any danger. It almost feels
safe here, in this womb of walls a yard thick.
How good to let the miles dissolve off of us like the dirt we washed
away. How comforting to hear the common
talk—of the price of wool and pumice and volcano-smelted sulfur, of the rare
finds of raw rubies forged in magma, of women who cheat and women who stay true
even when their man's too sick to work, of men who drink too much and men who
live like monks—and not one word of killing. (How good to relax, to
finally, truly relax, to blend in with the other travelers with not a soul the
wiser about us deserters in their midst.) But does
anyone wonder at the sight of so many scarred and hardened children gathered
together at once? (But does anyone
notice our army boots? We couldn't find
anything to replace our boots.) We
speak (We speak) as little (as little) as possible (as possible.) Can anybody smell (the blood still) on
our hands (that nothing can ever) wash away? I shake my head; I'd better go easy on the
beer—weariness already makes my brain flicker like a candle ready to go out. (I meet Cybil at her favorite restaurant: the Hound and Hare, where
Meg joins us. Meg looks slightly
awkward, as though she does not indulge often in dinners out, but her manners
are impeccable, tucking the linen napkin into her neckline with pristine folds
in the approved Vanikketan form. Cybil
orders a nice marechal-milló from Toulin and it arrives with our dinners. As I cut into my steak, soft music meandering in the background, I
start to say, "Those papers you sent me..." "What papers?" Meg asks coyly, looking at me over her glass of
wine. "My mistake," I say, resisting the impulse to look around. "I got you mixed up with Janine—you know, the
one who suspects her son's been cheating on his tests?" They nod, though Janine does not exist. Cybil says, "That little rascal! Is he up to his old tricks again?" So, confirmation: even government workers
assigned to get to the bottom of something can no longer afford to be seen
doing their job. Duly noted. "That's what I aim to find out.
But enough about him. Meg, I just
love the mystery-book you loaned me."
Meg nods again, and smiles.
"Quite enthralling—and intricate!
Yet some of the subplots just don't seem plausible. The villains seem, well, too pointlessly
villainous." She dabs her mouth with her napkin.
"The subtext on that leads to still more plot-twists. One must ask what makes them so villainous.") Steaming plates arrive, heaped
in yams and strips of llama meat, both cured in sweet sap sugar, with tangled
piles of winter sprouts and small cups of spruce tea to fend off scurvy. We pray grace and eat gratefully in silence,
rough hands of friend and stranger alike moving in the sign of the cross. Can God see through the violence of our
revolution to the beating heart of justice deep within? (Can God forgive what the army made us
do?) Ah well—at least E feeds the
unjust and the just alike! Damien once told me that
God keeps an inn on the bridge between Heaven and Hell, built over the Gulf of
Lazarus after the Resurrection, so that The Blessed may know the consolation of
visiting loved ones among The Damned.
And in that inn (so say the songs) God spreads a common table where the
denizens of Heaven and Hell may feast together on the sweet fare of
Paradise. But the damned never enjoy a
mouthful of it, always wondering what's on their neighbor's plate. It looks the same, it smells
the same, but can they ever know for sure? I think the rich first told
that tale, an imprecation against the envy of the poor, and servants carried it
home to their children. But I know the
truth. I have eaten at the tables of the
rich and poor, and this tastes better. The door slams open and a
chill blows in. I shiver even before I
turn and see the soldiers tramping in.
All eyes follow them, the snow falling from their boots to muddy the
clean-swept flags, but no one says a word.
"Hey, hey," their sergeant
shouts with a grin, "but isn't this a glum crowd!" He slaps some bills down on the bar. "Beer's on me, all round. We've just been paid for three months' work
and I want my new friends to rejoice in our good fortune!" I try not to groan out loud. "Come on, come on, drink up! Make room in your mugs before I change my
mind." Two beers goes over the limit for
some of our children; how can I make sure that they all guard their
tongues? But so far the flowing tap
hasn't made a dent in the general chill. "Heyyyyy...what's this?"
Sarge fingers Tanjin's jacket; much of the mud has flaked off of the
brocade. "Where'd a poor boy like you
come across glad rags like this?" "From his father," I say
with a wink before Tanjin can catch his breath.
Quick—which of Soskia's nephews climbs mountains for a hobby? "Cherone Peshawr." One of the soldiers whistles and they all eye
the boy oddly. Sarge scratches his chin
and says, "I never heard of Cherone Peshawr having a son." "And it's worth your rank
to make sure that nobody outside this village hears about it, either—you think
the Peshawrs'd thank the army for spreading word about their little bastard
halfbreed?" Sarge never takes his eyes
off of Tanjin as he sips his beer. "Aw,
I've kept worse secrets than that," he says at last, his voice not near so
loud. Then he eyes me up and down. "And who's your daddy, sweetie? You're no more pure-blooded than he is." I smile as wickedly as I
can and say, "It's worth your life to know."
We stare at each other awhile as no one moves, only the fire making any
sound, and the wind outside the walls.
"Drink up soldier, and don't ask questions," I finally say. "Leave this village alone." He nods at that. "Barkeep," he calls,
"quarter my men and send their meals up to their rooms–the company's too rich
down here for my blood." He scowls at
Tanjin as he pushes away from the bar. "And
you, kid—when your daddy sends you fine things, learn to treat ‘em with
respect. That jacket's a disgrace." "Yessir." As the soldiers file on
upstairs, Sarge pauses before one of the civilians and kicks the man's army
boot as I stifle a gasp. "Shame on you,
soldier!" The man turns dead-white. "If the government sends you on undercover
guard-duty, fergawd's sake have sense enough to put on local footgear!" After they leave we eat in
silence. Looks like a bad night for
recruiting after all. But when I go to
pay from our precious cache of coins, the innkeeper glares at Tanjin and me,
saying, "It's on the house—just don't spend the night. I don't want any trouble." "No trouble at all," I say,
though I really looked forward to sleeping in a real bed—the thanks I get for
keeping this village off the battlefield.
The other inns won't quarter anybody who hasn't paid for beer, first,
and we've had quite enough for one night. Oh what the heck? We can get orders of food taken to our rooms
just like the soldiers, and that would serve as well. These teenagers could use an extra meal. Tanjin leans over to me,
his cheeks and nose already rosy, and whispers in a slurry murmur, "I wonder if
that sergeant was my father?"
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