I swung about, staring at the ground. “Do you see any seeds?”
We swept our torches over the earth, straining to make out any of the pods that should have sprung out and burst open in the blaze of fire’s heat.
Jiala squatted in the hot smoking earth, turning it over and running it through her little gloved fingers.
“Well? Is there anything?”
Jiala looked up, amazed. “No, Papa.”
“Pila?” I whispered. “Do you see any?”
“No.” Astonishment marked her voice. “There are none. Not a single one.”
Together, we continued our hunt. Nothing. Not a single seed disbursed from a single pod. The bramble vine had died, and left nothing of itself behind to torment us another day.
“It’s magic,” Pila whispered. “True magic.”
I laughed at that. “Better than magic. Alchemy!”
4
THE NEXT MORNING, DESPITE THE previous late night, we all woke with the first crowing of roosters. I laughed to find Pila and Jiala already clustered in the workroom, peering out through the shutters, waiting for enough sunlight to see the final result.
As soon as the sun cracked the horizon, we were out in the fields again, headed across the muddy furrows to the bramble wall. The first of the bramble crews were already at work, with axes and long chopping knives, wearing leather aprons to protect themselves from the sleeping spines. Smoke from bramble’s burn rose into the air, coiling snakes, black and oily. Dirty children walked in careful lines through the fields with shovels and hoes, uprooting new incursions. In the dawn light, with the levee labor all at the wall, it looked like the scene of some recent battle. The smoke, the hopeless faces. But as we approached the site of my balanthast firing; a small knot of workers huddled.
We slipped close.
“Have you come to see it?” they asked.
“See what?” Pila asked.
“There’s a hole in the bramble.” A woman pointed. “Look how deep it goes.”
Several children squatted in the earth. One of them looked up. “It’s clean, Mama. No seeds at all. It’s like the bramble never came at all.”
I could barely restrain my glee. Pila had to drag me away to keep me from blurting out my part. We rushed back to Khaim, laughing and skipping the whole way.
Back in our home, Pila and Jiala brought out my best clothes. Pila helped me work the double buttons of my finest vest, pursing her lips at the sight of how skinny I had become since I last wore the thing in my wealth and health.
I laughed at her concern.
“Soon I’ll be fat again, and you’ll have your own servants and we’ll be rich and the city will saved.”
Pila smiled. Her face had lost its worry for the first time in years. She looked young again, and I was struck with the memory of how fine she had been in youth, and how now, despite worry and years, she still stood, unbent and unbroken by the many responsibilities she had taken on. She had stuck with our household, even as our means had faltered, even as other, richer families offered a better, more comfortable life.
“It’s very good that you are not mad, after all,” Pila said.
I laughed. “You’re very sure I’m not mad?”
She shrugged. “Well, not about bramble, at least.”
The way to the Mayor’s House passes around Malvia Hill, through the clay market and then down along the river Sulong, which splits Khaim from Lesser Khaim. Along the river, the spice market runs into the potato market, runs into the copper market. Powdered spices choke the air, along with the calls of vendors with their long black mustaches that they oil and stretch with every child. Their hands are red with chilies and yellow with turmeric, and their lungs give off the scents of clove and oregano. They sit under their archways along the river, with their big hemp bags overflowing with their wares out front, and the doorways to their storehouses behind, where piled spices reach two stories high. And then it’s on to the women of the potato market, where they used to sell only potatoes, but now sell any number of tubers. And then the copper families, who can beat out a pot or a tube, and who fashion brass candlesticks for the rich and cooking pots for the poor.
When I was young, there was only Khaim. At that time, there was still a bit of the old empire left. The astonishing wonders of the East and the capital of Jhandpara were gone, but still, there was Alacan and Turis and Mimastiva. At that time, Khaim was a lesser seat, valued for its place on the river, but still, a far reach from Jhandpara where great majisters had once wielded their power and wore triple diamonds on their sleeves. But with the slow encroachment of the bramble, Khaim grew. And, across from it, Lesser Khaim grew even faster.
When I was a child I could look across the river and see nothing but lemon trees and casro bushes, heavy with their dense fruit. Now refugees squatted and built mud huts there. Alacaners, who had destroyed their own homes and now insisted on destroying Khaim as well. Turis, of course, is nothing but ash. But that wasn’t their fault. Raiders from Paika razed Turis, but Alacaners had only themselves to blame.
Jiala hurried along the river with me, her hand in mine. Small. So small. But now with a future. Not just a chance at life and wealth, but a chance that she would not run like the Alacaners from her home as bramble swallowed her childhood and history.
Out on the Sulong, tiny boats made their way back and forth across the water, carrying workers from Lesser Khaim into the main city. But now something else marred the vista.
A great bridge hung in the air, partially constructed. It floated there, held down by ropes so that it would not fly free. Magic. Astonishing and powerful magic coming into play. The work of Majister Scacz, the one man in the city who wielded magic with the sanction of the Mayor, and so would never fear the executioner’s axe.
I paused, staring across the water to the floating bridge. Magic such as had not been seen since Jhandpara fell. Seeing it there, rising, filled me with a superstitious dread. So much magic in one place. Even the balanthast couldn’t protect against that much magic.
A spice man called out to me. “You want to buy? Or are you going to block my trade?”
I tipped my velvet hat to him. “So sorry, merchantman. I was looking at the bridge.”
The man spat. Eyed the floating construction. “Lot of magic, there.” He spat again. Tobacco and kehm root together. Narcotic. “I hear they’re already chopping bramble on the far bank. Hardly any bramble on the west side at all, and now it’s growing in the wagon ruts. Next thing, we’ll be like Alacan. Swallowed by bramble because our jolly wants to connect here with there. Bad enough that all these new Alacaners use their small magics. Now we have big magic too. Scacz and the Mayor pretending Khaim should be another Jhandpara with majisters and diamonds and floating castles.”
“The Mayor says he wants to protect Lesser Khaim from the raiders who come from Paika.”
“They’re a nuisance, not a reason to build a bridge.” The spice man spat more kehm root and tobacco, and eyed the bridge again. “Executioner will be busy now. Sure as bramble creep, we’ll have new heads spiked on city gates. Too much big magic to let the little magics run wild.”
“Maybe not,” I started, but Jiala pinched my hand and I fell silent.
The spice man eyed me as if I was mad. “I had to burn an entire sack of cloves, today. Whole sack I couldn’t sell. Full of bramble seeds and sprout. Someone makes his little magic, ruins my business.”
I wanted to tell him that the bundle on my back would change the balance, but Jiala, at least, had sense, and so I kept my words to myself. Magic brings bramble. A project like the bridge had an inevitable cost.
I hefted my bag of implements and we carried on, around the edge of the hill and then up its face to where the Mayor’s House looked down over Khaim.
We were ushered into the Mayor’s gallery without fuss. Marble floors and arches stretched around us. My clothes felt poor, Jiala’s as well. Even our best was now old and worn.
In the sudden cool
of the gallery, her cough started. A dry hacking thing that threatened to build. I knelt and gave her a sip of water. “Are you well?”
“Yes, Papa.” She watched me, solemn and trusting. “I won’t cough.” And then immediately her dry cough started again. It echoed about, announcing our presence to all the other petitioners.
We sat in the gallery, waiting with the women who wanted to change their household tax and the men who were petitioning to escape levee labor at the bramble wall. After an hour, the Mayor’s secretary came to us, his medallion of office gleaming gold on his chest, the Axe of the Executioner crossed over the Staff of the Majister, the twin powers that the Mayor wielded for the benefit of the city. The secretary led us across another marble gallery, and thence into the Mayor’s offices, and the door was shut behind us.
The Mayor wore red velvet and his own much larger medallion on a chain of gold around his neck. His fingers touched the medallion every so often, a needy gesture. And with him, the Majister Scacz. My skin prickled at the sight of one who used magic as a daily habit, passing the consequences of his activities onto the bramble crews and the children of the city who dug and burned the minor bits of bramble from between mortar stones and cobbles.
“Yes?” the Mayor asked. “You’re who, then?”
“Jeoz, the alchemist,” the secretary announced.
“And he reeks of magic,” Majister Scacz murmured.
I made myself smile. “It is my device.”
The Mayor’s eyebrows rose, fuzzy gray caterpillars arching over his ruddy face. His mustache was short, no child in his history at all. An old scar puckered one side of his cheek, pulling his mouth into a slight smile. “You practice magic?” he asked sharply. “Are you mad?”
I made a placating gesture. “I do not practice, Excellency. No. Not at all.” A nervous laugh escaped my lips. “I practice alchemy. It does not bring bramble. I have no dealings with the curse of Jhandpara.” It was unbelievable how nervous I had become. “No need for the executioner, here. None at all.” I untied my bag and began pulling out the pieces of the balanthast. “You see . . .” I screwed one of the copper ends into its main chamber. Unwrapped the combustion bulb, breathing a sigh of relief that it had survived the trip. “You see,” I repeated myself, “I have created something, which your Excellency will appreciate. I think.”
Beside me, Jiala coughed. Whether from sickness, or nervousness, I couldn’t say. Scacz’s eyes went to her. Held. I didn’t like the way he stared at her, his expression thoughtful. I plunged on.
“It is a balanthast.”
The Mayor examined the device. “It looks more like an arquebus.”
I made myself smile. “Not at all. Though it does use the reactants of fire. But my device has properties most extraordinary.” My hands were shaking. I found the mint. The neem bark. Lora flower. Set them in the chamber.
Scacz was watching closely. “Am I watching sorcery, sir? Right before myself? Unsanctioned?”
“N-no.” I shook under his examination. Tried to load the balanthast.
Jiala took it away. “Here, Papa.”
“Y-yes. Good. Thank you, child.” I took a deep breath. “You see, a balanthast destroys bramble. And not just a little. The balanthast reaches for a bramble’s root and poisons it utterly. Place it within a yard or two of a heart root, and it will destroy more than a bramble crew can destroy in half a day.”
The Mayor leaned close. “You have proof of this?”
“Yes. Of course. I’m sorry.” I pulled a small clay pot shrouded in burlap out of my bag and put on my leather gloves before unwrapping it.
“Bramble,” I explained.
They both sucked in their breath at the sight of the potted plant. I looked up at their consternation. “We use gloves.”
“You carry bramble into the city?” the Mayor asked. “Deliberately?”
I hesitated. Finally I said, “It was necessary. For the testing. The science of alchemy requires much trial and error.” Their faces were heavy with disapproval. I lit my match, and touched it to the glass bulb. Clamped it closed.
“Hold your breath, Jiala.” I looked apologetically at the Mayor. “The smoke is quite acrid.”
The Mayor and Majister also sucked in their breaths. The balanthast shivered as its energy discharged. A ripple of death passed into the soil. The pot cracked as the bramble writhed and died.
“Magic!” Scacz cried, lunging forward. “What magic is this?”
“No, Majister! Alchemy. Magic has never been able to affect bramble. It does not sap bramble’s poison, nor kill its seeds, nor burn back its branches. This is something new.”
Scacz grabbed for the balanthast. “I must see this.”
“It’s not magic.” I yanked the balanthast back, afraid that in his hurry he would destroy it. “It uses the natural properties of the neem,” I said. “A special species, loved by majisters, yes, but this is merely the application of nature’s principles. We vaporize the neem with a few other ingredients, force it through the tube, and with the aid of sulphur and saltpeter and charcoal, we send its essence into the earth. Even a small application does wonders. The neem essence binds with the root of the bramble. Kills it, as you see. Attracted like a fly to honey.”
“And what causes neem to seek bramble?”
I shrugged. “It’s difficult to say. Perhaps some magical residue or aura from the plant. I tried thousands of substances before the neem. Only the neem bark works so well.”
“The neem is attracted to magic, you think?”
“Well,” I hedged. “It is certainly attracted to bramble. Oil and water never mix. Neem and bramble seem the opposite. What causes the affinity . . .” I could feel myself starting to sweat under their combined gazes, not liking how Scacz was obsessed with magic. “I hesitate to say that it’s magic the neem essence finds so attractive. . . .”
“You talk all around the root of the issue,” Scacz said. “Worse than a priest of Assim.”
“F-forgive me,” I stammered. “I don’t want you to think that I’ve been unwary in my investigations.”
“He’s worried we’re about to send him off to the executioner,” the Mayor said.
I gave the man a sickly smile. “Quite. Bramble is unique. It has qualities that we may think of as magical—its astonishing growth, its resilience, the way that magic seems to fertilize its flourishing—but who can say what unique aspect causes the neem’s essence to bind with it? These questions are beyond me. I experiment, I record my results, and I experiment again.
“The alchemical response to neem is bramble death. What causes that reaction, whether it is some magical residue that leeches from the bramble root and somehow makes it vulnerable to neem, or some other quality, I can’t say. But it works. And works well. There is a plot of earth that I myself have cleared into the bramble wall. In the time it takes you to clap your hands three times, I cleared more land than this office occupies.”
The Mayor and Majister both straightened at the news.
“So quickly?” the Mayor asked.
I nodded vigorously. “Even today, it still shows no sign of regrowth. No seeds, you understand? Not a single one. With my device, you can arm the people and take back farmland. Push back the bramble wall. Save Khaim.”
“Extraordinary,” Scacz said. “Not just push the bramble back. Perhaps even reclaim the heart of the empire. Return to Jhandpara.”
“Exactly.” I couldn’t help feeling relief as their expressions lost their skepticism.
The Mayor had begun to smile widely. He stood. “By the Three Faces of Mara, man, you’ve done something special!”
He motioned for Jiala and me. “Come! The two of you must have a glass of wine. This discovery is worth celebrating.”
He laughed and joked with us as he guided us to a room with great windows that looked out over the city. Khaim jumbled down the hill below us. On the horizon, the sun was slowly sinking. Red sunlight filtered through the smoke and cookfires of Lesser Kha
im. The half-constructed floating bridge arched across the river like a leaping cat, held in place by great hemp ropes to keep it from sailing away as they worked to extend its skeleton.
“This couldn’t come at a better time,” the Mayor said. “Look out there, Alchemist. Lesser Khaim grows every day. And not just from the refugees of Turis and Alacan. Others, too, small holders who have been overwhelmed by the bramble. And they bring their magics with them.
“Before they came, we were nearly in balance. We could still cut back enough bramble to offset the bits of magic use. Even the bridge would have been acceptable. But the Alacaners are profligate with their magic, and now the bramble comes hard upon us. Their habits are crushing us. Everyone has some little magic that he or she believes is justified. And then when a bit of bramble roots in a neighbor’s roof beams, who can say who caused it?”
He turned to me. “You know they call me the Jolly Mayor over there? Make fun of me for my scar and my poor humor.” He scowled. “Of course I’m in a poor humor. We fight bramble every day, and every day it defeats us. If this keeps on, we’ll be run out of here in three sixes of years.”
I startled at his words. “Surely it’s not that bad.”
The Mayor raised his caterpillar brows. “Oh yes.” He nodded at Jiala. “Your girl will be part of a river of refugees twice the size of the one we took in from Alacan.” He turned again to look west. “And where will they go then? Mpais? Loz? Turis is gone to raiders.” He scowled. “Lesser Khaim is just as vulnerable. We barely fought off the raiders’ last attack. Without the bridge, I cannot have a hope of defending that side of the river. And so we spend magic where we would prefer not to, and add to the problem. We’re caught in Halizak’s Prison, for certain.”
His steward arrived with wine and goblets. I looked at the stemmed glasses with curiosity, wondering if I myself had long ago blown their shapes, but then recognized the distinctive mark of Saara Solso. She had improved since I used to compete with her. Another reminder of how long I had been at my project.
The steward paused on the verge of uncorking the wine bottle. “Are you certain about this, Excellency?” he asked.
The Tangled Lands Page 3