Song of the Serpent

by Hugh Matthews

  Now he stood beneath the tree. A ring of small floodlights were set in the soil within the pot, their beams directed upward to catch the facets of the gems. The jewels grew from the ends of thin tubules that in turn sprouted from the tree's limbs. Some slow vegetative force caused them to spin slowly, first this way, then that, even in the absence of a breeze. Lit from below, the ten thousand facets threw a kaleidoscope of colored beams in all directions. Krunzle looked down and saw his torso and arms sprinkled with spots of light in different shades of yellow, green, red, blue, and purest white. The effect was delightful, and even more captivating when he looked up again into the ever-moving constellation of flashing gems.

  How beautiful, he thought. Then, more to the point, how valuable. And was it truly unwarded? He held out his hatpiece. It glowed green, though the uncut cabochon made a poor showing against the massed glitter from above.

  Right, he thought. To work. But still he stood and stared, mouth open like a bumpkin at his first raree-show. He had to exert a mental grip on himself. Never mind staring. Pluck one!

  He reached, put his fingers around a low-hanging emerald as big as a plum, and tugged. A second, harder pull separated the gem from its stem with a faint pop! The entire tree shivered, its reflected lights flittering across his upraised arm, then it subsided. Krunzle put the green gem in his hat, and reached for a pear-shaped diamond so large his thumb and fingers could not meet around its width. Again, it came free with a good tug, and again the tree shook—though not with pain, he thought. More like excitement.

  It was an emotion Krunzle shared as he reached and tugged, reached and tugged, and his hat filled with splendorous riches. Should've bought a higher-crowned one, he thought. He set it down between two of the flood lamps in the top of the pot and swung his satchel around on its shoulder strap so that it hung down his front instead of at his side. Now he could pluck gems with both hands.

  The satchel, like the hat, was soon filled. Krunzle had not even exhausted the low-hanging bounty of the tree. If I remove my cloak, he thought, I could pile more jewels on it and fold and tie it into a bundle. He did so, flapping the cloth to lay it on the ground. Then he made to climb upon the lip of the pot, the better to reach higher.

  And found he could not. Though he willed his feet to lift, they would not. Nor would the muscles of calf and thigh flex. Krunzle looked down and saw, through the flashing of reflected spots of light, that his lower limbs, to a height of halfway between knee and hip, were wrapped around with roots as thick as his wrist. As he watched, the thin ends of the fibrous material extended themselves, winding around his thighs to reach ever higher.

  Krunzle pulled against the roots' grip. Nothing happened, except that the pressure increased. He noticed, too, that he had no feeling from the knees down. Indeed, if he were not so tightly wrapped, he would surely fall over.

  His hand went to the top of his buskin but the short, thick-bladed knife was clapped fast to his leg by the tree's grip. He reached instead for a thin-bladed dagger that fitted into a sheath sewn into the back of his shirt, just below the collar. A moment later, he applied the stiletto's needle point to one of the roots.

  The weapon sank into the living wood, and this time the tree did more than shiver. Its trunk flexed and its branches thrashed, and a sound like a whispered groan came from somewhere within its center. Krunzle pressed harder, cutting with the razor edge just behind the point. But from near where he had wounded the root sprang a forest of tendrils that sought out the weapon and the hand that held it, wrapping themselves around the blade and his arm right up to the elbow. In panic, he sought to pull away, but the tree was faster—and, a terrifying thought, more experienced at this kind of contest—and now Krunzle was stooped over, one hand pinned to his lower leg, with only one free hand to help himself.

  But it wasn't free for long. More roots shot out from the top of the pot, scattering the hat and satchel and their contents that he had left lying there. Though Krunzle struggled to avoid it, in very little time both of his arms were immobilized, and the vegetative bonds were creeping up his torso. When he strained against them, they constricted his belly and diaphragm; he was finding it hard to breathe.

  So that's its game, he thought. In the jungles of the Mwangi Expanse, he knew, there lurked great serpents that dropped from the trees onto unwary passersby, wrapped them in coils of powerful flesh, and squeezed the life from them before devouring them whole. This tree must have the same ambition.

  A moment later, he realized his analysis was not quite accurate. The roots ceased to exert themselves, now that they had him safely immobilized. Instead, a new tendril extended itself, this from the base of the tree's trunk, where it grew from the soil. The tubule wavered toward him, its motion reminding him of a blind worm guiding itself by scent. Its end divided into two smaller tubes, and these into two more each. Then each of the four questing tendrils showed something like a mouth, ringed with something like teeth, and—as if they had now come close enough to scent him—they shot forward and fastened themselves to his cheek.

  Krunzle felt a sensation of needles being sunk into his flesh, then a sense of suction. The places where he had been struck first went cold, then numb. In the still-glittering reflections from the jewels above, he saw the pale tubules pulse and fill with red. The tree shivered again, and this time he was sure it was a signal of gratification.

  Time went by; it could have been seconds, or minutes. Krunzle remained as he was, stooped and bound. Gradually, the numbness in his cheek spread to cover his face and then his neck. He examined possibilities and strategies—all led nowhere. Or, more accurately, all led to the same dreary destination: the householder coming out into his garden to enjoy the splendors of the morning and finding beneath his tree a shriveled husk that had once been Krunzle the Quick.

  All strategies but one, that is. And, with no other avenue open, the thief launched himself down it with an energy born of despair.

  "Help!" he cried. Or, again more accurately: he croaked. His mouth and throat were parched, his tongue now also beginning to suffer from the tree's numbing influence. He manufactured some spittle, swallowed, and shouted again, this time with more gusto.

  No answer came, but the bonds around his abdomen constricted a little more tightly. Krunzle found his breathing reduced to short and rapid panting. "Help!"

  From the darkness that surrounded him, he heard a smooth baritone say, "My, but you seem to be in a pickle."

  The feeding tubules would not let Krunzle turn his head far enough to see who spoke. "Pickles," he said, attempting to show a light-hearted spirit in adversity, "might envy my situation."

  "Indeed," said the voice, and now he heard the swish of fabric in motion. Into his field of vision, necessarily downcast as his right arm was still pinned to his right calf, came a pair of feet clad in pointed white-leather boots. The footwear was obviously of high quality, as was the white cloth of the garment that covered the wearer from the ankles up to the knees—and doubtless all the way to the neck, though Krunzle could not raise his head to confirm it. A close-set line of buttons, opals alternating with pearls, closed the garment at the front. He recognized the buttons from earlier in the day, and realized that he had heard the voice before.

  For the tale Krunzle had offered to the Blackjackets had been only a partial lie. That morning, he had stopped a Kersite of imposing height and dignified mien who had been descending the steps of the Bourse into Kalistrade Square and begged the gentleman for directions. But he had not been seeking the route to the Mercenary League's recruitment center. Instead the encounter had gone like this:

  Krunzle had snatched off his hat and said, "Pray, sir, will you do a stranger the kindness of telling him where he might see the finest homes in Kerse?"

  The man, in a close-fitting kaftan of shining white with opal and pearl buttons, and with boots and gauntlets of supple white leather, had made to pass without answering. But whichever way he turned he found the crouching supplicant in his path
. Finally, he stopped and said, "What possible use could it be to you to see the outside of what you can never hope to see the inside of? For no Kersite would ever invite such a ragged vagabond to profane his premises. Now, begone!"

  But Krunzle remained in his way. "Please, sir," he said, "I wish only to see the exteriors. That will surely be enough to inspire me to work hard and trade cannily, so that someday I, too, might don the distinctive garments of your caste, and take my place among the justified prophets of Kerse."

  "You?" said the Kersite. "A prophet?" His laugh was harsh. He gazed down upon the cringing Krunzle from a great height and seemed about to dismiss him with a curse—but then his eye fell upon the cabochon set in the outlander's hat ornament. His expression became as unreadable as it would have been if he had been bargaining with an equal on the floor of the Bourse. "What was it again you wanted?" he asked.

  Krunzle formed his features around his most ingratiating smile. "Directions to the mansions of Kerse's foremost magnates," he said, "prophets of the highest rank and stature, to inspire me to emulate their peerless qualities."

  The prophet had made a small noise in his throat. It might have been a laugh, or a swallowed snort of contempt. But he turned and pointed toward Enterprise Way, where it led south from the square and up into the hills beyond. "Follow that until you come to Diligence Circle," he said, "then turn either left or right and continue to climb. Soon you will see winding boulevards. Along these you will find what you seek. The higher you climb, the finer the properties." He paused as if a thought had just entered his mind, then said, "There is a park with a fountain where you may refresh yourself if the climb proves taxing."

  Krunzle offered his fawning thanks, but the prophet had already brushed past him to hail a pair of his white-clad peers striding across the square toward the Bourse. He fell into conversation with them and paid Krunzle no more heed.

  Or so it had seemed. Now the Kersite said, "So, we meet again."

  Krunzle, still bent double said, "Have I had the pleasure, sir? I don't recall—"

  "No more," said the prophet, in a tone that betokened no sympathy for the thief's plight. "No more, or I will go inside, go to bed, and let the servants sweep up whatever's left of you in the morning."

  Krunzle weighed his options, found them depressingly few and light. "Very well," he said.

  "You were looking for places to rob," said the other, "places that the gimcrack in your hat would identify as unwarded."

  It was not a question, but Krunzle felt an answer was expected. The cold in his face and neck had spread to his shoulders. "Yes," he said.

  "You thought you'd found one."

  "Yes."

  "Instead, you are being drained of your vital essence."

  "Yes."

  "It does not argue for your being a competent thief."

  "You do not see me at my best."

  "Ah! Spirit!" Krunzle saw a pointed toe tap once, twice. "Perhaps you will do."

  "Do what?" asked the thief.

  "I have need for a resourceful agent," said the Kersite. "Someone who can be sent on an errand with some chance of seeing the job through."

  "I prefer to choose my own assignments," Krunzle said.

  "This," said the prophet, "is not a negotiation. Think of it more as an interview, and put forward your best. If I decide you have the qualities I seek, I will release you and put you to work. If not ..."

  "I welcome an opportunity to demonstrate my worth!" said the thief.

  "Better," said the man in white. A moment later, Krunzle heard a chime, as if the other had struck a small bell. Immediately, the tubule at his cheek detached itself and withdrew. The chime sounded again, and he felt the bonds that constrained him relax and pull away. He immediately toppled over on his side, his lower limbs senseless. Moments later he felt excruciating pain as his blood began to force itself back into ten thousand vessels from which it had been squeezed. He made an involuntary sound.

  "Show fortitude," came the prophet's voice. "It is one of the attributes I require in an agent." Then came the sound of fingers peremptorily snapping and footsteps hurrying.

  Krunzle suppressed a whimper. Four strong arms picked him up and carried him, still contorted and face down, out of the garden. He passed over the patio's flagstones and then over a threshold into the house. He was carried across a room, then along corridors, and finally through a door, where he was dropped onto a hardwood floor. Hands briskly searched him. The knife in his boot departed to join the stiletto that had been pulled from his numb hand in the garden. The garrote around his waist was whisked away, and the lead-weighted, leather-sheathed pacifier in his pocket also left him.

  The two burly servants, lantern-jawed Kersites, rolled him over on his back and efficiently—though not gently—rubbed the circulation back into his limbs. Then they sat him on a low stool and told him to stay and say nothing. It seemed to Krunzle to be an eminently wise course of action, at least for the time being.

  After a while, the man in white came in. He regarded Krunzle from an even greater height than he had in Kalistrade Square. "What," he said, "is your assessment of your situation?"

  Krunzle had been thinking about it, and had come to the conclusion that a truthful answer would best serve. "You saw me in the square this morning, and thought I might be useful to you."

  "Good."

  "You steered me to that park where I could see the tree of jewels—"

  "All fake, by the way," the Kersite interrupted. "Even now they are dissolving back into the paste from which they are formed."

  Krunzle let that one go by. "You disabled your defenses so that my cabochon would not warn me off. Then you let the tree catch me."

  "Yes. What else?"

  Krunzle thought for a moment. "Rogues like me are hard to find in Druma," he said, after consideration. "We don't last. So whatever need you have for me has come up suddenly, and you do not wish to waste time sending outside the country for help."

  The prophet smiled thinly and inclined his head. "Very good. And?"

  It took but a moment for Krunzle to see it. "And, whatever the problem is, you do not want it to come to the notice of your peers, hence your decision not to involve the authorities."

  The smile widened. "Excellent."

  "Does that mean I get the job?"

  "Not yet," said the Kersite.

  There followed a series of tests—of dexterity, endurance, intellect, and moral fiber—that Krunzle found taxing, especially after losing some of his essence to the tree. He passed them all—except, of course, the ethical conundrums. But then, that was not an area in which his prospective employer wished him to excel.

  At the end of it, which was also the end of the night, with the first rays of the sun warming the east-facing window, the Kersite pronounced himself satisfied.

  "What, then, is the task?" Krunzle said, panting and sweating.

  "My daughter, Gyllana," said the prophet, "has decamped with a Taldan, a former officer in the Mercenary League. His name is Wolsh Berbackian. They were seen heading in the direction of the Five Kingdoms. You will go after them, find them, and bring her back." A thought occurred to him and he added, "Or die trying."

  Chapter Two

  An Ulfen, an Osirian, and a Half-Orc...

  The Kalistocrat's name was Ippolite Eponion. His title was meaningless to Krunzle: First Secretary to the Second Commissariote, or vice versa. But it was clear he commanded both wealth and power, the two being synonymous among the merchant-oligarchs of Druma. He also appeared to enjoy the services of a full-time wizard, a small and wizened Tian who was introduced as the Inestimable Thang-Sha, bald as bone and with a face as wrinkled as dried fruit. A wispy beard drooped from his chin and a mustache thin as a pair of rats' tails depended from the corners of his upper lip.

  The wizard came when summoned from somewhere in the labyrinthine bowels of the mansion. He arrived blinking, preceded by an odor of acrid smoke, clad in a well-worn robe of watered silk figured with
arcane symbols and characters in the Tien script. In one crabbed hand he carried a bulging sack of black cloth.

  Bidden to examine the new hire, he first peered at Krunzle from various angles, sometimes through squinted eyes, sometimes through open, finally through one eye at a time. Next he brought out of the bag a telescoping spyglass of black crystal through which he examined the thief's irises, ear canals, nostrils, and mouth.

  "He is no one else's," he told Eponion, in the sing-song manner that marked him as a Tian as much as his copper-colored skin and dark eyes, "but if you are sending him after Gyllana, you will need some means to guarantee that he remains yours once he is out of sight."

  "What do you suggest?" said the merchant.

  The spellcaster pulled his stub of a nose, thought for a moment, then said, "Most reliable: kill him now, reanimate him, impose Brumel's Comprehensive Geas. It acts with particular potency on the freshly undead cerebrum."

  Krunzle raised a finger and opened his mouth, but Eponion forestalled him by saying, "I need him to have his wits about him. Along the path the Taldan may have left puzzles to unpick. He may encounter persons he'll need to outwit."

  The Tian shrugged. He reached into the bag and withdrew what looked to Krunzle like a coil of bronze wire, thick as a finger. But then the wizard held the object in his upturned palm, breathed on it and spoke some syllables the thief could not make out, and the coil unwound to become a small snake whose close-set scales shimmered from copper to old gold. It raised itself up and stared at the wizard's face, its head weaving back and forth, its eyes a deep shade of green, as the man spoke to it, again in words that somehow failed to lodge in the thief's ears.