Madness of Flowers

by Jay Lake

  Onesiphorous was so startled he nearly tumbled into the water. Instead he grabbed at a bush, trying to hitch up his pants at the same time. "Hello, lady. You catch me at a poor moment."

  The fish laughed.

  He plunged onward. "We are almost ready to give challenge."

  "As may be. My will and word have passed where they may." The fish's pale eyes gleamed in the light of a moon a day past full.

  "Do you have wisdom for me?"

  "No," said the fish. "Just amazement at the curiosity of monkeys. As you are free with your seed, you will share it with me back in the heart of Angoulême, ah?"

  "When we fight, and have won, I will come back to you."

  "You give me a binding, ah. I will not forget." The fish was gone with a flick. Onesiphorous buttoned himself up and stumbled back to the fire.

  "You could have done your business here," Kalliope said with a small smile.

  "No," he replied curtly. "I could not."

  "So you lust to spread your seed within me, but shame to spill it before me? The men of the desert are different." She rolled over and became quiet, but did not move away when he lay down next to her.

  He stared at the few stars that glittered through the leaves above their heads and wondered what game he'd just taken on.

  Coming back down the rivers, they encountered more traffic. The narrow boats of the Angoumois were out. They saw a few dories as well, and also plantation barges ingeniously armored with bales.

  Onesiphorous realized that fire would be their greatest fear.

  Barges, boats, rafts—a flotilla spread out on the waters, heading for the Bay of Snakes. Many were loaded with miners, field hands, even Angoumois fresh from the swamp.

  "If there are enough men for us to split our force," Onesiphorous said as he paddled, "I would like to assault the corsair ships."

  "I have only commanded mounted troops, never on water," she answered, "but I would not generally split a force except at great need and opportunity. I see your need, but what is your opportunity?"

  "These barges make me think of fire. If we burn them out, we will have them."

  "If we burn them out, they will fight to the last," she pointed out. "That will be bitter and bloody and well beyond what our raw troops will stand for. Look within the other tent, though. If we burn only one or two of their ships, while challenging them hard at sword's point, the corsairs may make a retreat to defend the rest of their hulls. Always leave the enemy a route of escape." She grinned. "Of course, if you have sufficient force, you can cut down every last one of him."

  "Then you take command," Onesiphorous said. "You have just shown your fitness over me. Beyond that, I am but a dwarf and mean little to most of our fighters."

  "I am but a woman, and mean less."

  "I am awake," Jason said. His voice sounded different. It was deeper, and groaned like wood under great pressure.

  They both stared. Jason sat up. His skin sloughed away, like a man with a terrible sunburn. The new flesh exposed below was rippled and tan—tree bark.

  "We must hurry," he continued. "A death flies out of the North. I can spend little time in this place. I will take on their ships, in keeping with your plan, sister."

  Onesiphorous' skin prickled with the noumenal. He felt a powerful desire to slip over the side and take his chances with the mudsharks. All they would do was eat him.

  "Al ka nja," muttered Kalliope in Tokhari. Her hands began to slide through some complex motion.

  "No." Jason reached out. His arm stretched as he did, crackling to extend almost the length of the boat until he closed a fist the size of Onesiphorous' head around his sister's hands. "I am not what you think. This is a magick of the Stonesource, sister. The genius of the desert will not care what walks the soil here for a quarter of the moon."

  "You are not meant to be." Her voice was tense. Warm sand began piling around her feet.

  One of the paddles sprouted leaves. Jason's fist creaked. She hissed with pain as he tightened it. "You made me."

  "Stop," said Onesiphorous. They both looked at him. "Kill each other time and again if you wish, but wait until I've got my thrice-damned City back!" He turned away. Persuasion was the only power he had with these two. "And don't sink this accursed boat, either."

  A green monkey sitting precariously on a branch overhanging the water nodded at him. Then it snickered and scampered away.

  "We will hold our dispute in abeyance," rumbled Jason. "But make haste. I will soon be too heavy for this little craft."

  Two days later, Onesiphorous grounded their keel on a narrow mud beach at the Bay of Snakes. It was afternoon. The tide was slack, beginning to find its way back in. They were still four days before the new moon of Mai, but already over a dozen boats had arrived. Men gathered in temporary camps along the shore.

  She would be angry at the mob breaking her trees and fouling her water.

  "I am off," he announced. The other two had not spoken in more than a day. "Jason, do you wish men with you, or will you take these ships alone?"

  "I will need several volunteers," he rumbled. "Small men who can climb well and do not fear to fight."

  "They will be sent to you, with a bigger boat." Onesiphorous stepped over the side and slogged toward the nearest camp.

  Kalliope came splashing after. "You're not going to leave him there."

  "What else will I do?" Onesiphorous shrugged off the hand she laid on his shoulder. "You fight like children, with the might to level cities."

  "I am sorry," she said. "There is too much between us. In any event, I am coming with you. Someone needs to tell you how to hold an army. It is somewhat bigger than a sword."

  "I don't know how to hold a sword, either," he admitted. The fight was coming all too soon. He needed to send a message to the Tribade in Port Defiance. He needed to speak with the free Angoumois, or even better, to their queen. He needed to array his men and boats in something resembling battle order. He needed to pray for good weather.

  Grasping a sword was the smallest of his worries.

  Imago

  Crazed or not, the processional was ready to march late that afternoon. The Card King rode his huge white gelding in front of the Lord Mayor's stage, surrounded by Crusty Alices. Imago was among a rank of walkers in wide-brimmed fur hats and long cloaks. Children and women, for the most part, pretending to be dwarfs. He wasn't even the shortest of them.

  The doors were thrown open to a sodden drizzle. A decent crowd gathered outside even so. Many of them wore black cloaks and hats as well.

  A dwarf dashed in from the rain and approached the Card King. After listening a moment, the fat man waved Imago forward. "This one's got a strange tale," he shouted over the noise of the stage creaking into motion.

  Marelle stepped out of the Alice line to listen as well.

  "There's wasps," the new dwarf shouted. Imago didn't recognize him. "Great swarms of them down near the Limerock Palace. They've settled all over Terminus Plaza."

  The Card King looked at Imago. "Is this your doing?"

  "Do I look magickal to you?"

  Marelle's words were almost lost as the musicians struck up. "We've been hearing about wasps along the docks. Giant ones, though no one knows for sure."

  Giant wasps? "Out of the North, I imagine. There's Bijaz put paid to." Imago felt a hot pressure behind his eyes. Worse even than Enero dying. Had he killed all his friends? "We may as well finish it. I still think your plan isn't worth a candied fig, but I don't have a better one."

  The Card King gave him a strange look, while Marelle turned away shaking her head. The processional wheezed out into Fish Trap Lane.

  Marching amid the Lords Mayor, Imago kept in step with the drums. Someone tossed him one of the strange, waxy poppies. Imago carried the flower high in memory of Bijaz. Soon his impersonators did the same.

  The cobbles were slick and the march was long, but he no longer cared.

  Imago watched for ambush at Imperatrix Park. All th
ey saw were hordes of shrieking children, laughing as the giant Crusty Alice puppet bent and lifted his skirt to the Lord Mayor's boot. The walkers handed out hats and cloaks which had been tucked into baskets dangling from the side of the stage. There would be dozens more small figures in black by the time they came to Terminus Plaza.

  The march slowed near Melisande Avenue. The Lord Mayor's stage inched forward. Volunteers clustered around, chattering. Most clutched poppies now as well. When they broke out into Terminus Plaza, the problem was obvious.

  As reported, the Winter Grove was a writhing mass of insects. Wasps hung on the eaves of buildings around the plaza, beneath the arch of the Riverward Gate, everywhere. Their buzzing was a slow, rippling thunder.

  The giant Lord Mayor puppet kicked his way into the plaza. A line of bailiffs waited on the wall of the Limerock Palace. Imago felt an intense swell of frustration. He'd trod this measure before.

  The Card King led the stage across Terminus Plaza. He avoided the wasp-clouded trees, where some of the palace staff were nervously setting out smoke pots to drive off the insects.

  Instead of the mocking laughter they'd meant for this moment, there was nothing but a widening silence. The square emptied as the prudent slipped away.

  Only the bailiffs remained. A knot of robed Burgesses stood in their midst. Even in the fading light, Imago could spot Wedgeburr.

  The Card King pressed on amid the drizzle which trailed off to an oppressive damp.

  The reduced processional creaked to a halt before the Riverward Gate. Without the paraphernalia of jugglers, bead-throwers, walkers, costumes and shrieking crowds, the lone stage was nothing more than a forlorn carnival prop.

  Though the sun had dipped below the horizon, a gelid yellow light clung to the sky. The wind had picked up with the sunset to spread the reek of the River Saltus. The cycling hum of wasp wings tore at everyone's hearing.

  The bailiffs atop the wall stood at port arms. Wedgeburr, Selsmark, and Fallen Arch stared down, several nervous back-benchers lurking behind them in support.

  The Card King raised his fist. "Greetings to the Assemblage of Burgesses from the Krewe of Faces!"

  The puppets creaked as the Lord Mayor tried to kick Crusty Alice in the arse. The Alice did not bend and raise her skirt.

  "You seem to be lacking a carnival, fat man," shouted Selsmark. Wedgeburr simply shook his head.

  A crowd of screaming, laughing citizens might have provoked something, but this was pathetic.

  Still grasping his waxy poppy, Imago stepped out of line.

  "It does not matter what the people think," the fat man called up, wiping sweat from his face. "The krewes have our purpose, even if we march alone."

  "Then rid my square of those horrid wasps," shouted Wedgeburr, to Selsmark's obvious surprise.

  Ah, thought Imago, drawing up next to the Card King's stirrup. They are off their plan now.

  Somehow the Card King managed a laugh. "That is no magick of the krewes. Just the City Imperishable, turning its worst to you. Usurper."

  "Treason!" shouted Selsmark.

  "Hardly," Imago called out. He dropped his hat and cloak, but continued to cling to the flower. "It was you, Provost, and your pretender there, who committed treason against the City Imperishable by striking down her lawfully appointed executive."

  That was hardly a cry to rally battalions, but it made the point.

  The wasps continued to hum. Selsmark stood with his mouth open. Fallen Arch smirked. Wedgeburr stared a moment before shouting down, "You are more persistent than a case of fire-piss. I can cure that."

  Imago had to believe in the blank cartridges. He raised his flower as if it were a sword. "Strike as you will, cowardly Alice."

  "You hide behind flowers," Wedgeburr growled. "Don't you know that the steel scythe always wins?" He raised his hand. The bailiffs shouldered their rifles. Every one of them was trained on Imago.

  He wondered how much charge blanks actually held. "I would not do this thing," he said quietly.

  "Hold fast," the Card King told him quietly. "Hold fast."

  Wedgeburr's hand dropped. The bailiffs fired. Imago thought he felt a plucking at his hair, but no bullets struck. Behind him, someone shrieked.

  What?

  The First Counselor looked astonished.

  The wasp noise crescendoed amid a massive rush of air. They exploded from the trees.

  In moments the insects were everywhere. In the press of their bodies, Imago could see no further than the Card King. That was enough. The fat man's horse collapsed as swarming insects burrowed into its flesh. The stricken animal screamed like a woman.

  The Card King fell with his mount, also overwhelmed by a wriggling mass of wasps. Sickened, Imago dropped to his knees to spew his lunch.

  Though their wing beats were like a lover's breath on his skin, none of the insects touched him.

  Imago curled on the stones of the square, still clutching his little poppy. He waited out the horror with tight-shut eyes until only a heavy, terrible silence remained.

  It seemed that hours had passed, though the sky was still light. The insects were gone. Next to him, the Card King and his horse were a bloody jumble of bones, hair, clothing, and harness.

  Imago retched again. Then he climbed to his feet. Most of the Lords Mayor were groaning and in shock. Likewise the Crusty Alices. Others were bones and cloth.

  It was gut-wrenchingly obvious that the puppeteers had died inside their figures.

  Everyone who lived clutched one of the waxy poppies.

  He turned toward the Riverward Gate.

  Red wool and bones were scattered on the battlements or slumped at the base of wall. Rifled muskets lay everywhere. At least one of the Burgesses had been taken as well—Imago hoped he was looking at Wedgeburr's robes.

  Across Terminus Plaza the Winter Grove was a stand of ragged spears of heartwood surrounded by mounds of damp dust. The smoke pots were scattered, but the servants who'd been working close by weren't even rag piles.

  So close to the swarms, they would have been torn to carmine fog.

  Imago stared at the poppy in his hand. The blood-red splotches at the base of each petal had turned black. That damned woman must have done something terrible in the North, to visit this plague upon his city.

  He knelt beside the rags of the Card King and touched the broken dome of the fat man's skull. "I should have called you friend," he whispered, "for you have always been true to me."

  Looking back up, he wondered where the streams in the evening sky had come from. They were larger and slower than the little flitter mice haunting the abandoned buildings near the eastern wall.

  Another plague from the North. He would ask Marelle what she—

  The thought broke off with a shattering of his heart.

  "Marelle!" Imago searched among the wandering Crusty Alices and Lords Mayor. None of them were her. When he began pawing through the bloody bones, shouting her name over and over, a few other survivors pulled him off.

  Being led away, Imago thought he heard tiny voices crying in the sky.

  III: BLOSSOMING

  Bijaz

  In six panicked days they recrossed what had taken fourteen on the trip northward. The nights were filled with the rush of great waters and flashes of light behind them, though the days seemed almost normal.

  The two surviving Northmen had turned completely inward. DeNardo was focused on hunting down food and shelter. Ashkoliiz held nothing but venom for everyone and everything.

  "Another word from you and I shall make your tongue into a snake," Bijaz finally told her. "I will not kill you, because I want to see you hanged in Delator Square."

  "Your precious City is—" she began, but Bijaz raised his finger. That was enough to quiet her.

  DeNardo was little better. The freerider ranged ahead for game and water in the high country, generally avoiding their company. He could have survived out here on his own. Likewise the Northmen. Bijaz and Ashkoliiz were
at the mercy of their companions. He wondered why the Winter Boy bothered to keep them alive.

  That they met no monsters was somehow more frightening than a set battle might have been. Fear built on fear without the release of rage.

  Bijaz never would have thought to find himself longing for a fight.

  DeNardo brought them first to the splintered ruins of the stockade that had been the Northern Expedition's base camp. "Nothing being there larger than a thighbone," the freerider said, more words than he'd spoken in the past few days put together.