Meric gathered water for the cauldron, carried fish from the nets, and retrieved tomatoes from the supplies in the steamcars. Mostly, however, he just listened to Nog’s inexhaustible stories and musings about flavor.
Even some of the savages are not entirely savage.
Meric pushed the memory away. He couldn’t afford to be sentimental now. All that mattered was the Plan. As Nog talked, Meric kept a surreptitious eye on the other tribesmen. Two were on watch in the forest. Three more were by the river. Meliai and two others chatted not far away, waiting for dinner. She glanced his way more than once. When Meric looked again, she was slipping into the forest–to look for more berries, perhaps. Finally, he saw his chance.
Nog was rambling about some long-ago adventure, wherein he’d insisted on seasoning a dead mammoth for half-starved men who would’ve eaten it raw. The cook turned away from the cauldron to pick up some herbs–and Meric let the crumbled mushrooms tumble from his sleeves into the bubbling stew. He’d crushed two big handfuls into his palms when he’d fallen, slipping the bits into his shirt. As they’d walked, he’d subtly collected the bits clinging to his clothing as well. Since then, he’d barely been aware of anything but the bulk of the toxic plant stuffed into his sleeves.
The mushrooms disappeared beneath the churning surface of the stew. Nog turned back and stirred the pot.
“…and he said, ‘Nog, my friend, when you said five more minutes I was ready to eat you raw, but on my word, I’ll never make that mistake again.’ Truth to the Goddess, that’s what he said. And you know what? He kept his word. Never complained about a meal again. Least, not until somebody stuck a blade in his belly,” Nog finished soberly, taking Meric’s smile for encouragement.
Mobius leapt to the edge of the cauldron and sniffed carefully, tail twitching.
“Gonna cook yourself, ya’ bloody fool,” Nog said, shooing the squirrel away.
When the meal was ready, Meric sat down with the others, stomach fluttering. Meliai returned from the forest with a bulbous yellow fruit. Bowls and utensils were distributed from the steamcar–goods made by Trajan on a previous trip. Nog’s “River Stew” was thick with herbs and vegetables. Meric couldn’t avoid it completely. He spooned a mouthful, praying he didn’t ingest too much, wondering if the others would ingest enough.
“Think maybe something was a bit off with one of those fish,” Nog said, frowning over his bowl.
“Think maybe something’s a bit off with you, Nog,” grumbled a stocky, dark-skinned savage.
“Your sister doesn’t think so,” Nog said, shrugging.
“She always did have terrible taste. Hey–where you going?”
Meric had risen to his feet.
“Need a word with a Trajan,” he said. The savage grunted.
Trajan stood with Azog by the riverbank. Meric was temporarily blocked from view by the sleeping mammoth. He dumped his stew and kicked loose grass over it. His true purpose accomplished, he carried on toward Trajan. Azog turned at his approach. Meric didn’t know what he was going to say until the words were out of his mouth.
“So you were a Plutarch,” he said, surprising even himself. He’d been avoiding thinking about everything Trajan had said in the Fog. Distracted by his worries over the stew, the words just slipped out. Trajan looked at Meric. Azog meandered away up the riverbank.
“Was a Plutarch? Still am, technically,” Trajan said.
“Why did you turn your back on Panchaea?” Meric asked.
Trajan guffawed.
“Panchaea turned its back on me. I was exiled, Meric.”
“Exiled? How? Why?” He didn’t know Plutarchs could even be exiled.
Trajan let out a long breath.
“Love. Maker and destroyer of all things,” he said finally.
Meric’s expression was a question in itself.
“Another time, Meric. A man has to keep some things to himself.”
The Plebian and the Plutarch watched the river flowing past. Meric should’ve returned to the others, but there were things he wanted to know. Things he’d never been able to ask a real Plutarch.
“What is it like–to speak to the Fog?” he whispered, feeling half ashamed of the question. The savage-king chuckled.
“All former Plebians ask that sooner or later. Still, it’s a brave question when the answer may challenge your deepest beliefs. Are you sure you’re ready to hear it?”
Meric looked at the water.
“No. But tell me anyway.”
Trajan tapped his left temple twice, eyes twinkling.
“Implants, Meric. In my early teens, there was a ceremony. I was injected with thousands of microscopic machines–even smaller than the Fog. They assembled in my brain. Networked with it. The resulting implant provides an interface between my brain and the Fog. It communicates with both. Control becomes intuitive. There’s no speech involved. I can feel the Fog. I can shape it to my will. Or I can ‘think’ basic programs into my creations. Anyone can be given an implant, but a genetic marker is required to activate it. This way, even if a Plebian somehow acquired one, they could never use it.”
Meric said nothing. All his life he’d been told the Fog was a manifestation of God’s Will. Its very existence was de facto proof of the Plutarchs’ kinship with divinity. The power inherent in that relationship was plain for anyone to see. Now a Plutarch was telling him it was all a sham, a technological trick inherited from a long-dead civilization.
No. He couldn’t believe that. Not now, not ever. How could he trust Trajan? Hadn’t he been warned about the man’s deceptions? Hadn’t Trajan himself been exiled by God’s Chosen? Still, it was the chance, however remote, that such a thing might be possible, which pushed Meric to the edge of an internal cliff. If he peered into that abyss, if he accepted even a little of what Trajan was telling him, it would mean his whole life had been a lie.
Trajan grimaced, holding his stomach.
“You’ll have to excuse me, Meric. Nog’s nosh isn’t agreeing with me so well.”
“Right. Sure,” said Meric, jumpstarting his heart.
Pull it together.
Outside, they’d finished dinner. Meliai was sitting on a small rock, the core of her yellow fruit in the dirt at her feet. A tribesman was washing the bowls in the river.
“How was the stew?” Meric asked.
“You tell me. I eat what the Goddess provides,” Meliai said.
Meric’s heart skipped a beat.
“You … didn’t have any?”
Meliai shook her head, frowning. The other savages were becoming more uncomfortable by the minute. Two went urgently into the trees to relieve their bowels.
“Godsblood, what did you put that damned stew, Nog?” one asked, bending forward, his hands on his knees.
Nog looked at him, baffled and vaguely scandalized, though he himself was growing pale. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. He’d probably eaten more than anyone. Meliai gazed around, puzzlement dawning.
She’ll know. She’ll figure it out.
A man was returning from the forest when he moaned, took a drunken step, and toppled sideways into the grass. Meliai gasped and ran to him.
Now.
Meric took a step toward Hestia. She had one knee on the ground and a hand to her head, swaying slightly.
“Hey, you okay?” he asked–and grabbed the handle of the atomblade tucked into her belt. He put a knee into Hestia and shoved her to the ground, yanking the blade free. He cut the rope between his ankles, stuck the blade in the earth and ran his wrists between it, parting both bindings. Hestia made a grab for his ankle, yelling. Meric kicked her hand away, pulled the blade from the ground and ran toward the steamcar. Shouts followed. A long black dart hissed far wide of him, shooting into the river. Meric leapt into the steamcar’s open door…
…and met Trajan leaning sickly against the wall, pale and sweating, mirrored shades in one hand.
“Meric?” the savage-king hissed, eyes widening.
His
hand went to the black gun holstered at his side–the same he’d finished Hadric with. Meric caught his wrist coming up and slammed it against the wall. The weapon cluttered to the floor. Meric kicked it through the open door. Trajan was a big man, but the stew had weakened him. Meric shoved him into the narrow isle between the crates of newly crafted goods. Trajan crashed into a row of supplies and fell to the floor. Crates spilled on top of him, dumping armor, mortar and pestle.
The half-walls at the front and rear of the vehicle had been folded down into windows. The mammoth lay in one direction, sick and struggling savages in the other–all except one. An athletic golden-haired figure pumped toward the steamcar on perfectly muscled legs.
Meliai.
Meric ripped the driver’s whip from a peg on the wall. Frantically, he lashed the mammoth’s flanks. The beast gave an offended roar and lumbered to its feet. He cracked the whip again, yelling. The mammoth jerked forward, the steamcar lurching–too late. Meliai caught the edge of the rear window with one hand. She hoisted herself over and landed cat-like in the narrow isle, atomblade in hand. Trajan was moaning and shifting on the floor between them.
“Meric!” Meliai screamed.
Meric whipped the mammoth again. The compartment tilted perilously as the beast galloped with heavy feet along the sloping riverbank. The steamcar’s six wheels rumbled over rough terrain.
“This is madness,” Meliai said, green eyes wide. Meric couldn’t look at her. Nor could he look away. He felt a confusion of shame and desire.
“You don’t understand,” he said miserably.
“It’s the Fog. It’s seeped back into your brain!”
“Go back, Meliai. I have to do this.”
“And you think I’ll let you?”
Meliai made to leap over her father, but Meric lashed the whip. It coiled around her sword-arm, and he jerked it forward as she moved. She tripped over Trajan instead of jumping him. The atomblade clattered to the floor, nearly slicing Meric’s foot off before disappearing through the open door.
Furious, Meliai scrambled to her knees and dove at him. Her shoulder struck him below the ribs. He could’ve stabbed her. Instead, he jabbed his blade into the wall and dropped the whip to free his hands. He was going to swing her through the door when the steamcar met something it didn’t like. The compartment heaved a meter off the ground and came down with a jolt, sending Meric and Meliai wheeling toward the rear. They tripped over the abused savage-king in a tangle of limbs and hair.
They wrestled in the jouncing, narrow isle. She came out on top of him, her teeth gritted, her eyes crazy. Trajan’s hand clutched his ankle. Meric powered her sideways and jerked his leg free. Trajan tried to rise but couldn’t get his balance. He sunk to all fours and wretched. Meric and Meliai came back to their feet in the rear of the steamcar. Before she could move he lunged and pinned her against the wall, slamming her wrists. Their eyes met. Movement ceased. Time disconnected.
He kissed her.
Maybe it was because he would never see or again, or because she was wild and free in a way he could never be, or because he’d wanted to from the moment he’d seen her. He savored her soft lips, the fierce press of her body, the subtle willingness in her muscles as some piece of her yielded. Their lips parted, their eyes locked, chests heaving. His desire was thicker than air, stronger than gravity. There was only one thing he could do.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and threw her off the back of the steamcar.
She went over the half-wall with a scream of fury. Trajan was crawling toward Meric’s abandoned atomblade. Meric shoved past him and pulled the blade from the wall. The steamcar gave another jolt, and Meric almost sliced his own arm off. The mammoth was running down-slope. The right wheels slipped off an embankment. Suddenly the world was tilting. The steamcar crashed violently onto its side. Crates came loose in a riot of noise and motion. Atomblades pincushioned the wall.
The steamcar slowed to a halt as the mammoth tired itself out. In the stillness, the rushing river was the only noise. Meric kicked aside the crates and supplies and clambered through the front window, now more of a door. A tangle of ropes harnessing the mammoth hindered him. He cut them with one swing, freeing the beast. The river was only meters away. Donum Lacrimarum, the Gift of Tears. And there–the landmarks he’d noted when the savages had re-hidden the pontoon. His attentiveness was about to pay off. His faith was too, despite the seeds of Trajan’s dissonance, despite any conflicting desires. It was a minor miracle the mammoth had stopped so close to the hidden pontoon.
God favors me–and his tears will carry me home.
That sense of Destiny was upon him again. He dragged Trajan out of the wreckage. The savage-king swatted weakly, moaning. At the top of the slope, Meliai reappeared, a small figure racing toward them, uninjured, undaunted. Meric dropped his captive and ran to the pontoon. He ripped through the concealment. Brambles cut his hands, his arms, his legs. He shoved the pontoon into the shallows. It was amazingly light.
Divine crafting.
Meliai sped toward them. Trajan was crawling away. Meric hauled him bodily backwards. Nauseous and retching, the savage-king was in no state to resist. Meric heaved him onto the boat. Meliai was screaming, closing in. Frantically, he shoved the pontoon out of the shallows. The river almost stole it, but Meric clawed his way aboard, soaked and exhausted, kneeling on the deck. Meliai stopped at the riverbank, frozen in rage and horror. The river was too fast for her to follow. Meric was still staring at her as the current bore them out of sight–toward Panchaea.
CHAPTER 10
Four hours into his captivity, Trajan sat on the pontoon, head bowed, gray hair wet and matted like a bedraggled dog … and laughed. He’d lost his sunglasses in the struggle. He was bound by knotted strips of cloth torn from Meric’s shirt. His pants were stained with mud and worse things.
For the first hour, he’d tried to drag himself into the river. The effects of the mushrooms had made it easy for Meric to stop him. It had also meant he’d pissed and defecated and vomited on the boat. Meric had managed to maneuver the pontoon to a shallow pool by the eastern bank, where he’d shoved Trajan into the water to cleanse him. He’d ripped strips from his shirt to make bindings. A flat piece of wood served as a paddle. When Trajan had made a more earnest attempt to dive into the river half an hour later, Meric had struck him. Since then the savage-king had been docile, but Meric’s hands still trembled. He was considerably unnerved by the knowledge that he’d struck a Plutarch, even in exile. He’d done worse in the steamcar during his escape, but there’d been no time to think about that. In the hours since, Trajan hadn’t spoken outside a few curses. Now–laughter.
“Why do you laugh?” Meric asked.
Trajan’s silver eyes held all the misery of the world.
“When you get to be my age, even tragedy is bitterly amusing.”
“You’re not so old,” Meric said quietly. He was in his late forties or early fifties maybe, but in good physical shape. Trajan laughed again.
“I was old when your father was young.”
“Goat piss,” Meric muttered.
“We inherited more than the Fog from our industrious ancestors. Medical treatments and the bots in my blood kept me looking thirty for fifty years. The bots died out after I left Panchaea. The RFI didn’t kill them, but they only last so long without new treatments. My implant works out here for a similar reason–it’s electrochemical, not strictly electric, utilizing the brain’s energy for power. I tried to make more med-bots in Ozymand, but medical tech was never a part of my work as an Artificer, and Ozymand’s memory-banks didn’t have the blueprints. Constructing them wrong would’ve been suicidal. Since then I’ve aged naturally. I may not look it, but I was born more than ninety years ago.”
Meric put his palms into his eyes and rubbed them.
“You don’t believe me,” Trajan said.
“I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“I suppose I was a bit incautious. I’
ve done this too many times now–opened a Plebian’s eyes. I thought you were becoming one of us. Sadly, changing deep beliefs is like grinding down a mountain. You can’t topple it in a day, and even if you could, there’d be such a violent upheaval that everything around it would be utterly destroyed. You’ve got to chip away at it instead. You’ve got to ride out the little avalanches. I was chipping away at you, but I forgot the bones of the mountain were still intact … and the fall was steep.”
“I don’t have to listen to you anymore,” Meric said.
“Quite right.”
“You were a Plutarch. How could you do all this? Kill those legionnaires? Capture Plebians, weave spells out of words and convince them everything is wrong? You’re as bad as Ozymandias. You’re the Devil himself.”
“Funny you’d use that term. In Christian mythology, the Devil was a fallen angel. But you wouldn’t know that. They don’t teach ancient mythologies to Plebians in the Fog. I never wanted to kill those men, incidentally. But I have a duty to protect my people. You were the ones who sought us out. The People fought for their homes and families. You fought for the Plutarchs. Whose cause was greater? Who was the aggressor? My real crime was telling you the truth–oh yes. A terrible deed, that. Unforgivable.”
“Your words are poison,” Meric said.
“No, Meric, they’re the antidote.”
“Enough! I’ll gag you if I have to.”
Meric was already miserable over thoughts of Meliai. He couldn’t bear the thought that something might be wrong on a larger scale. Trajan had to be lying. The alternative was unthinkable. Trajan sighed and looked at the river. A fish broke the surface, thrashing after smaller prey.
“Just let me go overboard,” Trajan said. With his wrists bound, he’d drown.
“We’re for Panchaea,” Meric said.
“Kinder to let me drown. They’re going to execute me, you know. Oh, but you must have your glory, is that it? Bold Meric, thought dead by all, returning triumphant with no less than the King of the Savages in tow. I was never a king, but that’s what they think of me, isn’t it? What a victory that will be. Bravo, Meric. Bravo. The Plutarchs will be pleased you’ve developed into such a useful tool. They’ll want to use their tool again and again, until you’re worn down to the nub. Then they’ll toss you aside and forge new tools from your sons.”
The Last Plutarch Page 13