by Jeffrey Hall
“That will take too long,” said Wish. “I’d rather bring it to someone who knows the language directly.”
Boz, signed Moso.
Wish nodded.“In the meantime, we’ll need to borrow that sack and a box, if you have one.”
This time it was Wings’s and Dargu’s turn to exchange a glance. “Bait?”
“The best way to catch a beast,” said Wish.
Hopefully the same principles apply to people.
Dargu nodded to Wings. The Eclectun half-jumped, half-flew into the barrier of vines, parting them like an arrow through the underbrush.
“Some flier,” said Wish.
Dargu spoke absentmindedly while he examined the third box. “It’s the windleaf harness I’ve crafted for him. Helps cut the air like no other.”
A moment later Wings returned, a plain box in one hand, the sack in the other. He handed them over to Wish.
“The sentence on the back of the box,” Wish said. “We’ll need a copy of it to bring to Boz.”
Dargu nodded and reached into his tunic. He revealed a small book and a stick of blackbark. He tore out a page, placed it over the carving on the box’s bottom, and traced out the lines with the stick of blackbark. Once he finished, he held it out for Wish to take. “Be careful with this. You lose this, and our one step ahead on this trail is gone.”
“Give it to him.” Wish pointed to Moso.
Smart move. That way you can’t lose it when you go running off to the jungle or something stupid like that.
Wish smiled. “It’s not because of that. It’ll be safer with you.”
That can’t be a compliment I just heard from you. Moso took the folded piece of paper and put it into his pouch. What’s the real reason?
He put the fake box in the sack and hefted it over his shoulder. “Because I’m going to be the bait.”
Wings had snuck out through the top window of the structure and flown around the nearby street to ensure no one was watching. Satisfied, he gave the signal, and Wish and Moso hurried away from the structure, walking side by side for the time being.
Are you sure about this? signed Moso. The blood and debris of their tangle with the streaked ones still mottled his fur as it did Wish’s skin. A perfect way to draw more attention to themselves. A perfect way to speed up the process. They were three days into this endeavor. Four more days and his father would be out on the street or worse. I could ask around. I’ve spent plenty of time in the underbelly of this place, and know those who have waded even deeper in the smook of it.
“And risk putting you back before the Leg Holes so soon?”
Moso licked his hand and ran it through his fur. Why the hell not?
Wish shook his head. He knew his partner well enough to know that he couldn’t say no in such places. His new resolve would be whisked away, and then they would be dealing with his debt as well as the job.
“We stick to the plan.”
Moso shrugged. It’s your teeka or mine.
Plans were rarely his talent, especially when dealing with creatures as shifty as people. A simple plan was the best he could do. So be it if it put him in danger.
Moso was right. He had lost a finger already for this, he might as well risk his life.
The two meandered down the street of the inner city, where individuals strolled in pairs, gossiping and laughing, careless.Then they would see the two walking towards them, adorned in their strange armor and ragged clothes, their equipment extending from their belts and backs like new appendages, the burs and other forest debris that decorated their attire, and realize they were jungle-divers. Quickly their demeanors would change to looks of disgust and they would hurry on forward as if they were scared the two would infect them with some disease of the jungle. Was this really the future of his father? A place as pompous as this?
It’s safe, he reminded himself. Besides, it wouldn’t be his home, so what did it matter? The jungle would always be there for him in its chaotic comfort, willing to welcome him back with its unaccusing eyes and welcoming embrace. And if he finally knew his father was safe, then maybe he could stay there for longer. Weeks maybe. Perhaps months. He could lose himself in it, discover every last detail of it, and hide so deep in it that the shine of the city could never think of reaching him.
But what if Marli actually ended up accepting him like Moso said she would after this?
Wish rubbed his forehead with his left hand, his missing finger and fingertip throbbing as he did.
You alright? said Moso, his eyes already shooting to the windows of the nearby buildings and the alleys that ran between them.
“I’m fine,” lied Wish. They had a job to do. The last thing he needed getting in their way was his own anxious head.
We’ve been in some smook before, but this already seems to be the messiest of it, eh?
“We’ll find a way to come out clean.”
Like we did when we escaped those mold men? Moso smiled.
“Something like that.” Wish smiled back, recalling the time they were surrounded by darsanai and how they’d had to cover themselves in mushrooms and raw mold to slip through their circle.
I’m worried these stains will be permanent, said Moso, and the Chassa suddenly looked sad, as if there was regret hidden beneath the smile he held onto. It was the same look Wish had seen on his face only a little while ago when the Pangolian woman attacked him. But it was quickly erased as Moso forced a smile.
Their arrival at the Gold Row stopped their conversation. Through an archway carved to look like the maw of a thorkin, they could see the main street alive with evening traffic. The colors of the Striped Streets ended, and a more mundane decor expanded out before them. The shops were closing. Their owners and the people who bought from them were now hurrying to bury themselves in the sanctuary of beer, flesh, and other substances. Any coffin that could keep the oppressiveness of the jungle away and bolster their hopes. It wouldn’t be long before the Singer took up his residence upon the rooftops of Fangmora and started his songs. A group of revelers passed beneath the archway, already singing. Drunk. Attempting to guess what songs the Singer would sing that evening.
The street always made Wish sweat, but even more so at night.
So many people. So many eyes. The dark emboldened people. The stuff they took to alter their minds even more so. He and Moso would attract more attention, which was good for their current plan, but it would wound him further, creating deeper rends in his already tattered spirit.
Are you ready? Moso adjusted his belt.
Wish nodded.
Then let’s make a scene.
They crossed beneath the archway and entered into the commotion of the Gold Row. Immediately Wish felt as if a thousand sets of eyes had turned on them. Moso went first, pushing past a Tortallan merchant with a sizeable load of goods strapped to his shell. Once in the center of the street, he stopped, waiting for Wish to catch up to him. There they stood like a stone in the middle of a strong current, letting the rush of people pass around them.
Moso’s tail swished furiously, like a flag attempting to cast a signal. This is where I leave you. I’ll let you know what I find.
“We’ll meet up soon,” said Wish loudly.
They nodded to one another and went opposite ways. Wish turned to face the Gold Row and its crowd. A dozen people passed by, and it felt as though every one of them glanced at him. Were they just more individuals appalled by the sight of a jungle-diver, or were they his enemies, the Limbs of Voshi, attempting to walk by as if they were nothing but commoners in order to lull him into a false sense of security?
Everyone is an enemy now, he reminded himself.
They would need to prove themselves otherwise as he walked and tempted his pursuers with the sack and fake box slung over his shoulder. Only then would he be able to distinguish the truth. Only then would they be able to tease out the Limbs from the crowd and follow them back to their own hideout.
He adjusted the sack over his shoulder, glanced to the
top of the closest building, and saw a black smudge upon its roof.
Moso’s tail waved from high above. Get moving.
Wish started walking, sure to keep to the middle of the Row, sure to expose himself to as many eyes as possible. People bumped into him as he pushed along, aggravating the countless injuries sustained during their visit to the streaked ones’ village, but he just kept going, watching the people’s hands as they passed, wary of any that might pull out a weapon, gut him, and take the box.
On one occasion he saw a Boarling mercenary clad in scarwood armor reach for the axe on his belt as he approached. Wish reached for his own weapon, ready to meet the Boarling’s challenge, but instead the man’s hand crept past the axe and into a pouch along his belt. He produced a pinch of marrow mane and snorted it loudly, leaving a purple stain upon his nose. Wish exhaled.
I’ll gut half the people here before any of the botamancers expose themselves, he thought, trying to steady his nerves. He glanced up to the rooftops, where he saw Moso perched, surveying the crowds, his tail as still as a dead snake.
Nothing.
Where were these trits? He peeked over his shoulder and saw nothing but heads bobbing back and forth, one long line of disinterested faces carrying onward like worker ants sent from a faceless queen. The only thing that people did was glance at him and keep going. And those glances were painful. A thousand tiny, glistening claws tearing away pieces of him for their minds to digest like terrible stomachs whose juices would turn and regurgitate malformed reports of him. The predators of the jungle weren’t even that cruel.
How was he supposed to suffer this? His skin crawled. His heart hammered in his chest. He felt his stomach tighten into knots. He felt as though he would faint. And if he did, that would be the end of it. Just another creature beneath the thousands of pounding boots, trampled and crushed and forgotten, finally returned to the soil like they all wanted him to be in the first place. Like his mother.
He veered from the center of the road, pushing past people to make it to the market stalls that lined the buildings, escaping the mad press in favor of the lesser crowds that stood in front of what few shops were still open at that time of the day.
As he rested with his hand against a pole of a stall of a closed bird-seller’s, the hundreds of caged creatures hidden beneath blankets to quiet them suddenly awoke and sang. Wish caught his breath as the current of people passed by.
He heard whistling from above. Moso peered over the edge of the building that overlooked the stall, his tail visible so Wish could interpret it. What’s a matter?
Wish rubbed his forehead, trying to subdue the panic he felt coursing through his blood. He wanted to tell Moso that it was impossible. He wanted to tell him that there were too many people and that they would have to come up with another plan, but as he turned to do just that, the shudder of a flower drooping in a pot beneath a nearby stall caught his eye. The three blossoms, all of varying shades of white, each had their black center turned towards him like dilated pupils, and when he met their gaze, they turned slightly as if pretending that they weren’t looking in his direction in the first place.
They were just plants, yes, but having seen what he had seen in the Black Orchard, plants could no longer be just plants. They were watching him, he was sure of it. He surveyed the surrounding stalls and found other forms of vegetation hung about their poles and canvases. A set of vines were pointing at him like accusing fingers before falling back limply to dangle from the stall’s table. Next to it, a small potted tree bent in his direction. When he looked at it, it stood upright, a weak attempt at becoming inconspicuous.
“Moso. The plants,” said Wish, just loud enough so it would travel up to the monkey’s ears.
I see them.
“They’re out there. Look for a few fools mumbling to themselves.”
And tell them apart from the drunks and lunatics? You give my abilities too much credit.
Moso was right. Dotted throughout the crowd were handfuls of stumbling people, with too much beer in their bellies or gods knew whatever else in their blood, muttering to themselves or shouting obscenities to whoever happened to pass by. More spectacles for the rest of the commoners to gawk at along this menagerie of a street. How could they tell the difference between the ones whispering to plants and the ones spouting nonsense?
A tap atop the building recalled his attention. Just keep moving, I’ll sort it out from up here.
Wish nodded. He tightened his grip on the sack with the fake box and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, trying once again to dissipate the anxiety he felt. Behind the veil of his lids he imagined himself in the jungle, amidst a stretch of thick forest so full of life that he couldn’t even hear the fall of his own feet. He held onto that thought and once more entered the current of people.
“Watch where you’re going, gaztanga!” A Treeback cursed at him as he rejoined the street and bumped into the passerby’s elbow. Wish barely afforded him a glance. Addressing him would only lead to a fight, and a fight would only create more chaos to throw them off the scent of his pursuers.
He scrutinized the crowd as he walked, staring down the few that meandered lazily along, their lips moving, their eyes empty as if looking at something far away. They were not botamancers, only distractions. A sprinkle of deterrents cast upon the street by the city, a place that seemed to thrive on the chaos it sowed within Wish. He hated it and its trickery. All he wanted to do was unsheathe his machete and cut it all away like a vine, but where would that get him? His father was latched onto that vine. Marli and his daughter too. They would be nothing but debris trampled beneath his boot if he were to do that. He reminded himself of his purpose and once again pushed against his own urges to throw it all away and flee into the jungle for good.
And as he waged his own mental battle against the crowd, the throng of people parted, shuffling aside as if a beast charged down the center of the street. Wish stepped back with them, half expecting to see a broadback had found its way through the wall, but quickly realized the cause of the commotion was an animal of a different sort.
“Move!”
A dozen well-armored soldiers hurried down the Gold Row, their armors glistening like oily scales shucked from a serpent as they wound their way through the street. Each had a spear raised as if they were ready to skewer anyone who stood in their way. Wish wondered where they were headed in such a violent hurry until he heard someone next to him speak.
“Headed to the Trough. Finally trying to weed out the Green Men.”
The words rang in Wish’s ears. The Trough. His father was still back there, and only the gods knew what the king defined as weeding out.
He dropped the bag and pushed through the reorganizing crowd to follow the soldiers. Gone were the thoughts of botamancers and boxes. They were all distant things compared to his father. Over the din of the street he thought he heard Moso’s screeches sounding from the building tops, but even his partner’s frantic cries were nothing but distractions to ignore.
He ran as fast as he could, shoving away those who happened to walk in his way. He left a wake of curses and confusion and even some death threats in his path, but soon he had passed even the battalion of soldiers that trotted down the street, heavy and slowed by the armor that weighed them down.
It didn’t take long to free himself of the Gold Row’s busyness, and with a few cuts down familiar alleys he stood at the edge of the main street of the Trough only to realize he was too late.
Another battalion of two dozen soldiers lined the small houses of the Trough. In front of them stood the Trough’s citizens, a collection of ragged and unkempt faces, their eyes swollen with fear or fury, some shouting obscenities at the soldiers for the roundup. They were faces he had seen his entire life. Faces he knew. Faces that had looked at him with similar fear and anger as they watched him mature into a strange, jungle-loving boy. He knew he should have felt sorrow for those faces, but he didn’t. There was only one person he ca
red about. His father.
He stood at the front of the group, leaning on his cane, shaking, no doubt not from fear, but from the strain standing put on his body. Sweat shone on his forehead like a badge showcasing to all the fight he endured to stand as long as he had, but telling even more how quickly he would drop if they made him stand any longer. It wouldn’t take long. Especially with the soldier captain screaming into his face.
“Absolve the rest of your neighbors,” yelled the captain, a Pangolian with a silver ring pieced through his snout.He wore little armor compared to the other soldiers, letting the plates that ran over his body serve as a natural defense against those who would dare harm a member of the king’s service. Spittle from his long tongue splattered over his father and the others nearby as he raged on. “Come clean as a member of these Green Men and you shall save hundreds.”
His father folded down his ear. “Does it look like we stuff leaves back there? Maybe if your king ever paid attention to something besides his own pockets he’d know there’s a very clear way of telling who is a part of this rabble you’re looking for.”
The captain smiled. Wish knew what would happen next. He was already in motion as the captain kicked the cane out from underneath his father and sent him crumpling to the ground, landing painfully on his arm with a loud crack.
“You hoatzin loving trit!” cried his father, holding onto his wounded arm.
The Pangolian unsheathed a nightbark dagger, a black weapon made from poisoned wood, and brought it to Wish’s father’s ear.
“Perhaps your leaf is only hiding, and if we just dig a little deeper we’ll find it.”
Wish burst through the soldiers before they knew he was upon them. He pushed away the captain, sending the Pangolian to the ground, dislodging the dagger from his hand.
Wish helped his father to his feet and steadied him on his cane. “Get back to the house. Now.”
“Ati?” His father looked him up and down, uncaring of the soldiers that surrounded them. “What...what happened to you?”
“Get back—” Wish heard the soldiers’ footsteps and brought up his short spear. The two who charged him skidded to a stop, no longer certain of their attack. Wish met the eyes of the closest one, a Gibbon with irises as red as blood. He could tell he wanted to fight, and Wish was more than willing to, but the captain’s words halted their bout.