Wayward Wings, page 24
He was deposited on the bench next to the cauldron and he scrabbled around, searching for anything he could grab to fight back. He kicked the tubers off the bench, cut his fingers on some debris, and then Lord Dolt grabbed him by the neck to force him to lie still. The giant picked up a brush and scrubbed his feet and legs. No matter how much Ozcahar tried to curl into a ball, he couldn’t stop his tormentor from spreading him out and the stiff bristles scouring his reddened skin. No amount of screaming, sobbing, or squirming prevented them from reaching every tender crevice of his body.
Lord Dolt lifted him by his arms and Ozcahar closed his eyes when he was dunked in the hot water again. It was even more painful on his tortured skin, but he was too worn out to kick. He wasn’t strong enough. Now that he’d been scrubbed clean, they would cook him and eat him, and there was nothing he could do. Trembling but helpless, he watched Lady Tocsin walk towards him. She fixed the belt around his middle again. Were they not going to kill him? He wanted to ask, but they wouldn’t answer him if they understood him at all.
They carried him to the storeroom and once Lady Tocsin had retied the rope to the wall, Lord Dolt set him down. His arms felt like they were made of lead, and he couldn’t even wipe the wet hair from his face. He stumbled to his corner, where he sank into a shivering mess of misery. Without lifting his head, he watched Lady Tocsin put out the usual dish with tubers, leaves and a saucer of water.
And that, Ozcahar, he thought, is how you make a situation worse. He opened his hand to examine the sharp fragment of stone he’d cut his fingers on.
34
A Mysterious Disappearance
A solitary woman sat on the bench in the waiting room, curly silver hair peeking from under her headscarf. She sighed and ran her fingers over the embroidery along the seams of her dress. Finally, the door opened and the administrator, wiping his forehead, cast his weary eyes on her before the man that left his office had said goodbye. The woman sat up and glanced around the room. She was almost certain there had been another person waiting, a man who had stood in the corner. It had been uncomfortable with that many clammy people on one bench. Though they had not spoken so, they had all been relieved that the fat man hadn’t sat down. Petitioners had come in and jumped to their feet at their turn to see the administrator or left in frustration at the long wait. Diligent cleaners had scurried past with friendly words and assurances that everyone would be seen. She couldn’t recall seeing the big man leave, but now there was no sign of him.
The administrator signalled for her to come in. After three hours of waiting, she spent but a few minutes in his office and walked out with a relieved grin. Locking the door behind him, the administrator walked the woman to the front lobby. The air rotators had already stopped for the day, so there was no relief from the heat until they stepped out into the evening air. As the Townhall emptied, the building became quiet, as if it had exhaled.
Caizhiu folded back her wing hood and opened her eyes. Without humans to spook, there was no need to keep her rear eyes closed. She cricked her shortened neck and stepped into the centre of the room. If any human had been watching, it would look as if a piece of the wall had decided to go for a stroll.
The Nuzazog gleamed in the glow of a single bhodine lamp that hung between the hall and the waiting room. Caizhiu carefully extracted the weapon from the trezzohl’s skeletal hand. Delicate iron bars through the centre of each bone fashioned them invisibly together. When Caizhiu was finished, the collection still looked like a hand, an empty one, reaching up to the ceiling. The Nuzazog was awkward, both in size and sharpness. It was clear why the fathers had named it the Mother’s Claw. How the foolish Risradyl had come to lose this symbol of strength to a band of humans was beyond her.
She turned the weapon sharp-side down and tucked it under her arm to walk to the lobby. The Nuzazog stretched from her armpit to her ankle and walking with it was not straightforward. By the time she had reached the entrance of the building, she’d found a rhythm that to an observer might look like a limp but did not hold her up too much. The lobby was well lit despite the late hour, and she peered around the doorway to watch the night porter leave his desk. He picked up a verve lantern and walked down the other corridor to do his rounds. He would first circle the upper floor, then the ground floor, and it would take him half an hour to return to the lobby, though she guessed he might be quicker if he noticed the weapon had gone.
The front of the Townhall had a large window on either side of the exit and no curtains, so Caizhiu had to move across it in stages to reach the desk. She didn’t open the door. Not that the lock would have posed a problem, but the outdoors was an uncontrolled environment. The town was quiet at night, but she could not be sure there wouldn’t be a beggar, brothel-goer, or even town guard who might pass by at the wrong moment. Based on what she had observed earlier, she found a space near the front desk where people didn’t stand and the rotating air caused little disturbance. She moved, froze, moved again until she reached her position. There, she let herself blend into the background, and she waited.
It took the night porter two more rounds before he stumbled back into the lobby, visibly shaking and moving his hands to petition the Six for strength. It was the other reason she had not broken open the front door to make her escape. If she made it look like a burglary, the man would take the brunt of the punishment for failing in his duties. He was less likely to be blamed if they saw the disappearance as miraculous.
The night porter pulled out his pistol. He paced up and down the lobby, walked back to the waiting room to verify the Nuzazog was still missing. His movements were erratic, near to panic, when the First Attendant arrived. With excessive gestures, the man tried to explain what had happened, but because he didn’t know, he kept repeating that one moment the weapon was there, the next it was not. By the fifth retelling, he’d convinced himself that it had vanished before his very eyes. The lobby flooded with people – administrators and town guards, but no town folk or traders. A woman dressed in the Burgomaster’s whites stood in the lobby and gave whispered instructions to her inner circle. They, in turn, spoke with their underlings, who searched the building several times and questioned the night porter over and over.
Caizhiu stood and waited. Drawing into herself, she tempered her breathing and heartbeat until only someone as sharp of hearing as Heort could discern them. In her own shape, she was able to keep a quiet watch for months. That was how long it had taken to wait out a band of particularly observant kobolds. Several seasons had passed before they stopped noticing her and she had been able to capture their king. By comparison, humans were easy. Most of the time their own eyes did the fooling. Even with the restriction of her human form, she could keep this vigil for days if required.
When the sun had neared its zenith, the Burgomaster gathered her five subordinates around the front desk. She didn’t shout, but her face showed her displeasure, a sentiment highlighted by her angular features. One by one her underlings expressed in more and more elaborate ways their confusion and regret that, despite searching every office, storeroom, and lavatory, they could not find the weapon. Nor had they been able to find evidence of an intruder.
“The night porter insists he was looking straight at the sword when it vanished. I have questioned him myself and could smell neither liquor on his breath nor discern madness in his eyes,” one of them, short of stature and with his back to Caizhiu, said.
The Burgomaster sighed angrily. She was taller than most of her underlings but lessened the effect of towering over them by leaning against the desk. She smoothed the ruffles in her long silk skirt and thoughtfully tapped her lips with a finger.
“Very well then,” she said. “The ornament will either return, or it will not. But I see no reason to further delay the business upon which we rely.”
She had addressed all five. Then she concentrated her attention on a thin man with a white stripe of a moustache. “Sheriff Olyre, we cannot have the town guards concentrating their attention on the Townhall while leaving the merchants and populace unprotected from common thievery, swindles, and extortion. However, have your informants scour their haunts for whispers of this theft. If it is Talent trickery, then so be it. We have no appetite for such things in Basinwade, but there is little we can do about it for now. If it turns out to be common thievery, I’ll see the culprits strung up by their ears.”
Olyre bowed stiffly from the hips, and with a wave of the Burgomaster’s hand, her entourage disbanded. She lingered only a moment longer and headed for the Burgomastery at the back of the Townhall.
The lobby filled with people, not only the petitioners, but scores of curious sightseers. It would appear that, for a little while at least, the Stand had been usurped as Basinwade’s principal attraction. Caizhiu joined the crowd and left the building, hobbling into the radiant afternoon sun. At last, she could go get her human.
35
He Who Keeps Humans
Tyrzinein couldn’t help envy the ease with which young Eimsiff darted around the kitchen. Once upon a time, he’d had that same energy, but the long days in the clammy chamber were taking their toll. Ordinarily, nobody would be expected to observe kitchen duties for more than a day or two. It was without doubt the worst commonry duty one could be laboured with, and he was nearing his seventh day of it. His fur looked frizzed, and his manes were matted so badly he doubted that even the most rigorous dust bath would restore them to their former glory. He felt certain that when they came, no mother would look at him. It was a great grievance that his punishment was so much worse than the one inflicted on Eimsiff, who was responsible for this mess. It was true that they had chained him and the cub to the same duty until the dragon returned, but it hardly affected the youngster. Despite what the cub himself believed, Eimsiff was not old enough to be of interest to a mother, and so it mattered not if his manes were dishevelled and that he smelled of boiled tigga roots.
With a wave, Eimsiff darted out of the kitchen to spend time with his year-siblings. He was still riding on his pride at having brought the vermin to the commonry, and he seemed uncomprehending of the dangerous situation he had created. This blindness, too, was something Tyrzinein envied him. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to punish the cub for his youth. Would he have been any different when he was that age?
He hoisted himself to his feet and stretched his aching limbs. The damp played havoc on his joints. Eimsiff might have finished his duties, but Tyrzinein was not that fortunate. He took a deep breath, closed his nostrils, and walked to the storeroom. The vermin slunk in his corner when he entered. The casual glance Tyrzinein cast at the dish prompted the human to dart over to it. He fell onto his knees, tore up the leaves, and stuffed them into his mouth. He filled his cheeks and glared at Tyrzinein with hate-filled eyes. After that one day the human had refused to touch his food, Tyrzinein was relieved to see him eating again. It had only taken one evening of pressing pre-chewed leaves into his mouth until he’d swallowed to persuade the wretched creature to eat again.
The human gagged but dare not spit out the food. Tyrzinein waited for him to eat a few more leaves. He couldn’t hold his breath any longer and took a gulp through his mouth, so he’d be spared the full impact of the sickening stench. Washing the creature had helped, but even after peeling the filthy layers off him and scrubbing him clean, the scent returned, diminished but still awful. He couldn’t conceive of any preparation method that would turn the human into a toothsome meal. The thought made him heave, and not for the first time, he thanked the Keepers of Sinuation he had not been born a woman.
The human finished the leaves, chewing a long time before he swallowed. He stayed crouched on his knees and wrapped his arms around himself. After the first few days, he seemed to have lost his aggression, but Tyrzinein wasn’t taking any chances. He held up the stick and although he’d never had to beat the creature, the human obediently dropped onto his stomach. Tyrzinein placed his foot on his back when he untied the leash from the wall. It still felt strange not to crush a human underfoot. He stepped back, sat on his heels, and lifted the human by the rope. Before he had to tap the stick against the suspended body, the creature stood on his own feet and held out his arms. It was the third evening since they’d started this routine, but already the creature had learnt what was expected. Tyrzinein held up the stick anyway to let him know not to try any bad behaviour as he grabbed the human’s arms in one hand. The creature winced when he squeezed them between his fingers. It probably hurt, but after the incident on the balcony, Tyrzinein couldn’t afford to be lenient.
Carrying the human at arm’s length, with the legs turned away from him in case he kicked, Tyrzinein walked out of the kitchen. It wasn’t enough that he had to spend all his days in the horrific room; he also had to traipse through the entire commonry with the wretched being. He’d have preferred to keep him out of sight, but they could hardly have the unhygienic thing pissing and crapping everywhere. Though the time between dusk and dark was a quiet time, with the night-time sentries taking their positions, the halls were not empty. With everyone they met, he had to remind himself that the disgust in the eyes of his brethren was directed at the human, not him. And yet, he knew that from now on, every time he’d speak to them, they would recall him like this. They would try not to, but they would smell the residual stench, even if it were no longer there. To make matters worse, he spotted Keakrea walking towards him. It was too late to turn and find another route to avoid the Prime Upholder of Bol Badihr.
Tyrzinein halted and squeezed the human’s arms a little tighter to tell him to behave. As if to embarrass him deliberately, the creature wailed and kicked. The Prime Upholder raised his hand and turned his head away in disgust. It wasn’t just the human he was offended by. Tyrzinein knew his name would forever be synonymous with the disgusting thing. He could already hear the whispers: Tyrzinein, ‘He Who Keeps Humans’. Yet, if the dragon retrieved the Nuzazog, Eimsiff would get the praise for his cleverness. Tyrzinein struck the back of the human’s legs, and, after a pained yelp, the creature kept quiet.
Keakrea dismissed him with a gesture, as if he were a tyro. Tyrzinein bowed and walked out of the commonry. As soon as they were outside, he placed the human on the ground. The creature stood swaying for a moment with his arms loosely folded across his chest, then he slowly dropped them and rubbed the red stripe on the back of his legs. Tyrzinein waited for him to massage his armpits before leading him over the cliff path to the bridge and further into the woods. The human kept the rope in his hand as he jogged to keep up. His exertion was probably the reason he had been more compliant over recent days, and Tyrzinein decided to walk a bit further than was strictly necessary. It would exhaust the human, keep him docile, and it would keep his faecal stink away from the commonry.
At least here, the air was thick with the heady fragrance of oubethyre flowers. Almost half the valley was in bloom already. It wouldn’t be long before the mothers would be drawn from the mountains by the scent. The further he walked, the more frequently he had to stop to let the human clamber back to his feet, until at last the creature didn’t get up. He held one arm wrapped around the rope and his face, the other clasped over his unretractable genitalia. Tyrzinein stopped. The human sat on one knee and, gasping for breath, pulled juniper needles out of his elbow. Then he wobbled to his feet and met Tyrzinein’s eyes, who nodded at the surrounding shrubbery. The creature disappeared in the bushes and Tyrzinein looked away, closing his nostrils and swaying backwards and forwards on his heels. How long would it be before the dragon returned? Would she return before the mothers descended? When they did, Tyrzinein would have the longest dust bath of his life and roll in oubethyre bushes. What would the Upholders do if the dragon did not return before Bobusgeh came into season? He knew the cub would insist on killing the human the moment her stomach turned to desiring meat. That she would not be impregnated until the following year did not matter to her. Cubs no longer had any patience.
He gently tugged the rope, expecting an indignant wail from the human, but instead he met resistance. Yestereve the creature had wound the rope around a branch to prevent Tyrzinein pulling him off balance while he squatted. He felt a glimmer of admiration for the creature’s ingenuity. He tugged a little harder but couldn’t free the rope, so he whipped it. The end flicked up. He had to look twice to believe his eyes. Though the belt was still tied to the end of the rope, the human was gone. He examined the belt in his hand and ran his finger over the tear in the clasp’s fold. The belt had been cut, fibre by fibre, with a stone blade. All those days he’d thought the creature was subdued, tired from running… the despicable thing had sat quietly tearing into the belt and he had done it in the natural groove where it had gone unnoticed. He hadn’t learnt to stand up, or offer his arms to be carried, or hold the rope to obediently run after his keeper; he’d spared the belt so it wouldn’t break until he wanted it to. Until he could make his escape.
