Marianne, the Madame, and the Momentary Gods (21 page)

‘I’m going back to Colorado.’

‘That would make what I propose very difficult.’

‘You’re impossible.’

‘Not impossible, no. Merely very unlikely. Face it, Marianne. We are all unlikely. You, me, Ellat, Aghrehond. The world is unlikely. But not impossible.’

She had stormed at him then and did so now, clomping along the trail in her felt boots, unable to set aside her anger even for the moment.

Aghrehond caught her by the hand. ‘Oh, beauteous lady, most glorious master, please. For the sake of my poor, outraged heart. Here are we all, in the very belly of the beast, here on the slippery slopes of Lubovosk, here in the necromantic north, in the wicked woods, in the very gut of this dreadful country, and you argue over such trifles as who shall love whom. Truly, it may be none of us will love again, and then you will be sorry to have wasted your time in this fashion.’ Aghrehond sounded much aggrieved, taking out his temper on the sheep as he boomed at them to move in the direction he wished and no other. He had a tired lamb draped around his neck, which somewhat mitigated his attempts at fierceness.

Marianne subsided, though only a little. ‘What are we going to do when we get there? And where is there, come to that?’

Makr Avehl answered her. ‘We’re going to the place Tabiti lives. Not a palace, or residence, I’ve been told, but something more like a villa or chateau, outside the capital city—or what passes for one in Lubovosk. Somewhere nearby, there should be an encampment where we’ll find the shamans. My spies tell me that she consults them or uses them almost daily, so they’ll have to be close by. On the other hand, she wouldn’t want their presence obvious to visitors, so I think they will not actually be part of her establishment.’

The sun marked their progress, from morning until noon, into the late afternoon. Along about dusk they heard the city before they saw it, a dull hum, like a hive of dispirited bees. From the crest of a hill they stared down at it, squatting like a toad in a desolate valley, surrounded by an ancient and anciently ruined wall. Here and there around the perimeter of the city were gun emplacements, and fully half the persons moving about on the streets seemed to be in uniform.

‘Madame’s friends,’ growled Makr Avehl. ‘Invited in to help her keep order.’

‘I should think she would keep order by – by her own methods,’
Marianne
remarked.

‘It would take too much of her time. Easier to do it by brute force and a little official terrorism, I should think. No, Madame’s ambition extends far beyond this pathetic excuse for a country, believe me.’

‘Where’s her place?’

‘I see half a dozen largish houses on the surrounding hills. I think that one must be it.’ He pointed to the left, where a fully walled villa crowned a forested hill. ‘It makes some pretense at looking civilized.’

‘And what do we do?’

‘We look around. We start by driving the sheep down that road past the place, into the woods, looking around in the woods, seeing what we see, and then pitching a tent.’

‘Do we have a tent?’

Aghrehond burbled, ‘Oh, indeed, lovely lady, we have a tent. Would we come into this despicable wilderness without some amenities for so admirable a person? What of your privacy? Your dignity? Would we come without a tent?’

‘Probably,’ said Marianne. ‘Where is it?’

‘On the packhorse,’ said Makr Avehl.

‘I hope there’s something for supper there as well.’

That was the idea, yes.’

They passed under the walls of the chateau, studiously ignoring the impersonal insults shouted down at them by lounging guards, and went toward the forest on a narrow track.

‘Smoke coming from up ahead,’ said Makr Avehl softly. ’Could be anything, including what we’re looking for.’ They went on, Wolf Dog and Dingo trotting behind, an ill-assorted pair of shepherds. ‘The shamans have a style about them. They go in for feathers and hair quite a bit. Beads, too. Also they try not to bathe very often. Not more than once every two or three years, I’d say. We may smell the camp before we see it. Or we may hear it. Shamans go in for drums, too…’

Under the eaves of the forest, monstrous firs shut out the light to leave a gray-green gloom beneath their branches. From beyond a brush-covered rise, they could hear the sounds of people moving about, a muffled shout, the crack of an axe – and a drum. Makr Avehl disappeared into the brush, returning after a time brushing twigs and leaves from his jacket.

‘Here, I should think,’ he said, nodding significantly toward the noise. While Marianne sat on a fallen log, watching them, the two men set up a camp, two small tents, a cookfire with a kettle suspended above it, and a line of ropes strung around several trees to make a pen for the sheep. When all was settled, Aghrehond and Makr Avehl began a loud and, so far as Marianne could see, pointless argument, with much shouting.

The drum which had been tum-te-tumming away behind the brush fell silent. So did the voices.

‘You’ve forgotten it, dunderhead,’ growled Makr Avehl in an old man’s voice. ‘Forgotten it completely. How can I fry sausages without my pan?’

‘It was there,’ grumbled Aghrehond loudly and angrily. ’I put it there myself.’

‘Greetings,’ said a strange voice from under the trees. ‘Is something wrong?’

He was tall and very dark, with feathers and beads woven into his hair. In his hand he held a staff decorated with more feathers and bones and long hanks of hair attached to chunks of skin which looked suspiciously scalplike. His mouth was bent into an obviously unaccustomed smile that displayed a few discolored teeth and did not succeed in making him look less threatening.

It was almost as though he had been expecting them, thought
Marianne
.

This dunderhead lost my frying pan,’ snarled Makr Avehl.

‘It’s right here,’ said Aghrehond, triumphantly, waving it. ’I told you I put it in.’

‘My name is Chevooskak,’ the dark man said with a toothy grin. The remaining teeth, though yellow, were very sharp. ’Who are you?’

‘Shepherds,’ mumbled Makr Avehl. ‘Trying to get these fool sheep home. Name’s Dommle. He’s my son. Hondi Dommle. She’s his wife, Dummy Dommle. She’s mute. Can’t talk, thanks be. There’s too much talk, anyway, in my opinion.’

‘Ah,’ murmured Chevooskak, showing his teeth once more. ’Would you be interested in selling a sheep? Our camp needs meat. You could join us, if you liked. Just through the brush there. It’s closer to the water than you are here.’

Makr Avehl and Aghrehond discussed this while Marianne attempted to look bored and slightly half-witted. At length, Makr Avehl agreed both to sell one sheep and to move nearer to the larger camp where, on arrival, they found a dozen hide yurts arranged around a sizeable clearing with a sturdy pole coral at one side.

‘You can put the sheep in there,’ Chevooskak said. ‘We won’t be using it for a day or two. The horses are all out on pasture.’

The language was almost the same as that spoken in Alphenlicht, though the accent was harsher. Marianne understood much of what he said, and every word made her cringe, though she could not say why.

‘It’s obvious why,’ said
Marianne
, silently. ‘Because he’s lying to you. He intends to kill at least two of you and take the sheep.’

‘Which two?’ she asked, then flushed. It was obvious which two. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I just know. Ask Makr Avehl if I’m not right.’

When she whispered her suspicions to Makr Avehl, he merely nodded. ‘We figured on it, Marianne. Just go on as you are. Remember, you can’t talk.’

She was not tempted to talk aloud. Even one or two words in her unmistakably American accent would have given them away. ‘What are we going to do?’ she whispered.

‘Wait until dark. Then do a little worm turning if the momegs will help.’

‘I can’t see that we have any choice,’ said the Wolf Dog, leering at a recalcitrant sheep. ‘Not ethically.’

Dingo merely whined and thrust her head into Marianne’s lap, tongue licking delicately between Marianne’s fingers.

‘Why don’t you ever talk?’ Marianne murmured. ‘So silent, Dingo Dog.’

‘She’s telepathic,’ said the Wolf Dog, returning the recalcitrant sheep to the corral, from which she promptly tried to escape once more. ‘These sheep have no brains.’

‘Shh,’ muttered Makr Avehl to the momegs. ‘You’re going to make them suspicious with all this chatter.’

Chevooskak stood at the side of the pole corral, commenting upon the edibility of various of the animals. Aghrehond argued with him vehemently. Sheep after sheep was proposed, argued over, and discarded in favor of another. When the entire flock had been considered, agreement was reached, and the stubborn wool-head who had evaded Wolf Dog was led away to the slaughter.

‘Serves her right,’ muttered the dog.

‘Quiet,’ urged Makr Avehl. ‘Sheep-dogs do not discuss their charges with the shepherd.’

Fires were built. Within the hour, roasting meat smells began to drift across the clearing. Marianne found herself salivating profusely, and the dried sheet of bread which Aghrehond offered her did little to alleviate her hunger. She raised her head, sniffing, as Chevooskak brought them a fat, dripping leg, redolent of garlic and herbs.

‘Welcome,’ he breathed at them with his toothy smile. ’Welcome to our home. Eat. Enjoy.’

Makr Avehl bowed, Aghrehond bowed, both cut bite-sized chunks from the meat and pretended to eat while surreptitiously tossing the chunks into the fire. Aghrehond offered a dripping slice to Marianne, gesturing pointedly at the burning fat. She took it hungrily, but managed to follow their example. Between pretend mouthfuls of the savory smelling meat, she took real bites of the dry bread along with sips of sour yoghurt.

‘I think we’re due to get very sleepy along about now,’ muttered Makr Avehl. ‘Tent time.’ He yawned ostentatiously and crept into one tent. After a moment, Aghrehond followed his example by crawling into the other one. ‘Get in here, wife,’ he bellowed. ‘Don’t sit there dreaming by the fire.’

Marianne, who had forgotten her role as Hondi Dommle’s wife, started in surprise, then recovered herself and crawled into the tent where Aghrehond promptly thrust her into a corner and sat down beside the entrance, a wicked-looking knife in his hand.

‘Can you call them?’ he asked. ‘All five of them.’

‘That would be unnecessary,’ Black Dog mumbled from the pile of blankets. ‘We are here.’

‘You understand what to do?’

‘A little menacing. Perhaps a bit of human chewing and tearing. A touch of mild laceration. We’ve done it before.’

They had no opportunity to do it again for a long time. It was almost midnight before Chevooskak lurked across the clearing, a shadow among darker shadows. He paused for endless moments outside the tent, listening. Aghrehond breathed slowly, rhythmically, loudly. At last the shaman went down on all fours and crept within.

Marianne restrained herself with difficulty. The man’s eyes glowed, like a cat’s eyes, reflecting light.

They glowed only for a moment. Then there was a rush of bodies, a thrashing, then silence.

‘Light the lantern,’ said Makr Avehl.

Marianne complied, feeling for the matches in the darkness. In the dim light she saw Chevooskak lying prone, one of the momegs grasping each extremity, the wolf at his throat. Aghrehond sat on the shaman’s back, testing with his thumb the knife the shaman had carried.

‘A simple thing,’ Makr Avehl said conversationally, entering the tent through a slit in the back and crouching next to Marianne. ‘A simple thing, Chevooskak. A request for information. These are momentary gods at your throat, at your limbs. They will not hesitate to tear you apart. You cannot control them by guile or lore, for they were not summoned by you. You see, I know some few things about this matter.’

‘What do you want?’ the shaman gargled, staring sideways into the red glare of the Foo Dog’s eyes.
Marianne
did not think he was as frightened as he pretended to be.

‘How does Madame control the momentary gods? What device does she use? What words or incantation? How does she do it? Tell me.’

The shaman shook his head. ‘She would kill me.’

‘Come now. It was you who taught her in the first place.’

‘Not me. No. My father taught her.’

‘Well, are you not privy to your father’s secrets?’

‘He did not tell me everything.’

‘He told you of this, though, didn’t he?’

The man started to shake his head, but the dog at his throat growled softly, so he changed his mind and whispered instead. ’He said – he said he gave her the time bender.’

‘What is it, this time bender?’

‘I don’t know. I never saw it. She has it.’

‘How big a thing, then? Small, or large?’

‘I don’t know. Truly. I don’t know!’

‘Come, come.’ The momegs growled, closing their teeth upon the shaman’s arms and legs. The Wolf leaned forward to get a better grip on the man’s throat.

‘Where did your father get it?’ whispered
Marianne
. ‘Did he tell you that?’ Something was not right about this, but she couldn’t tell what it was. The man’s reluctance seemed real, and yet it did not. He was too easily persuaded.