Reap the Wild Wind (11 page)

Chapter 10

B
Y MIDMORNING, THE SUN had become an enemy, this high in the canopy. Aryl’s eyes ached from its unceasing brightness, and she sought shadowed branches as her road wherever possible. It was cooler there, too, however slightly. She could almost wish for the rains to hurry and start again. Almost.
Short-lived as always, the M’hir had diminished to a cantankerous trickster, no longer able to sound the Watchers, muttering to itself through the canopy. It blew in strong, fitful gusts that swept the sky clear of cloud and the air of moisture, then would abruptly die to a breeze— luring the incautious to trust slim branches. While she begrudged the time it took, Aryl kept to wide, strong stalks and those branches unlikely to sway.
She’d found three pods since entering the grove. One had been torn open and emptied. She’d let it drop, listening as it slithered and smacked through fronds until out of sight. The others were whole, hard, and promisingly plump. She’d put both in one of her harvester nets, left that hanging in the open from a straight, bare nekis branch. The nets were impregnated with a foul-tasting compound, the same one used to coat the undersides of bridges to slow rot. It wouldn’t keep all potential thieves at bay while she was gone, but it would discourage most.
As she climbed, her eyes roved the greens and grays, hunting the rich brown of more pods. She was going in the right direction. The rastis in this grove, Teerac’s, had been blown clean, their crowns barren tufts. Downwind lay a wide swathe with red wings draped forlornly over other growths, or waving from threads caught on thorns. It was as if the canopy had been decorated for a party, and then no one had come. Most of the pods were missing, lost below or taken by wastryls and other harvesters quicker to take advantage than Om’ray.
Still, she’d collected two, and the day wasn’t over. Aryl found herself repeating her mother’s words: “a pod’s a fist of life.” Somehow, they made her climb faster than ever before.
For it was a race. Once a pod cracked open to light, its seedlings would grow with incredible speed, sending fine rootlets through the soft dresel to digest and consume it. If a pod landed in shadow, it would stay closed and its contents quickly spoil.
Aryl had already encountered a third possibility: an intact-looking pod vigorously defended by a swarm of stingers, intent on drilling their way into its wealth. Aware they’d be as willing to drill into her, she’d given them a wide berth.
Only when she couldn’t take another step without trembling did she hook one leg over a bare branch and rest— after checking the area carefully— with her back against a trunk. Dying nekis, free of leaves, were best for the long view; she’d discovered she couldn’t tire of gazing into the light-touched expanse. She took slow, deep breaths, waiting for the burn in her legs and arms to subside. Thoughtfully, she pulled one of the wads of dresel wing she’d collected from her belt. The red material was torn and dirty, but smooth between her fingers.
It had flown, once.
The dull stone of mountains was behind her. Ahead, between canopy giants, was the line where the grove became something else: a deep textureless green broken by brilliant flashes of light. Costa— she put her lip between her teeth— Costa had said something about the Tikitik, sun, and water. This must be more of their holdings.
Bern would reach it soon.
Aryl tasted blood and steadied herself. He was making good time. He was alive. Three of those who’d left hadn’t survived their first truenight, their presence in her mind gone; without reaching outward, she didn’t know who. It was better, she decided, that way.
Except Bern.
Heart-kin
.
“What am I doing here?” she whispered, feeling the old trunk shudder as it resisted the M’hir’s rude push. It might not fall this season or the next, but it would come down, making room for other growth. “I can’t—”
Can’t what? answered that something deep inside, something wild and rebellious that answered to the freedom of this world above the world. Patches of blue interrupted the grays and greens. Every so often, something would fly across them, disappearing, then reappearing. The canopy, the Lay Swamp? Nothing to such creatures.
While they trapped the Yena.
Aryl pulled a shred of bark free and let it go in the next gust. It soared, twisting and turning. She watched until it hit a frond and dropped, then looked up consideringly. “Should have a hat,” she told herself.
Before moving on, she took careful sips from one of her water flasks but didn’t bother to eat. She’d make do with less now, when she could satisfy her hunger easily; later she might not.
Her eyes hunted the best path. Vines promised an easy swing to the next major stalk, but no Om’ray would trust that road. An assortment of creatures relied on ambush, let alone vines with resins or hidden spines to trap the unwary.
There were, Aryl knew, many ways to become what satisfied something else’s hunger.
Any horizontal branch that could hold her weight bore its own more permanent guests. Aryl stepped over those low growths she knew were safe, avoiding
thickles
and their white-tipped thorns. Touch a leaf or thorn, and those weapons were launched in a wide arch. Their poison was more nuisance than threat to a body her size, but Aryl wasn’t fond of pulling pointed objects from her skin at the best of times.
When her way was blocked by an exceptionally large thickle, she cut it free from the branch with her longknife and sent it toppling.
She found her next pod a tenth or so later, glimpsing its red brown stuck within another familiar cluster of thorns. That protection had likely kept a flitter or other creature from taking her prize.
After carefully prodding the pod free with her longknife, and taking a few thorns in her arm wrappings for the effort— her mother’s ability to
push
objects, however Forbidden, would have been handy— Aryl managed to get it on the branch with her. She bent forward eagerly, only to stop in surprise.
The pod was empty after all. It had been neatly sliced open, like any left on a counter after a meal.
She spotted a small trace of purple inside. Absently, she freed it with a fingertip, then savored the taste on her tongue. It hadn’t been exposed to air long. She was catching up.
Of course she was. She’d beaten Bern every time he’d challenged her.
Aryl stood, balancing on the moving branch with ease. Her eyes flicked past vegetation, shadows, bars of light; ignoring the normal, wary of threats. “What am I doing here?” she asked herself again.
She could feel Yena, the pull of minds that marked home. Returning was always faster— she’d learned the path, though she must be wary of those who’d remember her, too, and lie in wait.
If she turned back soon, she’d be home in daylight. She’d be a success, with two pods to show.
Dried and carefully shared, they would carry Yena two fists closer to the next M’hir.
Bern would leave the Om’ray’s portion of the grove soon; she couldn’t catch him before truenight.
There was a glow in her pack. No one traveled without that deterrent to night hunters— though what protection a small light could afford was open to question.
Her blood quickened. Was she willing to find out?
Urges buffeted her like gusts of wind— constant pushes to follow that each time died away, leaving her confused.
Aryl took a step, then another. She stopped and looked down, startled to find her feet making a decision. “What if he doesn’t want me?” she asked them.
The childish part of her knew that wouldn’t matter, that if she caught up to him, and it was too late for her to safely turn back, he’d take care of her; knew that if she insisted on following, he’d keep her close. That was Bern Teerac.
Not because they were heart-kin, she realized with a jolt. But because he was older. Because he knew Om’ray took care of their own.
Standing there, between swamp and sky, Aryl found herself accepting the truth at last. The person she’d clung to as friend and playmate would never be more. “I suppose that makes me older,” she told the sleepy aspird hanging overhead.
She had to take care of her own.
“Time to go.” Aryl swung around to retrace her steps and burst out laughing.
There, hanging in a familiar net, were four plump pods. They’d been hidden from the other direction by a bent frond.
A parting gift and a message she couldn’t mistake.
“Oh, sure,” she complained as if Bern could hear, wiping moisture from one eye even as she smiled. “Make me carry them home.”

Interlude

T
HE DRUMS HADN’T LIED. The Oud came down the street with ponderous grace, chased by the long shadows of the setting sun. They were also pursued by clouds of brainless, winged things, brown and the size of a child’s fist, that whirred and clicked through the trails of dust. Pest or sycophant, they appeared when the Oud appeared. No Om’ray knew why or cared; they were merely grateful the noisy creatures left with the Oud as well.
There were three Oud this time; not an unusual number, though most often only their Speaker made the arduous journey from the access tunnel to officially pay a visit to the Tuana Om’ray.
These three traveled one behind the other, a procession necessary since the main street of the village wasn’t wide enough for two of their massive vehicles, not if shopkeepers were to keep their windows intact. Slow, steady, and methodical, the treads of their machines grinding, the Oud would eventually reach the meeting hall where the formalities of Visitation would take place. Along the way, however, they were prone to stop where and for how long they deemed necessary. On rare occasions, an Oud would heave its bulk from the flat top of its carrier and enter whatever building it chose.
They didn’t ask permission; there was no need.
The Tuana Om’ray kept their distance. Those not watching from the doors of businesses or homes waited with Council in the hall. Only those unable to stand— or otherwise confined to the Cloisters— were excused from this duty. Their names were inscribed on a list.
The Oud were also prone to keeping count.
Standing with his father in the shop doorway, Enris shared the unease of his Clan as their visitors approached. Some of it was simple distaste. The Oud were unpleasant at best; Worin described them as uncooked dumplings and that, in Enris’ opinion, was being kind. Their rotund bodies were long and tapered to points at front and rear; the flesh beneath their garb moved as though soft. That garb, featureless and faded brown, more resembled a tent or wrapping over a cart’s contents than clothing. It covered every part of the Oud’s body, save for a transparent dome over the front end. For convenience, the Tuana assumed that was the head, though there were no visible features to prove it.
Oud had an uncounted number of limbs under their bodies, of varied shape and function. Most supported the body’s bulk, but to speak to Om’ray, an Oud must lift its “head” to expose a concentration of appendages. To Enris, these looked more like tools from his bench than parts of a living thing.
To complete the first impression, Oud smelled, at close range, like the spent oil from their own machines.
Far worse than their outward appearance, to Om’ray, was what could be sensed inwardly. The Oud had no self, no mind; they were nothing, bizarrely still able to form understandable words. This, the Tuana had learned to accept.
But once in a while, where an Oud’s thoughts would be if they existed at all, was a
disturbance
. Touching it was painfully disorienting. Children would cry; Adepts be left incapacitated for the better part of a day.
This was why shields were locked in place; those most capable almost disappearing from the inner sight.
Did the Oud feel anything in return? Enris wondered, not for the first time. Were they uneasy outside their tunnels, watched by silent, unmoving Om’ray? Or did they enjoy the open air and the company of creatures with only two legs?
He had no idea how to tell.
The first vehicle passed them by, silent except for the crunch of tread. Whatever powered the machine was beyond the technology granted Om’ray. Enris felt a familiar frustration. He wanted a look; he knew better than to ask.
The second vehicle passed, the head covering of its rider coated in fine dust from the first. Enris hoped it didn’t need to see to drive.
“You were right. We’re in for it,” his father whispered as the third and final vehicle slowed to a stop in front of their shop. Clouds of whirr/clicks settled with the dust around it, milling in dizzy circles and climbing over one another as if lost. Abruptly, they rose as one to follow the still-moving Oud.
Small mercies, Enris thought, having been ready to slam shut the door if the things tried to fly inside. Which, he realized wryly, would probably not be the welcome their visitor expected.
The Oud moved by humping its body in the middle, thus bringing its limbs into position to thrust it forward. Despite this awkward-seeming process, its size meant every thrust covered significant distance. Enris found himself half running to keep up as it entered the shop.
It stopped in the middle of the open floor, lifting its front to a position slightly higher than his head, thankfully not threatening the skylight. The two Om’ray stood before it and waited.
The creature used one appendage to brush off its head covering. The dust covered Enris’ boots and he spared a moment to be glad he hadn’t bothered trying to polish them. He fought a sneeze as he stared up at the Oud. He’d never been this close to one before.
“Metalworker.” The voice was husky and low-pitched. It originated from the cluster of black moving limbs, but Enris, despite his proximity, couldn’t find a mouth. “Metalworker are you.” It wasn’t a question. “Both are?”
That was.
Enris glanced at Jorg, who frowned, sending a message with his eyes. They had a problem. Any Om’ray could answer questions from the Oud Speaker.
This wasn’t the Speaker. With the dust cleared, they would have seen the pendant affixed to the front of its “head.” He could see the consternation in his father’s face and almost let down his shields. Almost.
The Oud’s limbs stilled except one, which tapped a rhythm against the joint of another, for all the world as if the creature fidgeted. “Both are?” it said after a moment.
Its body almost filled the shop. Enris was amazed it hadn’t knocked into the benches on either side, but it did appear aware of where the rest of itself was. He tried without success to imagine a face within that oblong cluster of black fingers, claws, brushes, and what might be a sponge.
“Both are?” This louder, as if they were hard of hearing. It shifted back, cracking a support beam. “Both are?”
“Yes,” Enris told it. He shrugged at his father. It was answer, or risk damage to the building.
“Goodgoodgoodgood.” The body stilled again, but the tapping accelerated. “Metalworkers. Best are?”
Like a customer preparing to haggle, he thought, dumbfounded. “Yes.”
“Goodgoodgoodgood.” A small bundle wrapped in the same cloth as its body appeared at floor level, then was passed rapidly forward from limb to limb until it reached the cluster with the voice. “What is?” the Oud demanded, turning the thing around and around. “What is?”
“I can’t see it like that,” Enris protested.
The bundle was thrust at him.
He didn’t need his inner sense to know Jorg was horrified. No Tuana engaged in direct trade with an Oud, if that’s where this was going. Though having broken the conversational taboo, he found it worried him less to take the thing.
And he was curious.
Metal, by weight. He parted the wrapping, conscious of the huge creature’s rapt attention, if perplexed how it could watch him without eyes.
Seeing what he held, Enris pursed his lips and whistled.
“What means?” The Oud reared, knocking its head on the skylight, which rattled but didn’t break. “What means?”
“Don’t be alarmed,” Jorg said quickly, holding out his hands as if calming a child. “It’s a sound of— of—” he faltered.
“Surprise.” Enris lifted the object, holding it within its wrap. “This is— I’ve never seen anything like it. What does it do?”
“What is,” agreed the Oud. “You best.” Seemingly satisfied, the creature lowered itself to the floor. With a deft hump and thrust backward, its rear patently as adept at leading the way as its “head,” the Oud left the shop.
When it was gone, Jorg came back. Enris had already laid the object on a turn plate on his bench and sat to examine it. He pulled a work light close.
“ ‘What is,’ ” his father repeated, leaning over to take a look. “Does that mean what it’s made of— or what it does?”
Enris grunted something noncommittal, busy making a sketch. The outward details were straightforward. The stubby cylinder, two hands long, was metallic, its golden surface brushed rather than shiny. A row of small indentations marked one side, with another, larger, on the opposite. Its inner workings were visible, a mosaic of tiny crystals, but not by intent. “See here?” He indicated the ragged edges to that opening. “Some of the casing was removed by force— or broken.”
Jorg spun the turn plate a quarter and adjusted the light. After a moment’s inspection, he said, “Looks more as if it had been attached to something else, then snapped off.”
“Have you seen anything like it?”
Bringing over a stool, his father sat beside him. “No. This metal— those crystals? It’s not Oud.”
“Or Tikitik.” They traded somber looks. What had the Oud left them? “The work is incredible,” Enris added, almost wistfully. Answering to impulse, he picked up the cylinder in one hand.
His fingers and thumb covered the indentations exactly.
“Impossible,” Jorg whispered. “It can’t be.”
Enris raised his eyes to meet his father’s.
This is Om’ray.