The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1) (50 page)

“You lived,” said the Commissar, half a whisper.

Merrick shot Pilot Wax a cool glance. “Soon, you’ll wish I
hadn’t.”

“I was trying to help… to put you out of your misery. End
your pain.”

“What about last month, when you kicked my career in the
crotch? Did you care about my misery then? I was trembling when you handed down
the sentence. I almost pissed myself, I was so happy to be alive. But you knew.
You knew you were keeping me in suspense, making me fear for my life, and you
loved every second of it. You knew pawning me off on the Sentries would turn me
into this shell of a man.”

“I thought I was quite lenient with you,” Pilot Wax said,
regaining some of his composure.

“Lenient? There was no leniency in your punishment. I made a
mistake. I followed orders, and something terrible happened as a result. You
didn’t put me out of my misery, you sentenced me to more of it. You took away
the thing I loved most, and you let me wallow in my failure, as if I needed
another reason to hate myself. There’s no end to the memory of what I’ve done.
I haven’t once stopped thinking about that child since the day Captain Curran sent
me on that mission.”

“We’ve all done things we regret,” said Pilot Wax. “We learn
to live with them.”

“Have
you
learned, Commissar? Because you said I’d die
down here. You said you’d make sure of it. You’re regretting that, aren’t you?”

“That was if you didn’t prove you were on my side, see? But
you have. You’ve proved that now, and you’ve shown me that you have something
of great worth to the Scarred Comrades.”

Merrick shook his head. He strode over to where Wax was
standing and looked him in the eye. “You should’ve told me that a month ago,
Commissar. I did have something to prove to you back then. I did have something
of worth. My allegiance. Now my allegiance lies in a better place. With the
people of the city north.”

Merrick raised a hand to Wax’s chest and let the warmth flow.
His fingers glowed white-hot, but the Commissar stood his ground. Merrick wanted
to destroy him, to put an end to the man who had shamed him. Then he himself
would take the reins of leadership.

“You won’t accomplish anything without me, Corporal,” Pilot
Wax said, regarding him with a haughty smirk. “I built the city north. You
can’t take it from me. Without me, there is no city north. Without me, there
are no Scarred Comrades. Everyone knows my name, remember?”

Merrick lowered his hand. “Then it’s about time they forgot
it.”

Shouldering past Wax, he started up the long staircase toward
the surface.

CHAPTER 44

Living Away

The Poisoner’s hut was a more opulent abode than
Lizneth would’ve imagined. Two stories, with a row of wooden beams jutting from
the middle to compose the floor of the upstairs and the ceiling of the down,
the building was one of the more sprawling hovels in the village. The outer
door frame was trimmed in a mosaic of bright bits of seashell and shards of sea
glass whose edges had been smoothed by the ravages of the waves for time
untold.

“Mama Jak,” Artolo called, standing in the doorway.

“Come in,” said a feeble voice from within.

Artolo and Lizneth stepped past the open door of roughshod
planks and into a living room so clean and bare it looked like it had never
been used. Sparse furniture was arranged along the walls, all of it with a
handmade appearance, as if it had been built to conform to the shape of the hut.

The dam who entered the room from somewhere deeper within was
a squat
letwozhe
with one chipped longtooth that was considerably
shorter than the other. She was wrapped in a goat-hide hood and smock that had
been patched many times and was stained with several layers of colorful
spatterings. The air she brought with her bore the suggestion of something
chemical. It was mixed with her
haick
like a permanent mark, the same
way the fisherfolk of Bolck-Azock were braided with the inescapable scent of
low tide. Long tufts of brown fur sprouted from around the edges of the dam’s
hood, though parts of her snout were nothing more than bare skin, pink and
blistered from chemical burns.

“Lizneth, this is Jakrizah, the Poisoner,” Artolo said by way
of introduction.

“Ooh, will you stop saying that,” the old dam squeaked,
slapping him on the arm. “That happened
one
time. And not entirely of my
doing either, I’ll have you remember.”

Lizneth was amused.

Artolo noticed her amusement and shot her a look of faked
embarrassment. “Don’t be so modest, Mama Jak,” he said. “The
kedozhe
had
it coming.”

“He was a nice fellow,” said Jakrizah, her face drawing into
a frown. The frown became a rictus as she noticed Lizneth for the first time.
“Now who’s this?”

“This is Lizneth,” Artolo said. “She’s new in town, and I’m
showing her around. Introducing her to all the important folk.”

“I’m sure that’s what you’re doing,” Jakrizah muttered,
stepping around him to extend Lizneth a dainty hand. “Pleased to have met you,
Lizneth. Don’t you go taking up with this knucklehead. He looks like trouble,
doesn’t he? Well, he’s less trouble than you’d expect… which is a lot more than
he’s worth.”

“That can’t be true,” Lizneth said, smiling at Artolo. “He’s
been a perfect
kegemikua
all evening.”

“Don’t be fooled. He’s a swindler,” the old dam told her with
a pragmatic glance.

“Mama Jak, I’m trying to impress this
ledozhe
. You’re
not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

“Cheeky. Since when do you reckon it’s up to me to get you
dyagtheh
?”
Jakrizah said, her mouth wrinkling in an audacious smile.

Artolo snorted, his words tumbling into laugher. “Oh, Mama
Jak, you’re terrible. Lizneth, I apologize for her behavior. You don’t have to
listen to this.”

“It’s alright,” Lizneth said, even as she felt herself
blushing.

“Why are you
really
here?” Jakrizah asked, waving
exasperated hands. “I’m in the middle of something.”

“What is it? Let me see it,” Artolo said, suddenly excited.
“What
aezoghil
are you getting into back there? It smells like
dumkrahz
phylectayeh
.”

Jakrizah guffawed, and they laughed with her. “Okay,” she
said when they’d gotten hold of themselves. “But you…” She wagged a finger at
Lizneth. “Don’t touch anything. We’ll get on dreadfully if you do, that’s Mama
Jak’s promise.” She motioned for them to follow, then waddled down the long
hallway ahead of them.

The condition of the old dam’s workshop made Lizneth second-guess
the neatness of the room they’d just come from. Not an inch of the workshop was
unused or uncovered. It seemed to move with a vague but discernible tempo; one
that Lizneth at least sensed if not understood. Liquid and vapor caromed
through mazes of glass, expelled from bubbling tubes and underlit flasks,
swirling in deep earthen hues that shifted and changed along the way. There was
at least a hint of Jakrizah’s tidiness in the shelves that were stacked with
neat rows of ingredients in corked bottles.

Jakrizah plucked a glass beaker from the tangled milieu and
held it to Artolo’s face. “Drink,” she said, expectancy flashing in her eyes.

Artolo cringed and pushed her arm away. “Don’t test your
poisons on me.”

“Drink. Drink!”

Artolo cleared his throat, looked back and forth between
them, and snatched the beaker from Jakrizah’s hand. He held it up and took a
deep breath. “
Beh dyagth
,” he said to himself, before inverting the
beaker and downing its contents in one gulp. When he set it onto the table, an
oily brown residue oozed down the glass. Artolo sucked air through his
longteeth, then puffed out his cheeks and bent over, hands on his knees. A
sound rather like a footstep in mud came from somewhere inside him. “That was
the foulest thing I’ve had to drink since the last time I was here,” he said,
righting himself.

Jakrizah gave him a contemplative frown, nodding as if to
agree with him, then returned the beaker to its place. The thick
substance began to drip from its slow spigot and pool at the bottom. “You were
here yesterday,” she said.

Artolo shuddered. “Yeah, that didn’t compare.”

Lizneth watched the contraptions course through their
routines, mesmerized. She put a finger to one of the beakers to see if the
white solution inside was as cold as it looked. Jakrizah chittered; a rapid,
wordless clucking. “No touching!”

“Sorry,” Lizneth said. She almost took a step back, but that
would’ve put her in danger of knocking over another one of the apparatuses.

“How do you feel?” Jakrizah asked Artolo. Her stare was
observant.

“Like someone just punched me in the stomach with a goat.”

Jakrizah gave a wide-eyed smile of mad delight. “It’s
working,” she breathed.

“It’s doing
something
,” Artolo said. He placed a hand
over his stomach, his face tightening into a pained grimace. “I wouldn’t say
it’s… working, but while we’re waiting… Lizneth has… this dagger. Will—will you…
look at it?”

Lizneth unfastened the buckle and handed the belt to
Jakrizah. The
letwozhe
accepted it, her attention still rapt on Artolo
and his apparent suffering. She drew the blade enough to get a close look at
the green sludge, scented it, and examined the sturdy scabbard. Her eyes kept
going back to Artolo. Before long she was watching him in open-mouthed
anticipation, the belt hanging limply at her side, all but forgotten.

Artolo was breathing heavily, his eyes moist and pink-rimmed.
When he rubbed them, his hands came away wet, and the black fur on his face was
matted in deep crimson. Blinking, he looked at his hands, then back and forth
between the two
ledozhehn
. His eyes were welling up, and his nose was
running. He sniffled and wiped his face with the back of his arm, then leaned
forward again. “
Ehi lahmivh
,” he moaned. “
Ehi lahmivh
.” He
covered his face. Crimson droplets began to run through his fingers. Before
long they grew into a steady stream that puddled on the floor, and in moments a
torrent burst forth like water poured from a pitcher. “
Ehi lahmivh
!” he
screamed.

He wasn’t dying, though. Lizneth came forward and put a
worried hand on Artolo’s back, paying no mind to the puddle that was running
over her feet and splashing her legs, its scarlet color stark against her white
fur. “What did you do to him?” she asked.

Jakrizah was bouncing on the pads of her feet, hands clasped
to her chest. “The red tears,” she said. “He’s crying the red tears.”

Lizneth had cried red before. Every
ikzhe
was familiar
with the residue that crusted around their eyes whenever they were stressed or
sick. She’d seen it happen to other
ikzhehn
in more severe
circumstances, but she’d never heard of it happening like this. “What did you
give him?” she asked.

“My wonderful Oculus Cordial,” Jakrizah said. “The excess
tearing is normal. The irritation is a side-effect I haven’t eliminated yet.
Now we’ll see whether I’ve worked out the other kinks. Either his sight will be
rubbish, or he’ll see better than any
ikzhe
has before.” Turning her
gaze onto Artolo, she said, “How do you feel now?”

The flow had all but stopped. Artolo was blinking away the
last of the tears, his eyes darting around the room as if to stretch them like
muscles before exercise. “I still feel like there’s a rock in my stomach,” he
said. “My eyes hurt like they’re about to explode, and I can’t see for a
dyagth
.”

“
Zholiqeh
. You made him blind?” Lizneth said.

“No, my dear. He’s perfectly alright. The effects should wear
off after a few days.”

“Lizneth,” Artolo said. “I’m glad to know you’re worried
about me. But I trust Mama Jak with my life. The point of all this is to help
us in the blind-world.”

“Eyeglasses work too, and they don’t make you cry red,”
Lizneth said, holding up the goggles Zhigdain had given her.

“She’s as cheeky as you are,” Jakrizah told Artolo. “Maybe
she does deserve to keep company with your like.”

Lizneth wanted to make a good impression, so she smiled as if
she’d thought the remark was a compliment. She liked Artolo, but she still
didn’t relish the thought of taking a mate, even if his
haick
did scent
dangerous in all the right ways.

Artolo sniffed and spat, trying to shake off the last
vestiges of the episode. “Eyeglasses will let you see in daylight, but not in
the dark,” he said. “They’re uncomfortable. They restrict your vision. They fog
up sometimes. There aren’t enough pairs of them to go around. There are lots of
problems with eyeglasses.”

“What is it you want to do in the blind-world that eyeglasses
aren’t good enough for?” Lizneth asked.

Artolo and Jakrizah exchanged a look.

“I’ll do just about any task someone’s willing to pay me
for,” Artolo said. “
‘Even a blind slave is better than a dead one.’
That’s a saying the
calaihn
have. They say our uses are limited because
we can’t see in the daylight, so those who keep
ikzhehn
as slaves rarely
bring us on overland trips or put us to work in the market. Those are places we
can earn good wages for all sorts of things, but the heat and the bright light
make that difficult.”

“Overland,” Lizneth said, hardly hearing him. “If your
cordial works, I wouldn’t have to find passage on a ship. I could travel home across
the blind-world.”

“You could
try
,” Artolo said. “Reaching Bolck-Azock
overland from here would be a feat, even with Mama Jak’s potions.”

“A feat… but a possible one,” Lizneth said.

Artolo shrugged. “You’ll still need food and drink. Gathering
enough of it in Gris-Mirahz will be no simple task.”

“Do you see how badly he already wants you to stay?” Jakrizah
said, swatting Artolo on the arm again.

“I’m just warning her,” Artolo said, defensive. “I don’t want
her to make any bad decisions.”

Jakrizah clucked her tongue. “So sensitive.” She gave Lizneth
a knowing look, then mouthed, “He likes you.”

“
Zholiqeh
. Will you just tell her about the dagger?”
said Artolo.

“Naturally,” Jakrizah said, her smile lingering. “A very
valuable piece for the venom alone, but the scabbard, too, is rare. Note the
thickness of it compared to the blade. There are spring levers inside and a
reservoir surrounding the sheath. It’s designed to re-slick the blade whenever
it enters.”

Artolo giggled.

Jakrizah rolled her eyes and continued. “Now, I’m not saying
you aren’t a smart
lecuzhe
, Lizneth. But I wonder at how anyone could be
daft enough to carry this around, given what this particular brand of venom can
do. A few drops of this in the right place and you’ll be tails-up before you
can spit. These crannies here are probably meant for—”

“There was an antidote there,” Lizneth cut in, “but it’s all
used up. Can you make more of it?”

“Can I… My dear
lecuzhe
. Yes, naturally. My question
to you is, how do you intend to pay for the cost of my work?”

“I told you, the dagger is the only thing I own. These
eyeglasses aren’t even mine.”

“Then we shall do things in the old way. A favor for a
favor.”

Lizneth could only imagine what kind of favor a dam like
Jakrizah would want done for her. The thought made her nervous. “Okay,” she
said hesitantly.

“Right then, there’s no getting around it: I need a fresh
eh-calai
.
Unspoiled.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Lizneth said. In truth, she
thought she did know what Jakrizah meant; she just didn’t want to believe what
she was hearing.

“My
aezoghil
requires the body of an
eh-calai
.
Please don’t be alarmed; I don’t kill them when it can be helped.”

The idea of an
eh-calai
being killed didn’t concern
Lizneth nearly as much as the thought of trying to capture one herself. She
would do whatever it took to get home, but she was neither strong nor cunning
enough to ensnare an
eh-calai
and bring it back alive. “I doubt I’d be
able to do that,” she said. “I guess I don’t need the antidote that much. I’ll
just sell the dagger.”

“If you do plan to eventually travel home overland, you’ll
want a weapon you can easily defend yourself with. You’ll want the Oculus
Cordial too, won’t you? And I can only presume that the tincture I’ve
formulated to keep an
ikzhe
cool in the blind-world would be of interest
to you as well. What would you say if I were to offer you such a tincture?”