The Tropic of Serpents: A Memoir by Lady Trent (A Natural History of Dragons) (35 page)

He did not go purple as Maitland had; he turned pale instead. “Are you threatening me, Mrs. Camherst?”

“No, Sir Adam,” I said. “I am merely explaining how people back home will see this. If you hear a threat in that, it is only because you fear the inevitable consequence.”

“It is
not
inevitable,” he said, his voice trembling. “It is something you intend to bring down upon me. It is a threat, Mrs. Camherst, however you try to disguise it with pretty language.”

I sighed. I was weary; I was filthy; I had entirely spent the energy which had sustained me on the way here, and wanted nothing more than to sleep for a month while my various wounds healed. “Very well, Sir Adam. Call it a threat if you must. I gave my word to the Moulish that I would do everything I could to assist them in this cause, and I intend to keep it. Lock me up if you wish; it will not help you, for I have already written down my tale, and made arrangements for it to be shared with friendly ears.”

It was the last inspiration of my tired brain: an utter fabrication, invented on the spot to forestall the house arrest I otherwise saw in my future.

It failed.

Sir Adam strode to the door. “Find a room for Mrs. Camherst. And see that she does not leave.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Royal displeasure—Eggs for the oba—Overly frank questions—Accusations of treason—Life outside the Green Hell—Farewells, and a reflection on sorrow

But of course I did leave in the end—courtesy of Ankumata n Rumeme Gbori.

I do not know what precisely he said to Sir Adam, but I believe it had something to do with the promise I had made before departing for the Green Hell. He wanted to know why I had failed him, and refused to let a Scirling question me in his stead. It was not freedom; armed guards accompanied me from Point Miriam to Atuyem, and took me back again afterward, too. Still, it was the salvation I needed. Sir Adam’s outburst had stopped me before I admitted that the success of my plan depended on me speaking with the oba, and so he let me go.

This time there was no public ceremony, no hangers-on. The oba preferred to express his displeasure in private. Apart from the guards who stood both outside and inside the chamber, there was only his
griot
for company, and his sister Galinke.

“The Golden One grants you what you desire,” the
griot
said, “and in return, you betray him.”

It was not a good sign that the
griot
spoke to me. This is a thing they do in Bayembe, to underline the exalted status of the oba; he speaks to his
griot,
and the
griot
speaks to whatever lowly soul is unworthy to receive the words directly. Mr. Wilker and I had previously been honoured by Ankumata’s friendliness, but I had now lost the privilege.

Galinke sat with her hands folded and eyes downcast. This rebuke was for her as well as for myself; she had suggested me to her brother as a tool, and so she too had failed him. And I, in a sense, had failed her.

My curtsy was as deep and respectful as I could make it. “
Chele,
I thank you for bringing me here today. There is more you have not heard, but Sir Adam would not release me to tell you.”

Ankumata gestured at his
griot,
who said, “Speak.”

I had rehearsed the words all the way from Point Miriam. “You asked me to bring you eggs. Whether you meant me to collect them, trade for them, or steal them outright, I soon discovered that for me to do any such thing would have been a grave insult to the Moulish, and dishonourable repayment for their generosity, without which I certainly would have died in the swamp. My promise was a blind one, and I will know in the future not to repeat that mistake.

“But blind although my promise was, I have found a way to keep it.”

Alert readers may recall that Yeyuama had told Okweme that he would address my intended theft of eggs after I had visited the island. I thought at the time that he was referring to my possible death in the attempt; had I perished, it might well have been seen as proper judgment upon me for my intended crime. But when we debated the possibility of stopping the Ikwunde and the dam alike, he told me his true meaning—which was not at all what I expected.

It is the privilege and responsibility of those who touch the dragons to move the eggs where they are needed. Prior to the island, any attempt on my part to interfere with that process, whether by theft or trade, would have been a blasphemy grave enough to ensure my death.

But
after
the island … if I wanted to move eggs somewhere, then it was my right to do so.

“The Moulish have agreed to let me offer you eggs,” I said. “I do not have them with me; you will have to wait for more to be laid. But when the time comes, certain men among them will bring you eggs and instruct you in their care. When one of those dragons perishes, they will bring you another—for the ones they supply will be incapable of breeding. This is not meant as a slight against you; it is the unavoidable consequence of swamp-wyrm biology. But if you place those dragons in the rivers above the Great Cataract, you will have a defense like that which has just protected Point Miriam.”

The oba listened to all of this impassively, hiding his thoughts behind the mask of a man who has survived political waters more dangerous than those the Labane tried to cross.

I swallowed and went on. “For this arrangement to work, however, the Moulish will require something in return. They have sheltered your land, at no little risk to themselves, and now offer you a treasure; moreover, what they require is a necessity for that treasure to thrive. I hope your generosity and wisdom will see the value in granting their wish.”

Here I paused, until the
griot
prompted me to continue. This was the most delicate point, for if I angered Ankumata as I had Sir Adam, I might be locked up and never let out again.

But I could hardly stop now. “The dam,” I said. “The one planned in the west. Its effect on the swamp would be catastrophic for the Moulish and their dragons both. If you wish for the arrangement I have described, then you must not allow the dam to be built.”

Silence fell. Ankumata propped one hand against his leg brace, unblinking gaze never wavering from me. I fought not to squirm under its weight. Eighty percent of the power, Sir Adam had said; that was the dragon’s share of the benefit, and I had no doubt that most of the cost in labor and material would come from Bayembe, not Scirland. It was not a deal that favored the oba. But could he abandon it? And did he wish to?

The next words did not come from the
griot.
They came from Ankumata himself.

“There is no profit for your people in this trade.”

“We have already had our profit,” I said, “in the safety of those who would have died in the Labane attack.” My mouth was very dry. Surely it was a good sign that he was no longer speaking through his
griot,
but his words reminded me that my peril came from multiple directions. “As for the rest…” I shrugged helplessly. “I can only do what I think is right,
chele.
For as many people as possible. This seems better to me than allowing the dam to be built. But perhaps my judgment was incorrect.”

More silence. I do not know whether Ankumata was still thinking, or merely waiting, to make certain no one would think he rushed into his decision.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when he said, “The gift is good. There will be no dam.”

Muscles I had not even known were tight suddenly relaxed. Then my traitor mouth betrayed me, saying, “Are you certain? Sir Adam, I fear, will be angry—”

Ankumata’s eyes gleamed with what I think was suppressed amusement. “Your country has promised assistance in defending Bayembe. I accept the assistance you have provided on their behalf.”

That was undoubtedly
not
the wording in the treaty—but if he thought he could get away with that argument, who was I to disagree? I asked, “Is that why you sent me to the swamp, instead of one of your own? Because you could call it Scirling aid? No, that cannot be it. I thought at the time that you would not mind as much if we died. Later, it occurred to me that you could more easily disavow our actions if we caused trouble. But if that were the case, you could have sent Velloin. Or both of us together, but I am sure someone has informed you of how I detest the man. I cannot think why you did not send him instead, before me, unless it is because I am Scirling and he is not.”

This is why I have declined all offers of diplomatic postings. As I have grown older (and in theory more sedate), various government officials have thought to take advantage of my experience and international connections by sending me as an ambassador to one place or another. But I have at all ages been too prone to speaking my mind, and not always judicious enough in who I speak it to.

The oba of Bayembe, however, chose not to punish me for my frankness. He said, “If Velloin were a woman, he would not have gone into the
agban.
”

I did not immediately parse his meaning. I looked to Galinke, who smiled; I thought of the days she and I had spent in conversation there. My seclusion had been less than entirely willing … but I had gone, rather than risk offense to my hosts, which might have jeopardized my ultimate purpose.

Velloin would not have bent to such concerns.

Understand: this is not the same thing as saying I was perfectly respectful of Yembe traditions, or Moulish ones, either. Romantics of various sorts over the years have painted me as a kind of human chameleon, adapting without difficulty or reservation to my social environment; this is twaddle. (Flattering twaddle, but twaddle all the same.) As I indicated during my account of the witchcraft ritual, my driving concern has always been my research. In pursuit of that, however, I have generally believed that it is more to my advantage to cooperate with those around me than to ignore them. Sometimes this has been a nuisance, and on occasion an outright mistake, but overall this philosophy has served me well.

And on this occasion, it explained why my solution to the problem had appealed to Ankumata.

I curtseyed again and said, “Thank you,
chele.
” Then one final thought occurred to me. “If—if I may ask one more thing—”

He made an exaggerated show of wariness, but gestured for me to continue.

“Have you ever killed anything? Not flies and such, but animals or humans.”

His hand had come to rest again on the iron of his braces. They made him strong in some ways, including a few that healthy legs would not have, but they could not do everything. Ankumata said, “I am no hunter.”

I nodded. “Only those who have never killed may do the work that will bring swamp-wyrm eggs to you. There are other requirements as well, which you cannot fulfill … but I think it would please the Moulish to know that they are giving their dragons to a man who is in that sense pure. You may wish to find others who have not killed and recruit them to assist.” My gaze flickered briefly to Galinke. “Women as well as men.”

This audience had used up more than enough of the oba’s time. He dismissed me with a wave of his feather fan. “I will read your research notes before you depart.”

None of the secrets Yeyuama had shared with me were written down, so agreeing was easy enough. “I will see to it that you have copies of what is printed afterward as well,” I promised, and retreated from his presence with a sense of profound relief.

*   *   *

The natural effects of the agreement to transplant swamp-wyrm eggs into the border rivers of Bayembe did not become fully apparent for a number of years after my departure, and so I will not address them here; that is a matter for later volumes.

The political effects, however, played out more rapidly, as I found myself accused of treason against the Scirling crown.

These accusations came in three distinct waves. The first was immediate, following on the rumours that I had brought an army to the walls of Point Miriam and threatened the soldiers there. That, I think, prepared the soil for the later rumours; it made for a good story, and a pleasingly scandalous counter-narrative to the tale of Isabella Camherst, savior of Nsebu.

The second wave was a product of my argument with Sir Adam and subsequent house arrest. He had the good sense not to share the specifics of our conversation, but a great many people knew I had done
something
dreadful enough to warrant being locked up, and later marched under armed guard to see the oba. When that selfsame oba intervened to have me released, whispers began to fly that my loyalties lay not with my own homeland, but with our colonial ally. No one could say for certain what action I had taken on their behalf—that awaited the third wave of accusations—but rumour supplied any number of scurrilous possibilities.

As for the third wave, it did not take shape immediately. Ankumata was too experienced a politician to tell Sir Adam of his arrangement with the Moulish before he had to; I was safely back in Scirland by the time that matter came to light. (And a good thing, too, or I might never have escaped with my life.) But eventually it became known that there had been plans for a dam, and that Bayembe had backed out of those plans, in favor of some arrangement with the Moulish. This damaged the trade agreements with Scirland, which led to other foreign parties taking an interest in Bayembe, and ultimately weakened our influence in that country. I would not say this damaged Scirland, in the sense of inflicting harm upon my own nation; but it robbed us of a profit we might otherwise have had. This was more than enough for some to declare me a traitor to my own people.

All of this was inadvertent on my own part—but it does little good to cry, “I only wanted to study dragons!” Science is not separate from politics. As much as I would like it to be a pure thing, existing only in some intellectual realm unsullied by human struggle, it will always be entangled with the world we live in.

(That is a lie, though I will leave it in. Not the entanglement—that much is true—but the notion that I would like it to be otherwise. If science were only some abstract thing, without connection to our lives, it would be both useless and boring. But there have been times when I wished that I might snip a few of the threads tying it to other matters, so they would stop tripping me as I went.)