The foundry, p.13
The Foundry, page 13
“Two companies,” replied Ogden, “and I know he’s no lord, but the boys like to refer to him as such.”
“Two companies?” Achelous said, surprised. “That’s two hundred men and a big expense. He usually contracts for a whole season. I’m surprised you can afford him.”
Achelous read the guarded expression now dueling with Ogden’s normally cheerful countenance. “We can afford it. And he’s been good for us. He’s out here now with a company running sweeps for the troglodytes.”
“Oh, is that why you hired him? To fend off troglodyte incursions?”
Ogden hedged, “That and to organize and train our lads to fight better. He’s organizing the wards to mount patrols, keep watch on our borders.”
“This is farther north and higher than what I think the trogs are accustomed to, and the glyph on the tree singled out Timberkeeps. I know humans and trogs are not friends, but we usually just avoid each other. If the trogs are coming up here, I would think, well, it's almost as if they are after you.”
The intrigue surrounding the troglodytes was lost on Outish. He just wanted to see one in real life, not as a holovid. For the moment, he forgot he looked like a Doroman. His insatiable curiosity combined with the genetic oddity of warm-blooded reptiles was a combination ready for his insatiable curiosity about anything living. He'd taken time back at Central Station to study them in-depth. Unlike the non-sentient reptiles on Dianis, the sentient species of earlking, lizardmen, and troglodytes were warm-blooded. True, their heat regulatory systems were inefficient compared to those of humans, but the reptiles could still sustain their own body temperatures. He agreed with Achelous, though. In his study of Dianis fauna, he would have thought this oak-pine habitat zone too cold for the troglodytes, at least in the spring. Yet the glyph was recently carved. Could the trogs have a more efficient heat chemistry than first assumed? If so, does that make them more intelligent than the other reptiles? Current science presented a compelling case for linking the ability to regulate body temperature in bipedal reptiles to their cognitive capacities.
Ogden hooked his thumbs in his belt. He ignored Achelous’s implied question. “Our feud with the Great Swamp trogs goes back three generations, before my time when we were living in the Southern Forest, a day’s ride from the Great Latitude Swamp. In those years, we traded freely with Hebert, and, as you said, trogs and men aren’t meant to mix. But back then, we didn’t fight the way we do now. We even managed to trade tork eggs and marsh cat. The Hebert city folk have a taste for marsh cat bloom. They grind it up and smoke it in their pipes.”
Achelous nodded. Tangential to his spice business, he’d received requests for marsh cat, but IDB doctrine forbade merchandizing psychoactive drugs as part of in-country operations. He preferred trading in edible spices, gemstones, and weapons. Weapons for the captains and generals so he’d know where the next war was brewing. Gems for the kings and merchant’s wives so he’d know where the next coup was forming. Finally, spices for the cooks and chefs because they were always bragging about who was coming to the ball, so he’d know what alliances were forming.
“So what happened?” asked Baryy.
A variety of emotions played on the blacksmith’s face. He started once, then twice, and finally settled on “I don’t think anyone really knows. Just that, the trogs grew increasingly hostile until, one night, they attacked. The clan expected trouble and was ready for them, almost. Trogs are devilishly good climbers and were over the walls even as the alarm bells rang. It was a bad fight; the clan lost heavily trying to hold the wall, but in the city center, the clan council had ordered three great bonfires readied, with hundreds of naphtha arrows stacked nearby—"
Outish looked at Achelous, “Naphtha?”
“Trogs don’t like fire.”
Ogden chuckled, “No, boy, they don’t. While their hides are thick and, in places, tough as plate armor, their skin oil burns easily. So our archers shot their burning arrows and drove the screeching trogs back into the swamp to heal their scorched hides in the muck.
“For some months, an uneasy stalemate settled in with the trogs constantly raiding our villages outside Whispering Bough and the Timbers mounting patrols. Then word reached the Bough from our fellow Life Believers in Hebert that the Antiquarian Church had grown frustrated with the constant warring in the countryside and was preparing to march its regiments to settle the dispute. No one can explain why, but the Paleowrights sided with the trogs against us, their own kind, and the churchmen came to demand the Timberkeeps leave on the points of twelve hundred spears.” Ogden’s fellow Timberkeeps were solemn listening to the tale. The story of Whispering Bough chronicled their exile from their ancestral homelands and defined their existence. While life was good in Wedgewood, it would always be the place they fled to out of fear.
“When the clan elders met to discuss the treachery, the clan chose the better of two bad fates. They chose to immediately evacuate Whispering Bough and the outlying communities—on their terms, not some farce dictated by the Church. That night Azerorn Talltree, the clan’s greatest warrior, led a surprise night attack on the trog war camp.
“Life is about small favors," he said, twisting the end of his beard, thick and smoked with grey, “and Mother herself granted one to Azerorn that night, for the wind blew out of the east, carrying with it the sea air and smells of the Angraris. The trog’s keen sense of smell was for naught. With kindling, naphtha, and spark boxes, our warriors launched their attack. Outnumbered heavily, Azerorn planned to surprise, confuse, and shock the trogs into disarray and then quickly retreat, hoping to buy time for the clan to flee north.
“And success flowered there that night, but in the years since, has withered. The troglodyte chieftain and a stout band of his warriors pursued the retreating Azerorn through the flaming arrows, and there, in the swamp, did battle our Whispering Bough champion.”
“They say the ring of axe against axe could be heard in the highest minarets of Hebert, three leagues distant. The troglodyte chief was fast and powerful, as are all trogs, but Azerorn was filled with conviction and the stalwart blood of Doromen. In the end, sacrifice for friends and family conquered hatred and revenge. Azerorn smote the trog chieftain and left his bloody corpse to stain the Great Latitude.”
The Timberkeeps were silent; even Ogden brooded.
“Uh—” Outish stirred, befuddled, searching the Timberkeeps, “Why so sad?”
“Tis simple, lad,” said the blacksmith, “We believe had Azerorn made good his escape without killing the chieftain, there’d be no feud. To the trogs, a great wrong was done to them, and rather than let our clan flee beyond their ill will, the troglodytes issued a kurchka, a blood oath, that they would never rest until their chieftain was avenged. And here we stand today, sixty years later, fretting over warning glyphs. For the trogs are unavenged and never will be.” With the last, he put his hand on the hand axe holstered at his belt.
Achelous, a trader of weapons, out of habit, glanced at Ogden's eenu. A broad double-bladed battle-axe rested strapped behind the saddle.
“And that be the cause of the Timber’s Curse, the sickness that dogs our every step,” Mergund challenged.
“There’s no proof the brain galls are from a trog curse,” retorted Ogden.
“There could be other causes for the malady,” Baryy interjected, “and probably are. It could be something in the soil or water in Wedgewood that was not present in Whispering Bough.”
Achelous calmly turned to Baryy, his expression flat. Baryy looked away, his face suffused. The agent was treading dangerously close to violating ULUP. Providing information or direct assistance to an indigenous population, in this case, the Timberkeeps, on how to cure a disease was strictly forbidden. Achelous made to change the subject. “Ogden—”
“Please, you may call me Og.”
Achelous nodded, “Og, I make it almost seventy leagues to the Great Latitudes swamp. Also, it is much higher here than in the swamp. Something just doesn’t smell right. How did the trogs know to find you here?”
“The Church told them,” blurted Mergund.
Ogden looked pained. “We don’t know that—for certain.”
Achelous rubbed his chin. “Okay, it's been sixty years. Word would get to the trogs eventually.” He frowned, then nodded at Mergund, “The Paleowrights could have told them. It doesn’t really matter. This is cold country for trogs. Why come now? And it’s only spring; if the trogs are here now, there will certainly be trouble by summer.” He left it unsaid as to how hot and dry it could get. “They could,” he hesitated, not wanting to be alarmist, “reach Wedgewood. What's happened in the Great Latitude to cause them to come here now?” Achelous, of course, knew exactly why the troglodytes were this far from the Great Latitudes. He and Baryy exchanged a glance. The question he wanted answered was did the Timberkeeps know the true connection between the troglodytes and Paleowrights. What did the Timberkeeps suspect? While the pirates were a tool of the Paleowrights, the troglodytes were their thralls.
“What are you saying?” Ogden guarded his expression.
“I’m saying troglodytes have proven to be easily manipulated. They’re primal creatures, quick to take offense. I could see, not that it is true, the Paleowrights encouraging the trogs to harass you. But like you said, it’s been sixty years. What's fanning the flames now?"
“Those churchmen, they hate us too,” chided another of the Timberkeeps. “We believe in Mother, and they hate her.”
“What would the Church have to gain from sending the troglodytes after us?” Ogden gruffed.
Exasperated, lacking the patience of Achelous, Baryy interjected, “Gold, Og, your gold.” Baryy waved his arm in the direction of Wedgewood. “You have a gold mine up there. The Paleowrights need money for all the churches they’re building and Ancient sites they are guarding. Those Scarlet Saviors don’t come cheap.” Both Achelous and Baryy knew it wasn’t gold that drove the Paleowrights, but the bullion served as a useful surrogate.
Ogden shook his head. “Noi, trogs don’t trade in gold. It has no value to them. What would the Church offer the trogs for them to invade Mount Mars and attack cold Wedgewood?” He shook his bald head dismissively.
If only you knew, Og, and apparently you don’t. “Does it matter?” asked Achelous. “With control of your gold mine, the Paleowrights could buy whatever they promised the trogs.” He arched an eyebrow, “Og, perhaps it's not the gold in your gold mine that they want, but the aquamarine you found.”
The Timberkeep’s eyes widened. “You know about that?”
Achelous turned to Baryy, who supplied, “Og, it’s not much of a secret. There’s a whopping great pegmatite sitting on the floor in Murali’s.” This was even news to Achelous, whose eyes gave away his alarm.
"And Murali's," Baryy went on, "is not exactly the sleepy little tavern it used to be, with all the gold miners, prospectors, and carpenters flocking to Wedgewood. Sometimes you can’t even get a stool at Husher’s DinDin, and you know how greasy that place is. Murali’s is the best pub between here and Hebert. Anyone who walks in there half-schooled in the lore of the Ancients will have an idea of what that blue slab of crystal is.”
Achelous finally asked, his voice a harsh whisper, “How big is it?”
Baryy, his expression neutral, said nonchalantly, “Standing on the floor, it reaches your waist.”
Achelous gaped at Ogden, “And you’ve got that sitting in the open?”
Chapter 11
Troglodytes
Foothills of Mount Mars
The trail meandered through the olems and firs, hugging the shoulder of the ridgeline. To their left, a wide park settled into a bowl, shaped by the opposing ridge. The party followed the trail as it kept within a few paces of the tree line, close enough to the open spaces so they could spy any movement across the expanse but deep enough in the forest that their movement was broken by the trees. The Twitter Olems were still bare, just budding out, but the occasional stands of firs and spruce offered better concealment. Lettern, one of the two female Timberkeeps, rode point in the party of nine. Ogden praised her abilities as a scout and claimed she had the eyes of a hawk, to which Lettern calmly demurred, her shoulder-length hair braided under a leather headband stamped with the clan’s scrollwork. Whenever the trail rose to a crest, she’d slow their pace, and as they approached a dark stand of firs, she would halt them entirely, testing the wind, checking for tracks.
“Why don’t we just ride out there?” Outish asked Baryy, pointing at the park. He and Baryy were near the end of the pack train.
“Because we’d be seen for miles,” Baryy replied over his shoulder.
Outish gazed out at the wide expanse. He could see a raven sitting on a rock clear across the field. To Achelous, he asked quietly, not wanting the Timberkeeps to hear, “Why are you so sure the Paleowrights are able to control the troglodytes? Cross-species manipulation is complicated, and the Paleowrights have no psych tech.”
Rocking gently in the saddle as the eenu hooves crunched through the dry olem leaves, Achelous answered, “You did your research on the troglodytes, Nexisamaphibia Isueltai. You must have read about their dependency on sage rose.”
“Yes, but it is only a dependency if they get hooked on it. It’s like abusing any psychoactive substance. Besides, sage rose doesn’t grow around here. How could they get hooked on it?”
“The Paleowrights give it to them,” said Baryy, riding behind.
“Huh?”
“Yep. They grind it up, dissolve it in alcohol, and inject it into tork eggs.”
“What? That’s ridiculous!”
“Shsssh,” hissed Achelous. “Not so loud. And why is it ridiculous?”
“Well,” Outish sought for a reason, “how would the Paleowrights even know to do that? And why would they want to do that?”
“The answer to your first question is simple,” Achelous replied. “They learned it from the Ancients.”
Outish twisted in his saddle and mouthed a whisper, “They learned it from us? How?”
“You read the book, Dianis, the Zoological Perspective of the Loch Norim Legacy?”
“Yea, it’s the guide to Dianis flora and fauna. A bit dated, only four hundred years old,” he snorted. “It was written as a reference for the transportation engineers.”
“Yep, and the Paleowrights have a copy of it.”
“No,” breathed Outish.
“And they made copies of it too, or we would have lifted it from them,” said Baryy.
Achelous rose up in the saddle, stretching his legs. “The book does a credible job of laying out the physiology of warm-blooded reptiles. The author paid particular attention to troglodytes because they represented the biggest risk to the construction crews. The Paleowrights found a copy of the book. They have some very talented archivists. They read it and started experimenting. Eventually, decades ago, they started injecting tork eggs with the sage rose. Tork eggs are a delicacy to the trogs. They didn’t need to get all the trogs high on sage rose, of course, just the chieftains, subalterns, and their mates. Soon, the trog chieftains refused to eat plain tork eggs. They’d only eat the spiked ones. Eventually, the Paleowrights quit bothering with tork eggs as the delivery mechanism and just offered ground sage rose as a snuff in little pouches. It’s how you can tell if the trog is someone important by the little leather snuff pouch hanging from their neck.”
“Seriously?” Outish said, amazed. “But why would they want to do that?”
Achelous took a deep breath and thought about the Diunesis Antiquarian Church’s long history of population manipulation and cultural influence. “Who knows why they did it in the beginning, and the part about injecting tork eggs is all Paleowright ingenuity. The book does not say how to get the trogs hooked, just that it was physiologically possible.”
“Devious bastards,” said Baryy staring out at the park.
“The Paleowrights have subterranean halls filled with archivists and examiners pouring over every Ancient artifact they have.” He paused and considered Paleowright motives. “The thing about sage rose is you can’t get it locally. It grows on the Isle of Ompo, in the Drakan Empire, and yet, to my knowledge, the Drakans don’t know the real reason the Paleowrights buy it from them. The Paleowrights claim it is for a reward to their faithful in the southern part of Isuelt, but the Deep South Traders are not adherent to Diunesis Antiquaria. Sage rose is part the Paleowright’s larger strategy of manipulating Nak Drakas. They promise the emperor new weapons and new technologies that could be used against the Western Alliance, and yet they rarely deliver. Instead, they keep real knowledge to themselves.”
“In a way, they are doing our job for us,” said Baryy.
“Yes, they are containing the propagation of extrasolar influence.”
Outish grew a frown. “Okay, okay, so if you guys are right and the Paleowrights can tell the trogs what to do by waving bags of hooch in front of their noses, do you think it was the Paleowrights who instigated the attack on Whispering Bough? If the trog chieftains were high on sage rose, it would explain their erratic behavior.”
Neither Baryy nor Achelous answered.
Outish looked between them. “What? You guys aren’t talking.”
Baryy finally said, “The Timberkeeps have no hard proof, but the circumstantial evidence fits. The Timberkeeps are Life Believers; they resisted conversion to Diunesis Antiquaria. Living so close to Hebert at the time, we know the Paleos considered it an affront, a very public rejection of everything the Paleowrights stood for.”
“We do have hard proof,” injected Achelous.
“What? What proof?” asked Outish.
Pitching his voice to just above the clomp of hooves on the pine needles, Achelous said, “Outish, for a person to act natural when undercover, it is often best they don’t know the truth, that way they are not living a known lie.” The irony of what he just said was not lost on Achelous.
