Oshenerth (8 page)

Moving closer, Glint idly plucked a drifting strip of intestine before the current could carry it away and popped it in his beak. “You’ve been practicing more spells? Besides the usual minor hunting enchantments? Are you planning to displace Oxothyr? You’re a hunter, one-eye—not a shaman.”

“And I’ll always be a hunter.” Chachel reassured his friend as he returned to the bloody work at hand. “But as you know, I have a lot of time to myself.” He shrugged. “Time to spend at things like reading and studying.”

“Yes, the satisfactions of ornery self-imposed isolation.” Like a wandering eel, another span of tasty gut drifted by. Glint eyed the awful offal for a moment, then let it go.

“Regardless,” Chachel continued, “I have more time to meditate than most. I’ve been learning, asking questions.” He looked up from the messy labor, his one blue eye flashing. “What is it to you?” he growled.

“Oh, I don’t know,” the cuttlefish murmured. “Maybe I’m afraid of losing your charming company.” Spreading his tentacles, he sampled the surrounding water and was able to taste the minor spell. “Amazing! This could be a valuable protection for others, especially for other hunters. You could sell it.”

Chachel did not look up from his work. “Let them figure out their own defensive spells. Or make a deal with Oxothyr.”

Half of Glint’s arms pressed together to wave a negative gesture. “Ah, that’s how to endear yourself to your fellow mersons.”

“I’m not interested in endearing myself to anybody. You know that.” He held out a choice piece of pink-tinged steak. “Join me for dinner?”

Twin striking tentacles shot out to grab the proffered tasty before Chachel had finished speaking.

Later, as the rippling mirrorsky outside the cave began to darken and the reef’s day shift began to give way to the night dwellers, merson and manyarm took their ease together on a coral-encrusted ledge above the rim of the cave. Off in the distance, the lights of Sandrift were beginning to come to life. Some of the radiance was sourced by spells propounded by Oxothyr and others of his profession while the rest were generated by bioluminescent growths and creatures who were held in check by netting or similar restraints. It was a time for mersons to keep close to their dwellings and not wander afar. Killing machines great and swift haunted the all-embracing dark of the sea. Manyarms could make them out and sometimes flee successfully, but not the slower mersons. Better for them to stay at home.

Chachel was one of the few bold enough to venture out at night, but he was not stupid. He would do so only in Glint’s company, making use of the cuttlefish’s excellent night vision, and then only for a good reason. Having at present no such reason, he relaxed on the projecting spine of coral and contemplated the onset of evening. On the reef nearby, a trio of coral-noshing wrasses, resplendent in purple, cerulean, and yellow, were spinning their individual sleeping robes of mucus, designed to camouflage their appearance and hide their odor as they slept. Watching them prepare, Chachel suddenly turned to his friend and posed an unexpected question.

“The changeling. How is she faring?”

Glint’s golden eyes glittered in the fading light from above. “What? Why would you care?”

“I don’t.” Caught out of his characteristic indifference, Chachel looked away. “We found the demon-thing. We saved it. A mild curiosity, that’s all.”

“I—see. Oxothyr sent her to stay with Poylee. They were getting along extremely well when I left. Poylee will look after her until the shaman decides what to do with the poor creature.”

Opening his jaws wide, Chachel allowed an attentive blue- and black-striped cleaner wrasse to enter, inspect, and clean his teeth and the inside of his mouth. When he felt the hygienic procedure was complete, he tightened his lips and shooed the obliging finger-length fish away.

“Poylee will be a good hostess. If she doesn’t talk the visitor to death.”

Reaching into the pouch hanging at his side, he pulled out a piece of freshly prepared blacktip. None of the fish swimming back and forth in front of the coral came for it. Though he was inordinately proud of the smellsmudge he had been able to place on the food, he would never brag about it, not even to the tolerant Glint. It was not his way. In any case, he felt he had little to brag about. Biting down on the tender flesh, he tore into it ferociously and swallowed half in a single bite.

To an outsider it might have looked as if he was revenging himself on his meal.

— VI —

While Glint drifted nearby in that half-awake, half-asleep state characteristic of manyarms, Chachel floated in fitful slumber near the rear of the cavern encased in the thin translucent film that mersons excreted through their pores. Not unlike the mucoidal sac that was exuded by parrotfish and other reef dwellers, it concealed his body odor and distorted his shape from the perceptors of any predators that might be in the vicinity. Had she not been deep in sleep herself, Irina would have been startled to see that her hostess Poylee lay cocooned in exactly same kind of glistening, diaphanous organic cloak. When retiring for the night, all mersons intuitively and spontaneously secreted such individual protective husks. When not reingested by their originators first thing the next morning, the extra source of protein was gladly consumed by any manyarms or fish that happened to find themselves in the vicinity.

As his beak sucked away the last of the gauzy material that had been excreted by his friend, Glint swam close enough to put one of his eyes close to those of his companion.

“Don’t you think we should go and check on the changeling to see how she is doing?”

Chachel did not look up from where he was cleaning algae from the killing tip of a hunting spear. “No.”

The cuttlefish persisted. “Aren’t you the least bit curious to see how she fared yesterday and last night?”

A sharpened shell scraped clean the spear’s pointed tip. “No.”

Letting out a squirt from his siphon, the irritated manyarm jetted backward. “Well, I am. You claim to be a learner, half-leg, but Oxothyr would disapprove of your lack of curiosity.”

This time Chachel did look up from his work. “Oxothyr disapproves of half of everything. I won’t feel singled out.”

Spitting a blob of ink, the cuttlefish manipulated it into a symbol for disgust before the dark fluid could disperse. “I perceive that your day is full. You clearly have a great many important matters to attend to. Like cleaning up the last of last night’s garbage.” He pivoted to face the high opening of the cave. “I will report back on what I learn. Or not.” With that, he headed out toward open water and the reef edge that led toward the village, signaling his departure with a salute. For a creature equipped with ten arms it is possible to simultaneously convey much more than just one rude gesture.

Letting out a sigh, a resigned Chachel carefully put his work aside, allowed his arms to fall to his sides, and kicked hard in pursuit of his friend.

It was a bright and clear morning, the light that lit the mirrorsky shining overhead in full flare. Swimming just beneath the border that separated void and ocean, a school of silvery, nearly invisible needle fish advanced forward in fits and starts, breakfasting on tiny border dwellers unable to see them through the glare. A chorus of unique blue tangs ambled past, chirping
sui generis
.

Halfway to Sandrift, merson and manyarm were enveloped in a cloud of purple anthias, their thumb-length flanks dazzling in the morning shine like thousands of ambulatory amethysts. A green turtle munching a moaning moon jelly grunted a lazy hello that the always cheerful Glint was quick to return. Sequestered in quiet contemplation, Chachel offered no comment.

On a level plain outside Sandrift that had been cleared of coral, anemones, and other slow-moving but opportunistic invaders, villagers tended to crops of sea lettuce, shellfish, and other edibles. Side currents sliding away from the canyon that gave the village its name delivered organic material from beyond the mirrorsky while those that swept along the reef occasionally brought up nutrients from the depths. The combination made the carefully groomed terrain around Sandrift uncommonly productive.

On the rare occasions when Chachel deigned to appear in or near town, the workers in the fields usually ignored him. Not this morning. Wielding scrapers and diggers made of bone and rock, a small crowd of the particularly ill-tempered began to gather around him and his cephalopodan companion, casting insults and imprecations as they swam in parallel.

A trio of males appeared in front, blocking the route. When a silent Chachel tried to swim over them, they kicked upward to intercept his approach. Fresh arrivals began to form an enclosing sphere around the commuting manyarm and stoic merson. The hunter’s lips tightened and he gripped a little tighter the spear he always carried.

“You want something?” Chachel would never say by way of greeting, “What can I do for you?”

One of the men blocking the way spoke up without hesitation. “There are all kinds of fish in the sea, Chachel one-eye. Big fish, small fish. Red fish, yellow fish. Fish that bite and fish that poison. One thing we don’t need around Sandrift is another selfish. Why did you bring the demon into our village?”

Stockier and more muscular than the first speaker, the man next to him brandished a triple-pointed digging probe. “We don’t need void magic here, hunter. We leave you alone. Why can’t you leave us alone?”

A striped cleaner wrasse began picking at Chachel’s left hand and he brushed it irritably aside. Indignant, it flipped its tail at him as it departed.

“I didn’t bring her into the village. That was Oxothyr’s idea. If you have a complaint, take it up with him.” Lowering his spear, he started forward again.

Once more the three swam to block his path. “So say you,” declared the third member of the blocking trio. “Don’t try to shift responsibility onto the shaman.”

“He needs to be taught a lesson in responsibility,” muttered the group’s erstwhile leader. “A message long overdue.” Kicking hard, he struck out with the butt of the shovel he was carrying.

Backing water, Chachel brought up his spear to parry the blow. As the second member of the group tried to hit at his legs, the hunter brought the butt of his spear straight down. It made solid contact with his attacker’s rising skull, sending the other man sinking to the bottom clutching at his head.

Dashing into the midst of an argument that threatened to dissolve into all-out combat, a frantic Glint waved every one of his arms for attention. “This isn’t Chachel’s fault! The demon is a harmless changeling that was dying. We saved it, and Oxothyr made it whole.”

“Witch-bringers!” Ignoring the cuttlefish’s entreaties, the third attacker nearly succeeded in slipping his probe into Chachel’s side. The hunter did just manage to block the thrust. The probe’s points slid harmlessly past his ribs without making contact. “I have seen the creature,” the farmer declared. “It has hair the color of the gold flakes that collect in the hollows of Portelek shell reef, and the eyes of a barracuda. Unless we drive it away it will bring bad luck and ill fortune to all of us!”

The first assailant lashed out at Glint and the cuttlefish dodged the blow easily. “I don’t know what it was originally,” he insisted, “but thanks to Oxothyr it is only a merson now. Shame on you two-arms! You should leave the poor, disoriented thing be. It is far from home and very much alone.”

The second combatant kicked in the cuttlefish’s direction. “We do not take advice from noisy manyarms!” Reaching into the lightly weighted pouch bobbing at his side, he took something out and threw it at Chachel.

Sparks erupting from their projecting spines, the half dozen small, spellbound oysters threatened to strike Chachel with paralyzing force. Spiraling through the water, two of them made contact with each other and shorted themselves out. One glanced off Chachel’s parrying spear. Two others missed. The last struck home. Fortunately, the hunter had raised both legs to assume a defensive posture. The electrified mollusk hit him on the sole of his left foot.

Shock spread up his leg and the limb immediately went numb, leaving him only the use of his right half-leg with which to maneuver. Circling the fight, a concerned Glint debated whether to squirt ink or even take a bite out of one of his friend’s assailants. Meanwhile a small school of sweetlips and a couple of curious groupers had slowed to watch, drawn to the unusual sight of mersons hunting one another for a change. As the inquisitive fish looked on, they kept wary eyes on a gathering number of passersby from the community.

The newly arrived villagers observed the ongoing fight in silence. It was clear that the majority was not opposed to the assault. This implied condemnation of the hermetic Chachel was far from universal, however. Among those expressing their outrage at the unprovoked attack were a pair of females. Only one of them, however, elected to become personally involved.

As an enraged Poylee shot forward to provide what assistance she could to the hard-pressed Chachel, Irina was left behind. Her hostess had been showing her through and around the area surrounding Sandrift when they came upon the brawl. Now the subject and the reason for of the clash found herself the object of sometimes curious stares and occasional angry glares from the gathering of onlookers. She was only able to deal with the attention because she had been attracting similar looks ever since they had left Poylee’s house earlier that morning.

She winced when she saw the blue flash that resulted as Chachel’s foot was struck, even as she wondered what sort of technology or spell had been employed that would permit a humble oyster to deliver an electric shock. With his good leg partially paralyzed her merson savior was finding it increasingly difficult to fend off his assailants, who now pressed their attack with renewed vigor.

What should she do? Clearly, more than a few of the inhabitants of the village resented her presence. Were all strangers similarly shunned, or was it because she was an especially strange stranger? When queried about the matter, Poylee’s response had been ambivalent.

“People always fear the new, especially something new they don’t understand.”

“But your own shaman changed me to be just like you,” Irina had protested.

Her hostess had snorted bubbles. “The people are afraid-fearful of Oxothyr, too.”

Poylee had thrown herself on the back of the smallest of the aggressors. Locked together, the two of them were spinning like seals as he fought to throw her off. Meanwhile the other pair continued to harry Chachel. One of them feinted and then struck sharply upward with his shovel. Trying to concentrate on both mersons at once, Chachel’s deflection was late. Knocked from his fingers by the heavy impact, his hunting spear went spinning toward the coral below. Retreating at half speed, he dodged the swing of the other farmer’s shovel, arched backward, and dove straight downward in a desperate attempt to retrieve his weapon. The first and biggest assailant charged after him.

He was intercepted by Irina.

Drifting aimlessly on the surface, seared by the sun, starving and dying of thirst, she had been rescued by Chachel and Glint. Transformed by an octopod mage, she had so far found herself largely shunned. If she was going to die here anyway, why not finish things in a quicker and more prosaic fashion while at the same time helping those who had helped her?

Maybe it was the blonde hair, floating free, that momentarily distracted Chachel’s determined pursuer. Perhaps it was the knowledge that she survived among them only through the grace and skill of the shaman Oxothyr. Whatever the reason, the shovel-wielder hesitated. As he did so, she pulled her dive knife from the scabbard strapped to her calf. Sight of it brought forth an audible gasp from the growing crowd of onlookers. Come to think of it, she realized, while she had seen bits and pieces of metalwork in the course of her brief tour of Sandrift, the stuff certainly was far from common here. No doubt working metal underwater was fraught with all manner of inconvenience. In this environment, her titanium blade was probably priceless.

But while its appearance provided a reason for the resolute attacker to pause, it was also incentive for him to strike not at Chachel but at her. Holding the heavy farming implement in front of him, he kicked hard as he shot straight toward her.

And slammed into a wall.

Reversing course and ascending from below, the hunter had fashioned a barrier using the only material at his immediate command: water. As he rose he continued to gesture forcefully. Irina could feel the sudden pulse nudge her to one side. Something Chachel was doing with his hands was not moving the water between him and his foe; it was somehow making it stiff. But water was only water—wasn’t it? Or could those who resided permanently in its depths induce that otherwise innocuous liquid to adopt other states? To perform feats her land-dwelling kind could not even imagine.

The reaction from the host of onlookers was enlightening. Eyes wide, expressions reflecting shock at the unexpected turn of events, they turned and fled in twos and threes. Equally instructive was the response of the watching fish. They vanished even faster than did the startled mersons. Nearby, Glint appeared to be struggling just to hold his position.

“Sorcery!” The assailant who had been pushed aside whirled and fled, not even bothering to see if his companions were following. It happened that they were, as fast as their finned feet would propel them.

Slowing their gestures, Chachel’s hands drifted out in front of him as he watched his erstwhile assailants flee. To Irina those webbed fingers appeared unchanged. She moved toward him, wonderfully aware that the water between them had lost its momentarily inexplicable solidity.

“You firmed water,” she murmured. “
Is
it sorcery?”

He spoke without turning to her. “No, of course not. A ruse I learned, that’s all. If one has time to study and practice, one can do all manner of tricks with water.” Now he finally did pivot to look at her. “I have lots of time.”

Something swift and svelte zoomed in between them. Wrapping herself around Chachel and ignoring Irina, Poylee proceeded to plant a swift succession of kisses on as many exposed portions of the hunter’s face as she could reach with her mouth.

“Chachel, are you all right! Are you hurt? I was so worried!”

Off to one side, Glint thrust half his arms toward the mirrorsky and the other five straight down in an unmistakable cephalopodan gesture of disgust. Though conscious of being snubbed, Irina simply drifted to one side and looked on. The mini-drama being played out in the water in front of her was none of her business.