The Hidden Fire (Book 2) (5 page)

“No,”
said Rolirra, panic edging into her voice, “not now.”

Suddenly
they were in a cloud of insects, flying beetles the size of a child’s fist that
lighted and clung to them, digging into their flesh with sharp pincers, holding
tight so they could insert a stinger at the end of their wasp-like abdomens.

“Get
to the ground!” shouted Kyric, and they slid down the vine, almost too fast,
and landed hard on the jungle floor.  What he had thought to be stingers were
egg-laying tubes, and lumpy sacs boiled up under their skins where the bugs
pricked them.  They began picking the beetles off themselves, tearing out a
pinch of flesh with each one, but the swarm followed them down, two beetles
taking the place of each one torn away.  They were trying to get into Kyric’s
eyes, and into his mouth.

“I
cannot see,” Rolirra screamed.  “I’m getting lost.  Take us out.  Take us out
of this now!”

Kyric
seized her hand and dragged her into the underbrush.  He could heard water
flowing, and he plunged ahead, broadleaf plants slapping him in the face. 
Suddenly the ground canted sharply downward.  He stumbled and fell, pulling Rolirra
with him.  They rolled and tumbled over a muddy ledge, into a river of blood.

Kyric
came up gasping, almost choking on the metallic odor of the river.  The taste
of blood was thick on his lips  The bugs were gone.

They
swam to the far side of the river and stood on the bank, picking off the few
remaining insects.  Rolirra found the weathered leg-bone of some enormous
creature.  It made a hollow sound and floated like a buoy.  When they sat
astride on it, it didn’t roll over, so they used it for a canoe and paddled
downstream with their hands.

They
found a current in the river, and it went faster as they went along.  The sun
was going down as they entered a series of rapids, and they had to paddle and
kick with all their strength to avoid sharp rocks jutting out like gigantic
arrowheads.  At last the river slowed and widened, and as twilight fell they
drifted into a deep bend thick with cypress.

Swampland
abutted the river, and Rolirra led them through channels and pools, desperately
searching for something, paddling harder as the last light faded.  They came to
shallow place where dozens of bodies floated face down in blood-soaked mud.  Rolirra
slipped off the bone and waded toward the bodies.

Suddenly
they came to life, standing straight up in the muddy pool, holding still and
staring at them with white, pupiless eyes.  Kyric felt an unreasoning terror as
he staggered backward and fell.  He sank deeper, seeing the first stars come
out as blood rose to his chin.  Then the night fell.

This
time he woke with a clear memory of the dream.  And he remembered the name of
the girl.  Rolirra.  He slipped out of his hammock half expecting to be covered
with mud, but he only found it under his fingernails and between his toes. 
Small wonder, he thought.  He hadn’t bathed in days.  Then he noticed that he
had dozens of mosquito bites, several on his face where the dream bugs had
swarmed.

How
could he continue to pretend that this was all a coincidence?
  There’s a
reality to these dreams.  A power that carries a portion of it into waking
life.  And Rolirra is as real to me as anyone.

They
began easing upriver that morning with a fresh wind from the sea.  The river had
overflowed its banks, and the detritus of the forest was carried along by a
visible current.

“I’ve
never seen the river so flooded,” said Ellec.  “They must have had a heavy
wet-season down here.”

Thick
lines of trees stood in knee-deep water on the lower north shore.  Kyric
recognized the tall slender variety from Ularra, but none of the others.

“In
Avic,” Lerica said, “those really big ones would be called silk-cotton trees. 
They bloom in the winter.  Tribal people make canoes from them.”  She pointed
at the near bank.  “Do you see that smaller tree with all the branches growing
right at the water’s edge?  That’s
aruna
, the medicine tree.  Every part
of it is used for one medicine or another.  Here in Terrula, every fruit and
flower is a powerful drug, many of them poisonous — my rule is don’t touch
anything colorful without asking a local first.”

They
sailed upriver for half the morning and the trees began to thin, the south bank
rising gently and opening to flat fields dotted with patches of wild sugar cane. 
They rounded a bend, and on the top of a shallow hill to their right sat a
small stockade overshadowed by a wide, two-story manor house.  Not one of those
stone and glass behemoths like they had in Aeva, this one was built entirely of
wood, with covered verandas surrounding both upper and lower floors.

A
row of long, log-built warehouses rested on stilts near the bank where a dock thrust
well into the river.  A small skiff and a rowboat lay tied to the far side of
the dock.  Directly across from the landing the wild sugar came to a halt, to
be replaced by row upon row upon row of young coffee plants running a thousand
yards southward to merge with a line of cypress, and upstream to a village of
squat round huts, and beyond.  Here and there, a banana tree stood watch over
the infant coffee.

Men
with ropes and fending poles stood waiting on the dock as
Calico
approached.  As soon as the plank was down, Ellec and Lerica went ashore to
meet two gentlemen coming down the hill.  Ellec waved Aiyan and Kyric over to
him.

“The
Baronet Luscion Dorigano and his son Varro, let me introduce my guests Sir
Aiyan Dubern and squire Kyric Ospraeus.”

They
shook hands.  Despite the stifling heat and the wetness of the air, Dorigano
and his son dressed as if for a business meeting in Aeva, complete with cuffs
and cravats.  Kyric was sweating freely in his light cotton shirt and trousers.

“I
am glad the rainy season finally ended before you got here, Captain,” said
Dorigano in his thick Jakavian accent.

Ellec
glanced back at the landing.  “It must have been a record season.  I’ve never
seen the river so high.  A foot higher and your dock would be underwater.”

“A
terribly wet summer for sure.  Bad for the banana trees, but good for the
coffee.”

Dorigano
led them up the hill and showed them each a guest bedroom.  They all had doors
to the upper veranda, and Kyric’s overlooked the rolling ground to the west. 
He hadn’t noticed before, but all the shrubs beneath the towering silk-cottons
were coffee plants as well.

“We
all meet at six o’clock in the parlor for aperitifs,” said Dorigano.  “Please
dress for dinner.”

If
this is how they dressed for the day, thought Kyric, he could only imagined the
outfits they wore at dinner.

Later,
when they returned to the ship that afternoon to gather eveningwear and other
things for their overnight stay, they dashed down to the river bank for a
splash bath.  Mr. Pallan stopped them.

“I
wouldn’t go in there,” he said.  “There’s reasons that no one goes swimming in
Terrula.  Autumn is the season of the angel ray.  They come upstream in the
fall to mate — I’ve already seen a few today.  Their skin sort of sweats a
poison this time of year, a natural defense when they’re most vulnerable, I
guess.  So you don’t want to rub up against one.  And then there’s
lakka
,
the mouth with eyes.”

“The
mouth with eyes?” said Kyric.

“Not
a big fish, but they’re flesh eaters and the front end is all teeth.  Luckily,
they don’t tend to school.”

They
bathed in buckets, and when they were done Aiyan asked, “How long has it been
since you practiced with your bow?”

Kyric
shook his head.  “Too long.  At least a month.”

They
fetched their bows.  Aiyan had brought his own longbow, crafted of yew wood
much like Kyric’s.  It felt good to shoot again.  Aiyan watched at first,
giving him a few pointers on form, then Lerica joined them with her crossbow. 
Aiyan ran to the ship and returned with two iron nails.  He started them into
the trunk of a dead tree saying, “Let’s see which of you can drive their nail
first.”

It
was fun.  Lerica was pretty good, and came almost as close as Kyric, but in the
end neither of them could even graze the nails.  At last Aiyan stepped up. 
They heard a metallic
ting
as his first shot struck and bent one of the
nails.  He nocked another arrow and pulled back, becoming very still.  Kyric
could feel the unseen gather around him.  He loosed the arrow and drove the
other nail all the way home.

“Among my fellow knights,” Aiyan said,
looking at Kyric, “I am of no more than middling skill.”

Kyric
was still trying to smooth the wrinkles in his trousers as he entered the
parlor.  He never thought he would be unpacking the cheap suit he had bought
for his evening with Tathee, not in such a wild and faraway place, but no one
was looking at him.  Everyone was staring at Aiyan.

They
were all up with the latest fashions of the West.  The men in napped doublets,
with breeches rather than hose, the women in dresses that would have been
suitable for Aerlyn’s reception.  Except for Lerica.  She wore the same
long-tailed jacket she had in Ularra, and stood in the circle of men,
apparently exempt from the role of a woman, or at least tolerated as the
untamed niece of their favorite ship captain, who would surely grow out of it once
Ellec finally married her off.

When
Kyric had gone to Aiyan’s room, he found him bent over a long blue tunic
stitched intricately in white silk, an abstract diamond shape across the
breast, the same sort he had seen on the two knights at the docks of Aeva. 
Aiyan had somehow got hold of a hot iron and pressed the garment to perfection. 
With white buckskin leggings and his sword unwrapped and polished, he looked
like he had stepped out of the Eddur itself.

“Is
this the new fashion for men?” asked Lady Dorigano.  “Are they going back to
tunics and leggings?” 

“No,
ma’am,” said Aiyan, bowing slightly.  “This is the uniform of my order.”

“Oh,
I’m sorry.  It’s
Sir
Aiyan, isn’t it?”

“It
is, my lady” he said with a polite smile.

One
of the younger men spoke.  “I thought that knights only wore their costumes for
private ceremonies.”  This was Nikkin, the son of Dalcan Merna, Dorigano’s
partner in the plantation.  The Mernas lived in Ularra and Dalcan managed the
finances and exporting.  They were Syrolian, and Nikkin spoke Avic like a
native.

“We
have no such custom,” Aiyan said.  “We usually display the tunic only when
conducting business for the order.  Tonight, however, I’m wearing it to remind
myself of who I am.”

A
white-gloved servant gave Dorigano a nod, and he ushered them all into the
dining room, his wife guiding everyone to their places.  The inlaid oak table
matched the paneled ceiling; and the utensils were silverware, polished to a
blinding shine.  In addition to their son, Varro, the Doriganos had two teenage
girls, the older one about sixteen or seventeen.  The Mernas had a grown
daughter, Korine, apparently engaged to Varro, and another boy younger than
Nikkin.

What
a gilded cage these folk have made for their children, thought Kyric.  The
parents feigning membership in the high society they long ago left behind, one
that the kids had never known, trying to import a world that could never
flourish here.  At least Varro had the promise of managing the plantation, and
might even travel to Ularra a few times a year.  Korine would be trapped by a
jungle where every living thing was either poisonous or would tear the flesh
from a human body.  Kyric wondered if they would sit serenely in the afternoons
and watch their souls erode.

“We’re
not very formal with the dinner courses,” said Lady Dorigano when the servants
brought the appetizers and salad at the same time.  “I find that shrimp and
green salad are delightful served together.  And you may thank the Countess
Coratir for the unblemished flavor of the lakka caviar.  The mother-of-pearl
caviar spoons were a gift from her.”

“I
thank you heartily, Countess,” said Ellec.

“Come,
come, Captain,” she said, “I’m in exile and will never see the Empire again. 
You must call me Baleska.”

She
was the Dorigano’s other house guest, the type that people called a handsome
woman.  What an ex-countess from Baskillia was doing in this place, Kyric
couldn’t imagine.

“Charmed,”
said Ellec.  “And you must call me Captain Lyzuga.”

They
both smiled and broke into laughter at the same time.  Kyric didn’t understand
why that was funny to them, but then they locked eyes in that way he had
learned to recognize.  He suspected that there would be tiptoeing in the
upstairs hallways tonight.

By
the time they finished the soup and started on the chicken in wine sauce and a
strange yellow asparagus, the talk had turned to coffee.  By the look on the
ladies faces, it seemed that this happened every evening.

“I’ve
never seen coffee grown so near the sea,” Aiyan said.  “I’ve always heard that
you need high ground.”

“Elevation
is not so important as temperature,” said Dorigano.  “Here on the coast it is
warm but not too hot in summer because of the wet season.  And we never get any
winter frost.  The only danger here is flooding, but the plants we grow here
stand a better chance of surviving that than the other varieties.”

“You
see,” Dorigano continued, “My family has grown coffee in Jakavia for three
generations.  The plants you see here are hybrids.  I experimented with the
Kazhirradian strain on the wetter east coast of my country before coming to
Terrula and was able to breed a new type of plant that tolerates more water. 
The soil here gives us less yield per growing season, but with all the rain we
enjoy two seasons each year.  And we had our first harvest within three years
of planting — that’s remarkable, as it usually takes five years for the plants
to mature.”

Kyric
couldn’t listen to much more about coffee.  “I noticed you built a stockade. 
Have you had some sort of trouble?”

“That’s
leftover from when the Baskillians were here,” said Dalcan Merna.  “They ran a
vast sugar plantation on this land, more than three times the size of our
coffee fields.  Their methods were brutal, and they enslaved the local
populace.”

Kyric
wondered if they had been kept in long huts made of sticks and mud.

“I
understand there were revolts,” Merna continued, “and little wars as some of
the nearby tribes attempted to drive them out.”

“Is
that why the Baskillians left?”

“No,
no, not at all,” said Dorigano with a chuckle.  “It was the colonial treaty
with the Syrolian states and their allies.  The Baskillians gave up the right
to colonize in Terrula in exchange for exclusive access to eastern Aleria.”

Lerica
looked up, her eyes flashing for a moment, then went back to eating.  Ellec simply
called for more wine.  Kyric wasn’t sure he could sit at the table of wealthy
foreigners and listen to them talk about carving up his homeland for their own
use.  But Captain Lyzuga had his own business to worry about, and the argument
had been going on for decades.

“So,”
said Dorigano, “the Council of Ularra was given disposition of the land.  All I
had to do was mention the volume of coffee I would be trading there, offer the
head of the council a percentage, and pay the legal fees.”

Aiyan
looked at him.  “The council didn’t consider returning the land to — what was
the name of the people who lived here?”

“The
Enari
.”

“Yes,
the Enari.  What about them?”

“The
entire tribe was wiped out,” said Dorigano.  “The Baskillians worked most of
them to death in the ten years they were here.  So many that they didn’t bother
to bury them.  The dead were thrown into the swamp for the crocodiles to feed
upon.  The rest were taken back to the Empire.”