Wars of the Aoten
Chapter XXIII
For the little band of travelers, no longer pressed by the full moon but instead by Andreia’s illness, the return through the desert passed no more easily than the arrival. Artur and the Melics again struggled against the sand, but the rolling gait of the Bedoua allowed them to glide unimpeded over the shiftings of the desert’s surface.
Similar peoples naturally gravitate toward each other, so with five Melics, four Bedoua and one Rufoux, Artur soon felt himself separated. As the hours bore on, he became more aware of his isolation. Although he told himself he cherished being alone, always before he had Wyllem and Geoffrey, and all the rest of the clan, to find friendship if he felt so disposed. Now his natural introspection was audience to seemingly meaningless Melic prattling, and endless Bedoua verbosity. He chose to concentrate on his feet, sinking ever deeper in the sands, as the group trudged through the desert and closer to the forested land peeking over the southern horizon.
At last the journey’s first day came to an end as the arid land gave way to green underbrush and lush grasses. Very close would be the River Alluvia, expansive in the fullness of the flood, and tall trees. As the hikers came upon the forest, Theodoric and Franken made to the highest branches to scout the way ahead of them. Aachen and Humus explored the forest floor, seeking healing roots and barks; things rare and precious in the Bedoua lands grew in abundance in the Melics’ territory. Krait, Ingle and Mistral prepared a Bedoua tent; Mienrade blew low, mellow tones on his ornate reed, his eyes closed; Picta rested against a tree.
Artur hazarded a conversation. “What do — uh. So — is there. Uh. Your people have a gift for persuasion,” he said haltingly.
“Yes, we are a great people,” said Picta. “The Melics are proud, but not so that we care not for others. We will happily lend our greatness to people not so fortunate, to save them from their weaknesses.”
The attitude rang familiar to Artur now, and he chose to ignore it. “Theodoric has drawn me into his desires, and now nearly Dungo as well.”
“You will see, he will bring the Bedoua into the alliance. All day long we reason, and play like Mienrade,” she said. “That’s all we do.”
“You play and sing like the wind across the mountains. I do not understand what you do with your voices; your music sounds like all the different songbirds flocking together. What else can you do?”
“Oh, I’m a weaver.” Picta pulled at her dress with a look of disgust. “I make things like this. They cannot look beautiful, though; they must hide us away in the leaves, and we become invisible to the world. We can’t have anything different.”
The talk grew louder, and Mienrade gave a stern look to the two. Not wishing to hear such complaining anyway, he popped into a tree and continued to work out his faint melody.
“What other things do you want to do?” Artur turned his face back to Picta.
“Oh, there’s much I can think of to do, but the Melics don’t allow much. She lowered her voice. “Thinking about things and doing them are very different things, and Melics draw a definite line. In reality, we’re very closed to mixing with other clans. A revolution practically broke out when Theodoric said he had actually talked to you.”
“Really? Then he has taken a great risk. The traditions that rule our lives can surely hinder much that is good,” said Artur, and he thought again of Andreia.
“See, you can think if you take a moment, Rufoux man. As you say, the function of evil works to prevent good,” said Picta pointedly.
“Now you sound like your people indeed.”
“I am of the Melics, and I am not,” and she looked away from Artur and into the distance. “I have many male relations, but I will not be married. Even if I were not so ugly, I would not be married. To take a brother as husband disgusts me.”
“Theodoric as well?”
“He knows the clan verges on death. Why not let the royals be the first to go? If he sacrifices his line, perhaps the rest of them will learn. But they gladly marry their customs as well,” and she pulled at her frock again.
They sat quiet for a time. “Some call me a bastard child, not a Melic at all,” she said indignantly. “They say my blood is tainted, and I bring bad luck. It matters not what I do, they ridicule me for what I am. Could I count my fingers at my birth? Some blame me for the Aoten. How I want to run away.”
Artur remained silent and looked upon her. Her face turned hard.
The Bedoua had pitched their tent quickly, in a grassy patch just outside the forest’s edge. Ingle took charge of the process, barking out orders impatiently to Krait and Mistral, his brother. Krait sullenly went about his work, and Mistral took direction without showing he cared one way or another. The job done, the brothers huddled to talk together, and Krait stealthily crept toward Artur and Picta, eyeing them carefully behind his opaque glasses.
Artur’s attention turned to the brothers, now deep in conversation, Ingle with his arms erect over his head and Mistral with his waving somewhat as they hung. Artur took note in particular of Ingle’s fiery temperament, thinking he sounded like a Bedoua who might be worth knowing. A glass blower in his clan, Ingle’s hair had burned shorter than most, and bandages covered the length of his singed fingers. His robes wrapped tightly around his arms, and a scarf circled around his head.
His brother Mistral found occupation as a jack-of-all-trades, completely without direction. His robes, bright with color even by Bedoua standards, flowed lightly. His long braids included beads, and they tinkled against each other in the breeze. He had no opinions, equally liking and disliking everything, and the clicking during his speech went on constantly. Whatever they talked about now, Mistral nodded and clicked, agreeing with everything said by Ingle, who grew ever more frustrated.
The third brother, Humus, was a man of the earth, somewhat cold-natured and lethargic. Often to be seen without sandals, his feet, hands and most of his clothing always carried a layer of dirt. One of the chief Bedoua poison-makers, he also had become well-acquainted with antidotes.
Krait spoke so softly that Artur at first didn’t hear him. His lips could not be seen moving behind his mustache, and his habit of drawing out the letter “s” at the end of a word soon became apparent.
“You will never succeed getting Bedoua to fight again-ssst the Aoten as-sss long as-sss Dungo is-sss vizier,” he said.
“How do you know?” asked Artur.
“That fat fool will never see the wisdom in wiping out the giant-sss.”
“Do all the Bedoua speak this way, turning traitor against your leader? The Rufoux would cause a man to die for such talk.”
“Yes-sss, I am Bedoua. It is-sss my way.”
“I will have none of it,” said Artur, and the conversation attracted Picta’s attention. “Vizier Dungo has agreed to help our wounded girl, and I will not speak against him.”
“As you wish,” said Krait, withdrawing, wary of Picta’s gaze. “The time will come again.”
Krait retreated to Ingle and Mistral, and suddenly their discussion came to an end. Artur could see Ingle getting heated again, and Krait pointing first to him, then to Mistral.
“We must keep our eyes-sss on that Rufoux,” Krait said. “He ju-ssst spoke to make me overthrow Dungo. We mu-ssst keep our eyes-sss sharp to ward off his treachery. That Melic girl is-sss in it with him.”
“Krait, you’ve talked to him for five minutes. Why would he say such rot to you? He doesn’t know to trust you or no,” said Ingle.
“You can believe, he is-sss Rufoux, he is-sss treacherous-sss. You know our legends-sss, the stories-sss about Rufoux raiders-sss stealing from us-sss ages-sss ago — well, we’ll see when we get to their camp. We’ll see what they’ve taken from the Bedoua, and then you’ll know the evil that lies-sss within them.”
“Bedoua have had no trouble from Rufoux for generations, and none ever from Melics. How can you suspect that girl? Dungo would not have sent us this way if he had any worries.”
“That girl
doesn’t look like a Melic to me. Does-sss she to you, Mistral?”
“No, I guess not,” said the compliant man.
“She’s-sss in with the Rufoux, I’m sure of it. We must watch what he says-sss again-ssst Dungo,” Krait repeated. “You don’t want Dungo to be insulted, do you?”
“No,” said Mistral, and Ingle shook his head and threw his hands to his sides.
“You don’t want the Bedoua wiped out, do you?”
“No.”
“We’re put in charge to watch this-sss Rufoux fiend. You want to do a good, heroic deed for your people, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Ju-ssst keep an eye on what he does-sss,” said Krait. “If there’s-sss trouble, you’re with me, right, Mistral?”
“Sure,” he said blandly.
The Bedoua retreated into their tent. Soon Aachen returned with Humus, carrying large sacks with a variety of plants crammed inside and sticking out the tops. The dark crept throughout the wood now, and Humus retired to the tent, Aachen to the branches.
“You’re not so bad, Rufoux man,” said Picta, standing up. “Watch this,” and she jumped flat-footed onto a low branch, took a little bow, and before Artur knew it she had melted into the leaves and out of sight.
Again alone, Artur lay back on a small pile of fallen leaves. He longed for his own bed, nothing but a flattened-out pile of furs, but its soft familiarity beckoned his memory, and it didn’t stink like rumidont. He worried about Wyllem and Andreia, about the flooding and the Koinoni that it would certainly bring, and how the trek along the riverbank would be a muddy slog. He thought about Dungo and the silly wooden hippus, and he wondered about Krait. Almost unnoticeably, rich Melic harmonies oozed from the treetops, the hollows particularly lively.