Serpents in the Garden Page 5

  Hundreds of people had crammed into the space. They laughed and sang and spoke in loud voices. Every now and then an argument broke out, but those were spirited rather than angry. Liquor flowed freely. Kirk tried a mug when it was offered to him, but the taste and texture made him think of insects dug up out of the ground—with a healthy chunk of ground remaining—then thrown into a bowl and slightly liquefied. He turned to Burch, who was sticking close to him. “I’d have to have a whole lot of this before I could take another sip,” he said. “I’m not sure that works.”

  She nodded her head toward Hay, who was downing a big mug of something. “Titus says it’s strong.”

  “Looks like he would know.”

  “It takes a lot to get Titus inebriated.”

  “I’d rather he stayed sober,” Kirk said. “We don’t know if there will be other problems. We might need him.”

  “I mean, really a lot,” Burch said. “He’s fine, sir.”

  Kirk watched Hay hand the mug to someone, who refilled it for him. The idea of drinking that much of it turned Kirk’s stomach. But Hay tipped the mug to one side when no one was looking, pouring much of it out onto a sapling. Hay was paying attention to his intake, not letting it get out of hand. At the same time, he was making friends with their hosts. One of the people staying particularly close to him was Elanna, Tyree’s sister.

  Rowland worked his way through the crowd. “Quite a bash,” he said when he reached Kirk and Burch.

  “It’s good to win once in a while,” Kirk said.

  “That is true, James,” Tyree said. He had come up from behind them, and took a seat on a wooden bench next to Burch, a glum expression clouding his face. “Many of the enemy fell. Today’s victory was a sweet one.” He spat off to one side. “I hate that word now. Victory. It does not mean what it once did, and when I speak it, I feel like a traitor.”

  “You’re not, Tyree. And it was a win, a good one.”

  “I know. Thanks to you. But it showed us that they are on the hunt again. The Victors. They seek more slaves. They were quiet, for a time. We had begun to feel safe. Safer, not safe, but better than it had been. Now, they are on the prowl again, and no one is safe.”

  Kirk observed Tyree for a few moments as the man sat and stared, unseeing, at the crowd. His friend had once been full of life and energy, but now he seemed sapped, anger and bitterness having taken over his spirit.

  “I am sorry, James,” Tyree said. “This is a celebration, and I cast gloom over everything I touch.” He rose suddenly from the bench. “Enjoy your evening, James, and thank you again for what you did today.”

  A celebration, Kirk thought as Tyree walked away. It is that. But tomorrow, there’ll be work to do, and it’s not going to be easy.

  * * *

  Nyran watched his mother talking to the big stranger. He had dark hair and a handsome face and a casual manner, with a ready smile that he could tell his mother responded to. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. His mother and the stranger were not lovers, although they might become that if the man stayed long enough. And his mother was lonely and sometimes inexpressibly sad. Tyree was good to her, but he still grieved over the loss of Nona, and sometimes Nyran saw the two of them together, the sadness in each of them overflowing and catching the other like a fish in a net, and he was torn between wanting to slap them both and wanting to burst into tears at the futility of it all, the waste that violence had visited upon his family.

  He felt Joslen tugging on his arm, and he tore his gaze away from his mother. “Come on, Nyran,” she said. “While everybody’s busy, this is our chance!”

  “You’re right,” Nyran agreed. He took her hand in his, marveling as he always did at the warmth that started with the touch of her flesh against his and spread in a heartbeat throughout his entire being. As they wended their way through the crowd, Nyran thought he felt eyes burning into him. Not Freeholders, who had known him since birth and his family before that, but people from Rocky Bluff. Joslen’s town. Victor marauders had forced them to abandon their ages-old settlement and to move into the expanded Freehold for their own protection.

  Not all of them liked living in close quarters with the Freeholders, even if they appreciated the relative safety that the arrangement provided. A smaller but vocal contingent didn’t like the idea of mixing with the Freeholders. They could associate with them, trade with them, live side by side as long as was necessary. But they didn’t like their young people pairing off with them. As well known as Nyran was among the Freeholders, Joslen was known and loved by her people.

  In a few minutes, they had negotiated through the crowd and made their way around a corner. They could still hear the merriment, still smell the roasting carzapals, but the settlement was dark here, and they were alone. Joslen moved closer to him, snaked her arm around his waist, and he wrapped his across her shoulders. “I hate crowds,” he said, glad to be able to speak without shouting and still be heard.

  “So you’ve said,” Joslen replied.

  “They’re just . . . I don’t know. They bother me.”

  “You’ve said that, too.”

  “So you know everything about me, already?”

  She laughed and pinched his ribs. “Of course not, silly. But more than I did a few weeks ago.”

  “I’m glad,” Nyran said. Joslen’s hair was long, the color of honey, and it spilled down her back in an almost liquid cascade. Her big eyes glittered in the silver light. She was, at that moment, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

  “So am I,” she said.

  He shook his head to remember what he’d been talking about before he looked at her. “But this town . . . I have to get away from here.”

  “To go where? What’s better than Freehold? Not Victory.”

  He shivered. “No! Not that. I don’t know where. It’s a big world, isn’t it? Us—Freehold, Rocky Bluff, the other small settlements, even Victory and all the villages they’ve annexed—we’re just a small part of it. Beyond the mountains, past the Elder Forests, there have to be other places. Towns, people. Right? It’s not all just empty out there, is it?”

  “Who knows, Nyran? I guess you can find out, if that’s your dream. You can be the one to explore those places.”

  “Perhaps I will. Anything to get out of here. When I was growing up, our little campsite didn’t even have a name, no walls around it. I could play anywhere. Up in the hills, down by the river. Nobody cared. It really was free. Now they say the walls are to keep the Victors out, but they also keep us in. So many of us, with people from Rocky Bluff and Highbridge and the rest all here, it’s like I can barely turn around without bumping into somebody.” He didn’t think he was expressing himself well, and it made his cheeks burn with anger. “I need space. I need to be able to move, Joslen. Do you understand?”

  “I think I do,” she said. They walked down an empty road, the houses flanking it bathed in moonlight. “It’s not easy for us either, you know. Coming to Freehold, carrying everything we could with us. Helping to build the town, but knowing we might never be able to go home. I’m glad we came to Freehold, because I met you. But I had to leave so much behind in Rocky Bluff.”

  “Like what?” He was glad they were off him and onto her. He needed to not talk about how hemmed-in he felt, because that only made it worse.

  “Not really so much, I guess,” Joslen said. “Some of my childish things. Toys, clothing. There is one thing I miss.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a pot I made when I was much younger. Mother helped me. We found the clay and worked it with water until it was good and wet, and she showed me how to spin it into a pot. She helped me form it and glaze it and cook it in an oven until it was hard. She was a Kahn-ut-tu, my mother. You knew that, right?”

  “You told me before.”

  “Right. Anyway, she left special gifts in it.”

  “What were they?”

  “Roots and herbs, mostly. But also, she sang into the pot. It might b
e my imagination, but I feel like if I hold it to my ear, I can still hear her voice, whispering and singing to me. She died, not long after that, but I was always able to remember her voice by listening to the pot. When we left Rocky Bluff, I forgot to grab it. But now . . .”

  She didn’t finish. Nyran stopped walking, took her shoulder in his hands. “Now, what?”

  “It has healing powers, she told me.”

  “It does, or you think it does?”

  “I’m not certain, Nyran! But I think it does, yes. And father . . . he’s been so ill. What if I could use it to help him get better? I should have brought it. I was foolish.”

  “You were in danger, Joslen. You had to choose fast and carry everything you picked. You shouldn’t punish yourself over it—wait! Shhh!”

  He had heard something, or thought he had. The scuff of a boot on the road? Maybe it meant nothing; not everybody in Freehold was in the plaza, even if it had felt like they were. Or it could be somebody who had given up on the festivities, become tired or sick or too drunk to stay.

  But there had been slavers on the hunt earlier, and though Nyran had not been allowed in the battle party—he was too young, they said, too untested, although how he would ever be tested if they didn’t let him fight, he didn’t know—he, like everyone else, was on the alert, wary of another attack.

  His hand dropped to the knife on his belt.

  He heard it again, closer, followed by the unmistakable murmur of soft voices. “Hello?” he said. “Who’s there?”

  A breathy laugh came from around the corner, then three men stepped out from behind a wood-and-mud walled house.

  Not Victors.

  Young men from Rocky Bluff.

  They were all bigger than he—almost everybody was, everyone, at least, his age or within a few years on either side of it. He had always been the smallest of his friends, and even Joslen was a bit taller. These young men were older than he, too. One carried a short, stout club that he slapped against the palm of his free hand.

  Nyran gripped his knife tighter.

  “What do you want?” Joslen demanded.

  “To know why you’re spending time with this Freeholder pup,” the one with the club said. He had broad shoulders and a deep chest, and his muscular arms popped with veins. Nyran thought his face dull, lacking in character and intelligence, but that might have been because the young man scared him.

  “Because I like him. Which is more than I can say about you, Keran.”

  “I don’t like him.”

  “No one asked you to.”

  “I still think it matters,” Keran said. He glanced at his friends. “Don’t you?”

  “It matters a lot,” one said.

  “You’re a Rocky Bluffs girl,” the other added. “Too good for his kind.”

  “I’m too good for your kind,” Joslen said. “Now leave us alone.”

  “Funny the pup hasn’t said anything,” Keran said. “Can these Hill People even speak, or are they too stupid?”

  “You’re not worth the effort,” Nyran said. He released the grip of his knife, to demonstrate how utterly unconcerned he was. He hoped they believed it. “Come on, Joslen.” He touched her shoulder, and then released it, in case he needed his hands free.

  “He does speak,” Keran said. “Or yawps, like the pup he is.”

  “She said to leave us alone,” Nyran said. “Go on, you’ve had your fun.”

  Keran laughed. “Now he gives orders. I think you need a lesson, pup.”

  “Joslen, run,” Nyran said. “I’ll be fine. You need to go.”

  “I’ll not leave you, Nyran.”

  “If you touch a hair on her head,” Nyran said, “it will be the last mistake you ever make.”

  “We’re not interested in hurting her,” Keran said. He smacked the club down against his palm one more time and advanced on Nyran.

  * * *

  “Would you like to meet her, James?”

  Kirk blinked and saw Tyree standing beside him, though he’d thought his friend was gone for the night. He hadn’t been consciously aware that he was staring, but he must have been for Tyree to take notice—and for him not to notice Tyree’s return.

  The woman in question had thrown her head back, laughing uproariously at something Kirk couldn’t hear. She was tall and sturdily built; the way her booted feet were planted made her look like she could withstand hurricane-force winds without difficulty. It was those things, her attitude and spirit, that Kirk noticed first. Then he saw her sculpted jaw and the full lips, her deep brown eyes and dark brown hair drawn back into a long braid, and he guessed he had still been taking all that in when Tyree spoke.

  “She’s lovely,” Kirk said. “But I don’t think so. Thanks anyway.” He had not come to Freehold to meet local women. He’d come to investigate the Klingon presence, and he didn’t need any unnecessary distractions.

  “Yes, she is.” Tyree took Kirk’s arm and drew him from his seat. “Come, James.”

  Kirk allowed himself to be tugged through the crowd. The woman noticed Tyree and Kirk approaching, and although her laughter faded, a broad smile illuminated her face. “Meena,” Tyree said as they neared her. “This is my friend James. Meena is the daughter of my grandmother’s brother’s son.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Meena,” Kirk said.

  “And you. We do not see many strangers here of late.” She chuckled. “Or it might be more accurate to say we are all strangers here, of late. You have been here before, yes?”

  “A couple of times. But it was much different then. Smaller. Not so crowded.”

  “Exactly. We all knew everyone else. It made misbehaving difficult, although some of us managed just the same. But now, we have taken in the people of other towns and settlements, for our safety and theirs. It is the right thing to do, and I would never change that. It has changed us, though.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Kirk said. “I very much appreciate the welcome everyone has extended, especially considering that times are . . . challenging, at the moment.”

  “We have always prided ourselves on our hospitality. I hope that is never taken from us, as so much else has been.”

  “As do I. It’s good to meet you, Meena. I’m sure I’ll see you again, during my stay here, but I’ll let you get back to your friends now.”

  She gave a brisk nod, dismissing him. He was briefly stung by the ease with which she spun away. But he was the one who hadn’t wanted to be introduced, and then giving in to Tyree, had first signaled that the conversation was ending.

  He returned to his seat at the celebration’s edge. Burch still sat there, half-tense, as if expecting trouble at any moment. Rowland was there, too, looking worn out by the day’s events. Only Hay still mingled with the locals, deep in conversation with Elanna, Kirk noted. “Mister Rowland,” he said.

  “Sir?”

  “Please remind Mister Hay that we have a busy day ahead of us. I think it’s time we all turned in.”

  “Sounds good to me, sir,” Rowland said. “I’m more’n ready.” He ventured back into the crowd while Kirk stifled a yawn, suddenly aware of just how tired he was.

  That borrowed bed would feel very, very good.

  Seven

  “What can you tell us about Victory, Tyree?” Kirk asked. They were on their way toward what had been a village, but was more of a city now, from the sound of it, and judging by the thick cloud of smoke overhanging it. “Why do they need a constantly replenished pool of laborers?”

  “I wish I could say,” Tyree replied. “They tear apart the world beneath their feet, that which gives life to all things. Not to plant seeds or cultivate crops. A few of the Hill People have escaped and told stories that can scarcely be believed. Stories of slaves forced to rip the heart from the earth.”

  “A mine, Admiral?” Rowland suggested. “That’d explain the smoke, too, if they have smelters to process ore.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” Kirk said. “Backbreaking,
dangerous labor, especially at a low-tech level. They’d need a constant supply of workers.”

  “I wish I could tell you more, James,” Tyree said. “We are simple people. We eat what the world provides us as game in the forests and crops in the fields. I do not understand why the Victors would choose to abuse it so.”

  “There are lots of reasons for mining,” Kirk said. “I would have to know what they’re extracting to make an educated guess as to why.” The question couldn’t be answered here, but it had to be answered. To do that, he had to get close to Victory. Toward that end, they were trekking down the rocky hillside, following the path that had connected Hill People and Villagers for generations untold, according to Tyree, until conflict had made trade unthinkable. The sun was rising as they hiked, but had not yet warmed the morning air, which was scented with an aroma that reminded Kirk of cinnamon.

  At a bend in the trail, Tyree held up a hand, stopping the small group. “We should leave the trail here,” he said. “From this point forward, there is much likelihood that we will run across Victor scouts or slavers.” He pointed off to the north. “There are ancient game trails through the foothills. We will take those and be safer.”

  “That’s fine, Tyree,” Kirk said. In addition to his old friend, three other Freeholders had come along. Their names were Enjara, Kenomo, and Bardee. Tyree had told him they were all skilled marksmen, in addition to being practiced hunters who knew the landscape well. Kirk was happy to let the locals choose the best path.

  They cut cross-country, wading through high grasses, sometimes sidestepping around red bushes laced with thorns that Tyree warned were poisonous. The trees they passed were in full leaf, and in a few minutes they were descending a steep hillside beneath a canopy so dense that the morning’s sunlight had not yet penetrated. The air within the forested canyon smelled slightly musky. The trees and the brush around their feet rustled with the sounds of seldom-seen inhabitants: a flock of birds burst from a tree once; at one point Kirk spotted what looked like a rodent’s tail vanishing into the crevice between two boulders; and Burch reported sighting a snake twined about some branches overhead. Insects buzzed around them in swarms, like gnats, but they didn’t bite and rarely landed, so Kirk soon learned to ignore them. He noted that deep within the shadowed canyon, Tyree and his friends appeared tense, which he put down to their concern about Victor scouts rather than worries about the birds and the bees.