Once he woke to find Merril jubilant. “They’ll let me fight!” she said, and Clave learned that the Carthers were planning war against London Tree.
Over the following days he grew to know the jungle people. Of around two hundred Carthers, half were copsiks. It didn’t seem to carry any onus. Copsiks here lacked for nothing save a voice in the council.
He saw many children and many pregnancies and no starvation. The jungle people were healthy and happy…and better armed than Quinn Tribe had been.
He was questioned at a gathering of the tribe. Carther States’ Commons was a mere widening in a tunnel, perhaps twelve meters across and twice that long. Surprisingly, the space held everyone. Men and women and children, copsiks and citizens, all clung to the cylinder wall, covering it with an inner layer of heads, while Comlink or the Sharman spoke from one end.
“How can you even reach London Tree?” he had asked, but only once. That information was “classified”; spies would not be tolerated. But he could watch the preparations. He was sure these fires were part of it.
He had been flapping wind at the coals for half a day now. His leg was holding up. Soon he would have to shift position.
Kara the Sharman came skimming toward him. She dipped her grapnel into the foliage and stopped herself next to Clave. “How are you doing?”
“You tell me. Does the fire look right?”
She looked. “Keep it that way. Feed it another branch a few hundred breaths from now. How’s the leg?”
“Fine. Can we talk?”
“I’ve other fires to check.”
The Sharman was Carther States’ equivalent to the Scientist. Maybe the word had meant Chairman once. She seemed to have more power than the political boss, the Comlink, who spent most of his time finding out what everybody else wanted. Getting her attention was worth a try. Clave said, “Sharman, I’m a tree dweller. We’re going to attack a tree. Shouldn’t you be using what I know?”
She considered that. “What can you tell me?”
“Tides. You’re not used to tides. I am, and so are these copsik runners. If you—”
Her smile was twisted. “Put you in charge of our own warriors?”
“Not what I meant. Attack the middle of the tree. Make them come to us there. I saw them fighting in free fall, and you’re better.”
“We thought of that—” She saw his grimace. “No, don’t stop. I’m glad you agree. We’ve watched London Tree for decades now, and two of us did escape once. We know that the copsiks live in the inner tuft, but the carrier is kept at the center of the tree. Should we go after that first?”
Science at the level of the carrier, the flying box, made Clave uneasy. He tried to set the feeling aside…“I saw how they use that thing. They put their own warriors where they want them and leave yours floundering in air. Yes. Get the carrier first, even if you can’t fly it.”
“All right.”
“Sharman, I don’t know how you plan to attack. If you’ll tell me more, I can give you better answers.” He’d said it before. It was like talking to the tree.
Kara freed her grapnel with a snap of the snag line. She was moving on. Treefodder! Clave added, “One thing. If I know the Grad, he knows how to fly the carrier by now, if he’s had any kind of a chance at it. Or Gavving might have seen something and told the Grad.”
“There’s no way we’ll learn that.”
Clave shrugged.
“We’ll go for the carrier and try for the Grad.”
Clave pushed a dead spine branch into the coals and resumed flapping his blanket.
Kara said, “You call yourself Sharman…Chairman of a destroyed people. I trust you know how to be a leader. If you learn things that should not be known to our enemies…if you ride to war in the first gust of warriors…what would you tell my citizens, if you were me?”
That was clear enough. “‘Clave must not live to be captured and questioned.’ Sharman, I have little to lose. If I can’t rescue my people, I’ll kill copsik runners!”
“Merril?”
“She’ll fight with me. Not under tides, though. And…don’t tell her anything. I won’t kill Merril if she’s captured.”
“Fair enough. You called the funnel a ‘treemouth’—”
“I was wrong, wasn’t I? The jungle can’t feed itself that way. There’s not enough wind. What is it?”
“It’s what makes the jungle move. The petals are part of it too. Whatever side of the jungle is most dry, there the funnel wants to face. The petals reflect sunlight to swing the jungle round in that direction.”
“You talk like the jungle is a whole creature, that thinks.”
She smiled. “It’s not very smart. We’re fooling it now. The fires are to make the jungle dry on one side.”
“Oh.”
“There are tens of life-forms in the jungle. One of them is a kind of…spine for the whole thing. Its life is deep down, and it lives off the dead stuff that drifts toward the center. Everything in the jungle contributes something. The foliage is various plants that root in what the jungle-heart collects, but they rot and feed the jungle-heart and shield the jungle-heart if something big hits the jungle. We do our part too. We transport fertilizer down—dead leaves and garbage and our own dead—and we kill burrowing parasites.”
“How does a jungle move? The Grad didn’t know.”
“The silver petals turn the jungle to put the funnel where the jungle is most dry. If everything gets too dry, then the funnel spits hot steam.”
“So?”
“Clave, it’s time to put the fires out. I must tell the others. I’ll be back.”
Minya followed Dloris through twisting, branching tunnels. Minya’s grip on Jinny’s arm was relaxed; it would tighten if Jinny tried anything foolish. But the treemouth, and any chance to leap into the sky, were farther away with every step.
The way the tunnels twisted, Minya wasn’t sure where she was. Near the midbranch, she thought; and the tuft would be narrowing toward the fin. She couldn’t see solid wood, but from the way the spine branches pointed, the branch was below and to her left. Earlier she had passed a branching tunnel and heard children’s laughter and the shouting of frustrated adults: the schools. She could find this place again.
The mouth of a woven hut showed ahead. Dloris stopped. “Minya. If anyone asks…you and Jinny both think you’re pregnant. So the Scientist’s Apprentice will examine you both. Jinny, I’ll take you to your sister, and what happens then is none of my business.”
They had reached the hut. Dloris shooed them in. Two men waited inside, one in Navy blue, the other—“Who are you?” Dloris demanded.
“Madam Supervisor? I’m Jeffer, the Scientist’s Apprentice…other apprentice. Lawri is otherwise engaged.”
To meet both Minya and Jinny was more than the Grad had hoped for.
He introduced his Navy escort to the women; Ordon was clearly interested. Ordon and Dloris stayed while the Grad questioned Jinny. She couldn’t be pregnant, the timing was wrong, and he told her so. She and Dloris nodded as if they’d expected that and departed the hut through the back.
He asked Minya the appropriate questions. She hadn’t menstruated since a dozen sleeps before Dalton-Quinn Tree came apart. He told the Navy man, “I’m going to have to examine her.”
Ordon took the hint. “I’ll be right outside.”
The Grad explained what was needed. Minya stepped out of her poncho’s lower loop, lifted it and lay down on the table. The Grad palped her abdomen and her breasts. He tested the secretions of her vagina in plant juices Klance had shown him how to use. He’d practiced such an examination in Quinn Tuft, with the Scientist supervising, as part of his training. Once.
“No problem. A normal pregnancy,” he said. “It’s anyone’s guess when it happened.”
Minya sighed. “All right. Dloris said so too. At least it gives me a chance to see you. Could it be Gavving’s?”
“The timing’s right, but…you’ve been available
to the citizens, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Minya, shall I tell Gavving it’s his?”
“Let me think.” Minya ran faces past her memory. Some were blurs, and she liked it that way. Did they resemble Gavving at all? But the arrogant dwarf had claimed two of her sleeptimes—“No. What’s the truth? You don’t know?”
“That’s right.”
“Tell him that. We’ll just have to see what the child looks like.”
“All right.”
Jinny and Dloris had gone down to the pregnant women’s complex, a good, safe distance away. Luckily the Grad’s guard was male. A woman might not have given them privacy during the examination. With her poncho hiked up and her legs apart, Minya said, “Stay where you are in case Ordon peeks in. Grad, is there any chance of getting us out of here?”
Keeping his head clear wasn’t easy under the circumstances, but he made the effort. “Don’t move without me. I mean it. We can’t do anything unless we can stop them using the carm.”
“I wasn’t sure you were still with us.”
“With you?” He was startled…though he had had doubts. There was so much to learn here! But what was it like for the others, for Gavving or Minya? “Of course I want to break us free! But no matter what we do, they can stop us while they’ve got the carm. And have you seen a dwarf around?” Like Harp, he thought, but Minya hadn’t known Harp.
“I know him. Mark. Acts like he’s three meters tall, but he’s less than two. Thick-bodied, lots of muscles, likes to show them off.” Bruises healing on her arms helped her to remember.
“He’s important. He’s the only one who can use the old armor.”
“We’d like him to meet with an accident?”
“If it’s convenient. Don’t do anything till we’re ready to move.”
She laughed suddenly. “I admire your coolness.”
“Really? Look down.”
She looked, and blushed and covered her mouth. “How long—?”
“Ever since you pulled up your poncho. I’m going to have a serious case of lover’s plaint.”
“When I first met you I thought…no, don’t move. Remember the guard.”
He nodded and stayed where he was. She said, “Grad…my guest…I hope it’s Gavving’s, but it’s already there, no matter whose. Let’s—” She sought words, but the Grad was already moving. She finished in a breathless laugh. “—Solve your problem.”
The poncho was ludicrously convenient. It need only be pulled aside. He had to bite hard on his tongue to hold his silence. It was over in a few tens of breaths; it took longer to find his voice. “Thank you. Thank you, Minya. It’s been…she’s…I was afraid I’d be giving up women.”
“Don’t do that.” Minya’s voice was husky. She laughed suddenly. “She?”
“The other apprentice is a citizen who treats me like a thieving copsik. Either I’m dirt for the treemouth or I’m a spy. Anyway, it’s my problem. Thanks.”
“It wasn’t a gift, Grad.” She reached down to squeeze his hands. “I’m sick of being treated like a copsik too. When do we get loose?”
“Quick. It has to be. The First Officer has spoken. We move the tree as soon as possible.”
“When’s that?”
“Days, maybe less. I’ll know when I get back to the Citadel. Lawri’s up there counting down the carm’s motor systems. I’d give either testicle to be in two places at once, but I couldn’t miss the chance to talk to you. Can you pass a message to Gavving?”
“No way at all.”
“Okay. There’s a cluster of huts under the branch, and that’s where the women stay when they carry guests, for more tidal pull while the baby’s developing. So. Is there anyone at the treemouth that you want fighting beside you?”
“Maybe.” She thought of Heln.
“Maybe isn’t good enough. Skip the treemouth. If something happens, grab Jayan and anyone else you think you need and go up. A lot of the men spend their time at the top of the treemouth. We can hope Gavving and Alfin are there. But wait till something drastic happens.”
Chapter Seventeen
“WHEN BIRNHAM WOOD…”
The huge silver petals were rising, folding inward. The funnel at their center faced east and out, and the sun was moving into line with the funnel. Gold was eastward and seemed close. The sluggish whorl of storm was a strange sight, neither mundane nor scientific, but mind-gripping.
Clave and Kara were alone. The other fire-tenders had gone elsewhere after the fires were quenched. The Sharman asked, “Do you know the law of reaction?”
“I’m not a baby.”
“When the steam spits from the funnel, the jungle moves in the opposite direction. That would be back to moister surroundings, back into the Smoke Ring, if we weren’t…meddling. Afterward something must be regrown: fuel, perhaps. It takes twenty years.”
“That’s why they’ve been getting away with the raids.”
“Yes. But no more.”
The petals stood at thirty degrees from vertical. The sun shone directly into the funnel, and the petals were shining into it too. The funnel cupped an intolerable glare.
Kara said, “The jungle-heart spits when the sun shines straight into the blossom. It’s not easy to make it spit at a chosen time, but…this day, I think.”
It came as if by the Sharman’s command: a soft, bone-shaking fumf from the funnel. Clave felt heat on his face. The jungle shuddered. Kara and Clave clung tight with hands and feet.
A cloud began to form between himself and the sun. A column of steam, racing away from him. He felt a tug, a tide, pulling him toward the sky.
“It works,” he said. “I didn’t…How long till we reach the tree?”
“A day, maybe less. The warriors are gathering now.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me?” Without waiting for an answer, Clave dove into the foliage. His thoughts were murderous. Had she cost him his place in the coming battle? Why?
Four copsiks were running the elevator lines with their legs, and the Grad’s eye caught Gavving among them. The elevator had almost reached its cradle. Was there no way to tell him? Minya’s with the pregnant women. She’s fine. I’m in the Citadel—
Ordon said, “So you couldn’t wait for the Holidays.”
The Grad jumped violently. For a moment he was actually floating. Ordon bellowed laughter. “Hey, forget it, it’s nothing. With a chance like that, how could you not? That’s why Dloris got a little upset when she saw you weren’t Lawri.”
The Grad grinned a sickly grin. “Did you watch the whole time?”
“No, I don’t need to get my kicks that way. I can visit the Commons. I just poked my head in and saw what you were poking and pulled it back out again.” He put the Grad into the elevator with a friendly, forceful shove in the small of his back and followed him in.
He seemed friendly enough, but first and last he was the Grad’s guard. The Grad was not to be harmed, the Grad was not to escape. He liked to talk, but…they had come to the pregnant women’s complex the long way round, by way of the Navy installation on the fin. They had returned by the same route. Presumably Ordon had some business on the fin. The Grad had asked about it. Ordon had become coldly suspicious. He would not talk to a copsik about his work.
The tuft sank away. This was far easier than the four-day climb up Dalton-Quinn Tree. A flock of small birds was veering wide of the trunk. “Harebrains,” Ordon said. “Good eating, but you have to use the carm to chase them down. The old Scientist used to let us do that. Klance won’t.”
A streamer of rain was blowing across the out tuft. Was that why the First was so eager to move the tree? Wet citizens?
A mobile tree: it boggled the mind. Find your own weather!
A fluffy green bauble hung east of the out tuft, with a strange spreading plume of white mist behind it. Within a day or two London Tree would have put it from sight. The Grad wondered if he was being unreasonably antsy. The carm could reach Carther Stat
es across any distance. If he couldn’t capture the carm, he would be here forever; and if he could, what was the hurry?
But time had a choke hold on his throat.
Life was not intolerable for the Scientist’s Apprentice. In a hundred sleeps he might grow into this new life. When the time came he feared he would move too slowly, or not at all.
Clave found Merril in the Commons. She was dipping the points of crossbow bolts in the evil-smelling brew the Carthers made from poison fern.
The increasing tide caught Clave jumping toward her. He paused, then floated back, laughing. “It’s real! I sure wasn’t going to call her a liar, but—”
“Clave, what’s happening?” Merril was drifting too, arrows all about her. She managed to catch the poison pot and cap it before it spilled.
“We’re on our way. The warriors are on the surface.” Clave jumped to his pack against the pull of the strange tide. He had readied it some sleeps ago.
Merril barked, “What? How long have we got?”
She had spent her days learning how to make arrows, twist bowstrings, shape a crossbow and fire it. Clave had watched her at target practice. She was as good as most of the Carthers, and her powerful arms were faster at resetting the crossbow.
He said it anyway. “Merril, you’re in Carther States whether you go or not. A lot of Carthers aren’t citizens.”
“So.”
“You don’t have to go.”
“You can feed that to the tree, O Chairman!”
Clave shoved a handful of the freshly poisoned bolts into his quiver. “Then grab your gear and go!”
The tide was about like that in Quinn Tuft. Using the tunnels was almost like walking. But it was strange. Every branchlet and foliage tuft had the tremors.
Clave pulled himself through crackling branchlets and soft green tuft, through to the sky. A column of cloud raced outward from beyond the jungle’s horizon. The surface was nearly vertical. He took care for his handholds.
Skeletal warriors emerged like earthworms out of the green billows. Fifty or sixty Carthers had already chosen and boarded pods. Clave was annoyed. The Sharman had told him late, and nobody had told Merril. Why? To give them a chance to back out? “Sure I’d have fought, but I didn’t get the word in time—”