Black Halo (39 page)

Scampering was apparently one of their very few ambitions in life, haggling and yelling at each other being the others. But above both of these, they seemed very fond of lounging. Under the shade of their lean-tos, amongst the pools fed by the waterfalls dripping in from the forest that loomed over their valley, in the half-drowned sandy bottom of their village; it didn’t matter where they happened to fall, the Owauku had turned laziness into an art form.

And because of this, Dreadaeleon found himself wondering, once more, where this particular village had come from. The stone circles were far too smooth, far too orderly to be anything born from nature. The waterfalls did not trickle of their own accord, but were fed into their streams and pools from aqueducts and trenches that undoubtedly had required many very patient men a long time to carve from the rock. But the creatures scarcely seemed to have the attention span required to carve a slur into a coconut, much less hew this marvel of sand and stone and stream.

He studied for as long as he dared until he heard the unmistakable cry of greeting. He assumed it was greeting, anyway; the Owauku’s language tended to blend salutations, curses and propositions into remarkably similar words. The dozens of green blobs became dozens of pairs of bulbous golden globes as they all looked up at him, yellow smiles splitting their faces and stubby appendages waving at him. His grin and wave were equally meek as he noted with no undue relief that only the Owauku demanded such a reaction.

The Gonwa were mercifully curt.

There was no shortage of the lankier bearded lizards walking amidst the sandy pathways, either. Very rarely did the more stoic creatures even deign to notice their companions’ presence, and when they did it was only with a mutter in their own language and a downturn of their eyes.

Side by side with the Owauku, they didn’t look
particularly
strange, and their smaller cohorts didn’t seem to mind their presence one bit. Together, they soaked in the dozens of pools that lined the rising sandy ridges in the valley, each one fed by gently trickling waterfalls, flowing swiftly from the forest above to splash in the pools below, sending cascading droplets against the damp earth and …

His eyes widened as he felt a sudden warmth cascade down his inner thigh.

‘Oh, come
on
,’ he whispered, turning back to the hut’s wall.

The effects of an overuse of Venarie were random and imprecise, ranging anything from pink sweat to instantaneous internal combustion, swiftly followed by external combustion. Horror stories lingered about the occasional bout of extreme overindulgence that resulted in spontaneous hermaphrodite transformation combined with the sudden growth of tails, fins, horns and extra mouths.

Dreadaeleon supposed he ought to be pleased that an uncontrollable bladder was all that he suffered.

And he was, indeed, pleased up until the moment he heard a familiarly unpleasant voice behind him.

‘Well, well,’ the distinctly masculine voice muttered, ‘watering your garden, are you?’

He whirled about, seeing his horrified visage reflected in Denaos’ broad, white grin. The tall man folded his arms over his naked chest and canted his head to the side at the boy, the wrinkled lines in his face suddenly giving him a decidedly sadistic visage.

‘I’m not sure what you know of botany,’ the rogue said, stifling a chuckle, ‘but you won’t be growing any daffodils with the fertiliser you’re using.’

‘How long have you been standing there?’ Dreadaeleon demanded, painfully aware of the startled crack in his voice.

‘You’re never happy to see me anymore.’

‘Possibly because you watch people while they urinate for purposes I cannot begin to even summon the will to fathom.’

‘Intimidation, mostly,’ the rogue replied with a shrug.

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Well, see, a fellow who can sneak up on you and put steel in your kidneys while you’re not looking is just unpleasant. A fellow who can do all that while you’re indulging your glittering wine?’ His grin took on an exceedingly unpleasant quality. ‘Well, there’s a man to be scared of.’

‘I suppose I should have clarified,’ Dreadaeleon muttered, waving a hand, ‘I don’t
want
to follow. Go away.’

‘I don’t see why I should,’ Denaos replied. ‘You’re doing well enough.’

‘Did you take me for the type that would lock up while being watched?’ the boy growled.

‘Well, no.’ The rogue chuckled. ‘That would be
weird
.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, mind telling me?’

‘Telling you what?’

‘Why, precisely, you go wherever you please? Being amongst half-naked reptiles is hardly an excuse to cast modesty to the wind.’

‘It’s not your place to know.’

‘It
is
my place to ask,’ Denaos retorted. ‘Frankly, if you’re going to go explode in some magical blaze of fire, I think I have the right to know.’

‘You think it’s magical, then?’ the boy asked, sneering.

‘Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of things wrong with you that
aren’t
magical, but this …’ He gestured to the soaked earth. ‘This seems more in the realm of “things that could go horrifically awry.”’

‘It’s just a little loss of control,’ Dreadaeleon replied as calmly as he could. ‘Magic needs fuel. I am that fuel. I don’t get to decide which muscles it eats away.’

‘That doesn’t seem much like a muscle you should be gambling with,’ Denaos said. ‘What was it that caused it? Too much magic stuff?’

‘Yes, exactly. All the wondrous thought and power that goes into my gift and you’ve boiled it down to “too much magic stuff,”’ the boy snarled. ‘You have a promising future as an archivist for the drunk and simple.’ He glowered disdainfully at the sleepy look in the rogue’s eyes, sniffed at his foul breath. ‘Mostly the drunk.’

‘Well, there’s hardly any need to be snide about it,’ the rogue replied. ‘Really, though, I am a bit curious.’

‘And I’m a bit uncomfortable with where this is heading.’

‘Hush, I’m pontificating.’ The rogue leaned back with an air of scholarly ponder, tapping his chin. ‘Why in Silf’s name, or whatever gods you don’t happen to believe in, would you still be suffering magic-related ailments if you haven’t had need, cause or want to continue using magic for all the time we’ve been here?’

He knows. He knows about the tome, about the scrying, about the stone …

The thought came almost unbidden, and the stiffening of his spine and sudden dripping halt of his flow came completely unbidden. The rogue’s eyebrow rose so slowly, with such arrogant curiosity, that Dreadaeleon could almost hear the muscles behind it creak like a door.

No
, he told himself.
He knows nothing. How could he?

How could he not?
the boy countered himself.
It’s not like you’ve been particularly subtle about it. And he has a penchant for sneaking up on people …

That made sense, the boy had to admit. He should have known he couldn’t get far enough away to avoid Denaos.

Still
, he told himself,
he can’t know much. What could he know? He doesn’t understand how scrying works
.

But he could have learned. He could have found out, watched the wizard in his meditations long enough to have discerned that he was sniffing about the island, that he was pulling down more and more seagulls for purposes beyond getting covered in bird stool.

His heart started to beat quicker. How much
did
the rogue know? Was he aware of the tome’s location? Was he aware that the boy knew? Had he surmised the boy’s plan, to delay their discovery until he could bring himself up to his full strength and find it himself?

He must know; he’s not an idiot
, Dreadaeleon told himself.
Maybe I should just tell him. He can be persuaded to keep a secret …

No, fool!
He reprimanded himself with a mental snarl.
Tell him, and he’ll tell Lenk
. Lenk
will get it and what will you have done? Tattled like a child? They’ll be the great heroes
again,
adored by
her,
and you’ll be nothing more than a whiny little brat who had to go running to the men again
.

He paused, frowning.
Maybe I’m overreacting. They can’t possibly see me like that
.

But when have they not?
The irritation came flooding back into him with a scowl.
They treat you like a match, sparking you and throwing you away at their convenience. You set the fires and they enjoy the warmth. It’s time you proved that your fires shouldn’t be ignored so lightly. You’ve conquered bigger obstacles with magic before. You can do this
.

Right
, he told himself.
I can do this
. He grimaced.
Right?

‘You’re hiding something,’ Denaos said, angling the accusation like a knife.

‘What makes you so sure?’ the boy replied as smooth as he could manage.

‘You just froze while I was talking you, likely disappearing into some bizarre stream of thought that you’d rather I was not privy to.’ The rogue sniffed. ‘Also, your piss is on fire.’

The smoke filled his nostrils before Dreadaeleon could even think of a reply. He stared down with twofold horror: once to see the stream renewed and twice to see the yellow taint ending in a small blaze that smouldered angrily on the ground. His cry, too, came twice as he leapt backward and sprayed fiery soil across the earth.

‘Good Gods, how do you explain
this
?’ Denaos leapt from the errant stream.

‘It’s … it’s perfectly natural,’ Dreadaeleon stammered. ‘Well, all right, not natural, but not uncommon. Sometimes fluids get crossed when a wizard channels them through his body, resulting in urine that explodes when exposed to air. Nothing to worry about.’ He nodded sternly, placed his hands on his hips, then looked up at the rogue. ‘So, uh, what do I do?’

‘How should I know what to do about your fluids?’ Denaos said, cringing away. ‘How often does this happen?’

‘Not enough that I know what to do,’ the boy shrieked, gesturing wildly. ‘How do I stop it?
What do I do?
’

‘Well, don’t
point
it at me!’ Denaos angled himself sharply behind the wizard, seizing him by the shoulders and directing him toward a nearby bush. ‘There! Just … just close your eyes and think of Muraska. It’ll wear itself out.’

Damn, damn, damn
, Dreadaeleon scolded himself mentally.
This!
This
is what happens when I don’t rest! I knew this was going to happen. Well, not this, specifically, but something like this! Oh, I’m so bad at this …
His hands twitched about his loincloth, fearful to touch and aim the suddenly lethal spewer.
Well … no, it’s fine. Denaos can keep a secret, right? He’ll make me pay for it later, but for now, all that matters is that no one sees—

‘What’s going on?’ a familiarly feminine voice lilted to his ears.

He nearly broke his neck as he contorted it to see over his shoulder. Asper stood, hands on bare hips, her expression a blend of concern and irritation that drifted between the wizard and the tall man standing between them. Dreadaeleon felt his blood run cold, even as he felt a sudden, fiery spurt.

Damn, damn, damn, damn, DAMN!

‘Watch my back,’ he whispered his plea to Denaos.

‘Better than your front, surely,’ the rogue muttered in reply.

‘Is there something going on here that I should be informed about?’ Asper demanded again, crinkling her nose as she witnessed Dreadaeleon’s activity. ‘Or is this actually as foul as it appears?’

‘Foul?’ Denaos mimicked her indignant stance. ‘What’s foul about it?’

‘He appears to be urinating on a burning bush,’ she replied, fixing him with a suspicious stare. ‘Why?’

‘Dry season.’

‘And Dreadaeleon is …’

‘Performing his humanitarian duty by putting it out.’ The rogue sighed dramatically. ‘Listen, this is rather a personal aspect of a man’s life, so is there something we can help you with?’

‘Lenk has something to say to us,’ she said. ‘He has a hard time climbing the rings with his injury, so I went out to find you.’

‘Well, injured or not, he’ll have to come to us,’ Denaos said with a shrug. ‘Dread’s going to be a while.’ At her confused stare, he nodded sagely. ‘It was a
very
dry season.’ Following that, he thrust his own curious stare at her. ‘Interesting that you should come this far just to find us, though … Almost out of character, isn’t it?’

Even over the crackle of the blazing bush, Dreadaeleon could hear the accusation intoned in Denaos’ voice. He lofted a brow, then lofted it higher as he heard Asper’s feet slide aggressively across the sand and her hand clap on the rogue’s naked back. An instant of remembered pain flashed through his mind, memories of the rogue’s arm around the priestess, the sensation of impotent fury that followed.

He hid his scowl, strained to stifle himself and hear the harsh whispers emanating between her clenched teeth.

‘You say
nothing
of what happened,’ she snarled to him, pulling him closer. ‘
Nothing
.’