Everfair (23 page)

Nenzima nodded assent. “Our friends from Oo-Gandah are gathered in the mountains nearby, ready for transport.”

“How many?”

“The fighters of a hundred villages. All they could spare.”

Roughly three thousand “men”—many of the Oo-Gandah warriors were female—would be waiting for aircanoes to carry them into battle. Combined with King Mwenda's force, which at last report was double that number … “What is our latest and most reliable estimate of Leopold's army?”

“As many as the fighters of two hundred villages are left to them.”

Seven thousand against nine thousand. Better than equal odds, then—though the tyrant's army would have more and more accurate rifles. “Their ammunition? Supply lines?” So much depended on the latter—food, medicine, and thus morale.

But the Poet assured the Mote once again that their secret U.S. and European supporters had let nothing get through since March two years ago. Spoiled and poisoned rations, diluted medicine and malaria, had greatly reduced Leopold's army.

Thomas had Yoka give his report for him. Mrs. Albin no doubt thought this a tactic to avoid disasters such as the barking fits that had overcome him so many times in the past.

The truth? Often enough he simply could not recall what it was he was supposed to say.

“The Reverend Wilson has learned of a camp of child slaves nearby to Lukolela. He will take an aircanoe there on a detour when we leave for the battlefield tomorrow.”

Thomas understood that, while in the chicken blood–induced trance, he had said something of the sort. He, or the spirit temporarily inhabiting him. Lukolela. That would probably be found to be the holding place of the captive spy's hostage. The statements he'd made earlier under a similar influence had all proved helpful and correct.

Mrs. Albin was intrigued. “Is Lukolela a large camp? How many of these poor creatures can we rescue?”

“We're not sure,” said Yoka. “Perhaps twenty-five. Perhaps more. But they will need food, bandages, replacement hands—you understand.”

“But first, Bibles! Yes! I insist! We must procure more, one for each—and picture books, too, telling the story of creation—”

“They can share those belonging to others,” Daisy said firmly.

The vote went predictably, except for his own choice. Not that that would have changed the outcome: only Mrs. Albin's godson and her husband sided with her. Thomas ought also to have favored buying religious texts over more grossly physical supplies. That he'd chosen otherwise would be viewed as treachery on his part. Mrs. Albin awarded him a sour look, but by morning he was able to forget it.

Albert and Chester and their construction crew had been busy. Four new craft were ready fly north to join
Mbuza,
the first vessel of Everfair's ever-expanding fleet.
Zi Ru
and
Fu Hao
were unavailable, attached to occupying garrisons at Mbandaka and Kikwit. But
Boadicea
and
Brigid
were even bigger, and the untested new aircanoes,
Kalala
and
aMileng,
were supposed to be much lighter, much faster. New materials, Albert explained. One more of similar design,
Phillis Wheatley,
was scheduled for production later this year. At the moment too many colonists lodged inside, but during the dry season the space of the largest cavern would be free for the necessary work.

Rain hazed the relatively cool air. Dawn had always been Thomas's favorite time of day. He walked out along the wooden dock to
Kalala
with no worry that he might slip and fall dozens of feet to the steep, rocky mountainside below. There were no handrails to hold, but the bark had been left on the logs out of which the docks were built. That kept them from becoming too slick.

The prisoner was already aboard. He'd spent the night beneath one of the aircanoe's storage shelves, safely sedated by juice extracted from the roots of an herb known to the Bah-Sangah. Yoka showed Thomas the supply he carried in a horn in case another dose was needed before they arrived.

Kalala
's capacity was about eighty adults. Thomas had thirty fighters board, bringing their jumping sheets with them. Typically, slave camps were guarded by no more than six or seven soldiers. So it was when they arrived at Lukolela after a journey of a little over twelve hours.

Night was about to fall. Bare red dirt passed beneath
Kalala
's gondola, darkened to the color of an old wound by the sun's absence. A hut hove into view—that would be the overseer's quarters. Just past it, a smoldering fire fought against the rain. By its fitful light, more than by that of the failing day, Thomas saw a huddled group of children. He counted thirty. Two guards with guns stood over them. There'd been two more by the hut. That left another two or three out of sight, most likely patrolling the clearing's perimeter.

Bombs could provide a distraction, but Leopold's thugs had become more wary as Everfair and King Mwenda's warriors increased their raids. At Bwasa, according to Loyiki, the soldiers had for the first time shot and killed their slaves before fleeing the attack. That was almost two years ago. Since then, he had been developing different tactics.

They circled back around and all but ten fighters jumped, their falls slowed by their rubberized barkcloth sheets. Of course the guards hit some with their rifles. Venting gas,
Kalala
came lower. The ten fighters remaining aboard had a harder time aiming than those thugs on the ground, but there were only four targets. No, five: the overseer had come out of his hut. He was armed too, but Yoka downed him neatly. The way he worked his shotgun's action with the fake hand, you'd never know the man ever had a real one.

Full night now. Gunfire came from the woods, but it was sporadic. Thomas ordered
Kalala
lower, but kept the bonfire in the distance. Fighters shepherded the pitifully thin children toward the aircanoe's rope and wood ladders. Still in partial shackles—the chains linking them had been struck off—no time for more—they had difficulty climbing up. Thomas leaned forward to help and felt a sudden heat under his arm.

He'd been hit. He knew the sensation; it had happened before. Always a surprise—he fell to the side, against the gondola's slanting bulwark. In the dark and with the confusion of the starving children coming aboard, Thomas managed to conceal what had happened. But once they'd cast off their ballast and set course for an overnight berth above the Lomami River, Yoka hunted him down. Thomas was staunching the bleeding as best he could with his coat balled up and held tight against his armpit. The lamp Yoka carried showed it soaked in red.

The apprentice touched Thomas's arm carefully, with his flesh hand. “Does it hurt?” he asked.

“No. Worse. It's numb. But I think the bullet's in there. Still.”

Yoka replaced Thomas's coat with his own and made him lie flat. He used something—a belt?—to hold the pad in place. “There are healers on
Mbuza
.”

Thomas knew that. “I will go to them when we reach Kibombo.” If he didn't die before then.

“Perhaps.” Yoka's face disappeared from Thomas's narrowing field of vision for a moment. “I must prop you up to help you swallow.”

“Swallow what?” It was a hollowed-out horn Yoka lifted to his lips—though he wasn't sure this was the same one containing the soporific drug they'd given the prisoner. The taste of what he drank from it was both bitter and sweet, like licorice and quinine.

“Now you will sleep. And dream. And very likely, you will live,” Yoka seemed to be saying. His meaning floated free of the words. “If so, you should promise yourself.”

Promise himself. Thomas wanted to open his mouth. He had questions. Or at least one. Promise himself. Promise himself what?

Then he was walking up an endless mountain. Or down? Sometimes he thought one, sometimes the other. Whichever, it was hard work. Why shouldn't he stop? But he smelled—something. The scent of fire. He wanted to find who it belonged to. It wasn't out of control, a forest burning up. How did he know that?

Rough stones gave way to soft soil, plants clinging to the ground, mounting up the walls of a rude shelter, an open-sided shed. Here was the fire. A forge. The smith working it wore a mask like a dog's head. He was making—Thomas couldn't see exactly what. Shining shapes stood upright in pails to the forge's right side. They resembled giant versions of the symbols used by Bah-Sangah priests. On the left loomed a pile too dark to discern more than vaguely. Hoping to see better, Thomas went just a little nearer, but not near enough to get caught.

The mask's muzzle turned sharply toward him. A powerful arm reached too far and a huge hand wrapped itself around his neck. It pulled him closer, choking him.

From behind the mask came a man's voice. “What are you doing here? Stealing secrets? Or are you dying and you come to me for your life?”

Of course he was dying. Loss of gravy. Loss of blood. He said nothing, but the smith seemed to hear his thoughts.

“If I give you your life back, you will owe it to me. Acceptable?”

The big hand loosened and Thomas nodded. Yes. Its grip tightened again and drew him in next to the fire. It draped him over the anvil. He shrank, or the anvil grew until it held all of him.

Turning his head, Thomas saw the smith take a shining symbol from one of the buckets and bring it toward the anvil. He rolled his eyes up to follow its progress, then lost sight of it. Then cried out as it burnt his scalp.

“Silence!” commanded the smith. Two hard blows on his skull stunned him into compliance. Another scalding hot symbol was slipped under his neck. The smith's hammer smashed into Thomas's throat, driving his tender skin down against the letter of fire. Scarcely had he recovered, breathing somehow, when a large new letter was laid on his chest, and hammered home with three mighty swings. Smaller symbols were burned and bashed into the palms of his hands. Radiating pain and heat, Thomas wondered if this was how Christ felt when he was being crucified. Then he scolded himself for his blasphemy—but without speaking, for the smith had bade him to make no noise.

If life was suffering, it belonged to him yet. Under the next letter, his left knee smoked. The dog mask spit on it. The hammer hit. It must surely have broken his bones, Thomas thought. But after the final symbol was affixed and the smith told him to stand up, he found that he could.

“Do you have a weapon?”

“I can get one,” Thomas said.

“Remember whose you are now.”

“But I don't know your—”

“Ask Yoka my name.”

He awoke. He presumed he did; he must have been sleeping. Dawn again, and the aircanoe was moving, clouds and the pale curve of last night's moon passing behind
Kalala
's red-and-purple envelope and coming swiftly back into sight. He could feel both arms. He clenched his fingers and released them. That hurt. Cautiously he sat up. His senses swam, but not unbearably. He shrugged his shoulders. Some pain, and an annoying restriction—Yoka's makeshift bandage. He eased off the sash and the pad it had held in place tumbled to the deck. It was stained and dry.

Dry.

It ought to have been wet. It ought to have
stuck to his skin
.

Slowly, Thomas lifted his arm and examined the wound. The healing wound. Where the bullet must have entered, his flesh had started to pucker into a raw, raised scar a little darker than the rest of his armpit. With the hand of his unhurt arm he probed his shoulder and as much of his back as he could reach.

Nothing marked an exit.

Yoka approached, carrying a clean shirt, seeming unsurprised by Thomas's convalescence.

Thomas took the shirt. “What happened?” he asked, then almost gagged coughing; his throat was tight, rough, swollen.

“That's not to be talked about. Not here. Besides, the drums say we'll soon be busy. You won't have time to wonder about all that.”

Thomas was stiff; he needed Yoka's help putting on the shirt. Its warmth was good. His head ached. His arms and legs throbbed and trembled. He leaned against the nearest woven panel and forced himself to his feet.

They'd brought few provisions. Thomas's chief want was water, but he knew he'd need more than that to get through the coming battle. As they passed over Malela en route to Lutshi, he was eating his second plantain. The thirty fighters had been deposited at Ombwe an hour earlier, as planned. King Mwenda had split his troops, leading and chasing Leopold's men into the swamp. The majority of the king's fighters were to the north of the invader's army; in order to reinforce the southern contingent,
Mbuza, Boadicea, Brigid,
and
aMileng
had been ferrying Oo-Gandahns all morning.
Kalala
was to join them for this final trip of four.

The small aircanoes could only transport eighty adult fighters. The rescued children had proved reluctant to leave
Kalala
with the fighters from Kamina. The countryside was strange to them. They had endured enough. Strategically speaking, Thomas admitted to himself, it had probably been a poor choice to add their rescue to the day's mission. But the spy had cried with joy when reunited with his newly freed son.

In the end, only space for thirty-three fighters was needed. Most Oo-Gandahns had already been taken to their battle positions, and many of those left seemed to prefer flying in the other aircanoes. Perhaps it was the dispirited attitude of
Kalala
's passengers, which was of course due to the children's exhaustion, malnourishment, and sores.

It was nearly an hour after
Brigid
's departure that they, the last to leave, finally took to the air. Ignoring his own weakness, Thomas did his best to help tend to the unfortunates. He'd learned a little Kee-Swa-Hee-Lee, but only a few of them understood it; he had a hard time remembering which and telling them apart.