The Tropic of Serpents: A Memoir by Lady Trent (A Natural History of Dragons) (12 page)

I have not been to Bayembe in nearly twenty years, but my memory of it remains as fresh as yesterday. Not the factual details, but the experience of the place: the enormous quality the sky seemed to take on, and the vast stretches of dry grass rustling in the breeze. Scattered umbrella thorns spread their branches like flat clouds above the ground; I caught occasional movement in the grass that told me small creatures had taken advantage of the shade beneath.

I had put on a bonnet for the ride, of course. My shipboard argument with Natalie aside, I knew better than to ride all day in the tropical sun with a bare head. But compared with the damp chill that had greeted me in Vystrana, this warmth seemed a friendly welcome, a promise of good things to come. I did not yet realize how brutal the heat would become—though even then, I would choose that heat above an equal or even lesser degree of chill. The evidence of natural history points to a tropical origin for our species, and I believe it to be true.

M. Velloin rode with a rifle tucked into one arm, its barrel lying across the pommel of his saddle. I nudged my mare up to join him and asked, “Do you expect to have need of that, this close to Atuyem? I would think there are too many people about for your sort of game to show their heads.”

He laughed easily, teeth flashing predatorily in his tanned face. “One never knows, Mrs. Camherst. Besides, in these troubled times, it isn’t only beasts we need to watch for.”

“The Ikwunde?” I asked, skeptical. “I have heard they are threatening, but even if they overran our troops at the rivers, we would know of it long before they got this far.”

“Single men can be as dangerous as armies, Mrs. Camherst, in the right place. But no, the truth is only that I like to keep my hand in. There are small beasts about that make good target practice—and good eating, too, some of them.”

He was not wrong about the small beasts. I had field glasses with me, and put them to frequent use as we rode; it allowed me to see the creatures keeping a wary distance from our noisy herd. Low disturbances in the grass were occasionally visible as rock hyraxes, while larger ones were the rangy, rust-furred wild dogs endemic to the area. A cloud of dust marked the passage of a herd of zebra. An odd lump on a distant tree proved, upon examination, to be the recumbent body of a leopard, draped elegantly along a branch with its tail curving below. “Keep your distance,” I murmured under my breath, as much for the leopard’s safety as our own.

I had spoken in Scirling, and did not expect to have an audience. But from behind me, a voice said in Yembe, “I would like to learn your language.”

Turning in my saddle, I found my interlocutor was a tall, well-made young man, one of the Yembe who had joined us for this excursion. Not a porter; the richness of the cloth wrapped about his hips and the gold braided into his hair made his status clear. He rode with easy grace, and his horse was, if I did not miss my guess, an Akhian stallion of breeding as good as his own.

“I would be a poor teacher, my lord,” I said, defaulting, in the absence of his name, to a generically polite address. “I have struggled three years to acquire any ability in your language. Such things do not come easily to me, I fear.”

He smiled broadly and touched his hand to his heart. “I am Okweme.”

“Of what lineage?” I inquired. “If it is not impolite to ask.”

“It is not impolite. I belong to the Kpama Waleyim.”

My mare danced beneath me at my involuntary start of surprise. After meeting Galinke, I had vowed to learn more about the various lineages, and now that vow was bearing fruit. “You are the olori’s son!”

“I am,” he said, still smiling. “But here, in the bush, I am only Okweme.”

Only
a prince, as we would consider such things. A prince, and the son of the woman who had examined me on my first day in Atuyem as if I were a beetle under a magnifying glass.

But he had nothing of his mother’s calculating manner. Okweme was a font of information about the savannah and its creatures, which he did not hesitate to share with me as we rode. His familiarity came from long experience as a hunter, but he did not put me off as Velloin had, for he seemed little concerned with the glory of his trophies. Or perhaps it was merely that he was a far more personable man.

Okweme took our plain supper with us when we stopped for the night, and traded delicate corrections to our Yembe grammar for some basic instruction in Scirling. Afterward, while Natalie and I helped one another dress for bed inside our tent, I said, “He seems a friendly sort. I’m surprised he’s taken an interest in us, though. Aren’t we far beneath his station?” Galinke had talked to me, but that was because we were locked in the
agban
together.

Natalie laughed. “An interest in
us?
I only saw interest in one person.” She poked me in the side.

“Me?” I said, twisting to face her. “What? Why?”

“Oh, let me think,” she said, turning so I could undo her buttons. “A handsome young man, an available young woman…”

Her description took me aback. I was not accustomed to thinking of myself as young, for all that I was barely twenty-three. I had been married; I was a widow, and had a son. In the eyes of society, all those things put me firmly into the category of “mature,” and not the sort of woman with whom handsome young princes would trouble to flirt.

But what were Yembe views of widows and their marriageability? It was not something I had thought to research before coming, and now I felt the lack most acutely.

Fortunately, I soon had other things to occupy my attention. The following day we moved into a region too arid for agriculture, and here flourished the kind of game that attracted M. Velloin’s eye.

In terrain of that sort—an arid mosaic of grassland and savannah, which is a kind of loose woodland—watering holes are everything. Their number is few, and a wide array of creatures must come there to drink; but the predators know this, and lie in wait for their prey. The approach to a watering hole is therefore perilous, and the beasts remain in a state of heightened alertness while there.

M. Velloin had not come this way before, but Okweme and the other Yembe with us knew the area well. They directed our group to a stony hillock, lesser cousin to the one upon which Atuyem stood. It lay downwind from the watering hole, which was as great a benefit as its elevation; if we did not make very noisy spectacles of ourselves, we could observe the area at our leisure, and make plans for further work.

I dismounted on the lee side of the hillock and immediately began scrambling up its slope. M. Velloin would be not far behind me, I was sure, and I wanted the chance to see this for myself, without his presence spoiling the moment. Nearing the top, I dropped into the grass and (silently cursing the long skirt of my dress) crawled the remainder of the way, until at last I could see what we had come for.

My gaze went first to the elephants. They were simply too large to overlook. A group of six had come to the far side of the watering hole; the rest of their herd stood a little more distant, perhaps keeping guard. The largest of those at the pond’s edge, whom I judged to be an old cow, was showering a juvenile with water while he splashed in the shallows. For all that I am partisan to creatures with wings, a delighted smile spread across my face at the sight. The playfulness of the pair was undeniable, and charming. (I may also say that their large, flapping ears would very nearly serve as wings—an exaggeration, but one that crossed my mind whenever I saw the beasts.)

The watering hole itself was a kidney-shaped pond, muddy and reflective under the bright sun. It was, I later learned, fed by a tiny spring, which kept it present year-round; others wither to a tiny puddle or vanish entirely during the dry season. Even with the spring, I could see the hard-packed dirt where the waterline had receded; it would withdraw farther still before the rains came again.

A herd of gazelles had arrayed themselves not far from the elephants, presumably seeing their fellow herbivores as no threat, despite their great size (against which the gazelles seemed positively tiny). Frogs spotted the water’s edge like brown, restless lumps, and flies and other insects made a haze a little distance above. Several pairs of Erigan geese floated near the middle of the pond, muttering amongst themselves and occasionally setting up a great ruckus with their wings, the shading of whose red and grey feathers at rest resembled nothing so much as the scaled back of a Hakkoto carp.

Out of both wariness and eagerness, I looked about for predators, but saw none. Lions, of course, prefer to hunt at dusk and at night; leopards and hyenas are the same. Cheetahs will hunt during the day, but they are less common in that region—their niche being occupied by a Certain Other Beast.

My eye, I am not ashamed to admit, was simply inadequate to the task.

Their business at the watering hole done, the gazelles were loping away, their delicate legs flickering through the grass. Then something else flickered, too, that was most decidedly
not
a gazelle.

It came low and fast through the cover, at an angle to the herd that caused them to startle and veer in their course. Then, with a surge that caused my heart to give a great leap, it sprang into the air: an Erigan savannah snake.

The dragon’s wings seemed to go on forever. Long and narrow, they are incapable of sustained flight, but they work excellently well for the species’ chosen method of hunting. On the ground, with their wings folded in tight to their bodies, savannah snakes can very nearly equal the speed of a cheetah. Once they come within range, though, they leap upward and spread their wings, gliding above the panicked herd until a suitable target presents itself. Then they swoop down, long necks extended, and bite down hard upon the spine of their prey. If the dragon has gauged his attack well, he retains enough momentum to drag the beast sideways out of the main herd, whereupon the rest thunder off and he may enjoy his meal in peace.

So it was on that occasion. The entire incident was over with shocking speed: a few seconds of the dragon in gliding flight, followed by a bellow and a confusion in the rushing mass of gazelles. Then they were gone, leaving their dead brother or sister behind.

In repose, the savannah snake is not the most prepossessing of dragons. Compared with the Vystrani rock-wyrms I had known before, it seems almost laughably small; the largest specimen on record today weighs ninety-eight kilograms. Its scales are dull, shading to green during the rainy season and dun in the dry, and the elongated structure of its body, along with the contrast between its deep chest and narrow waist, conspire to give it the appearance of a serpent that has recently swallowed a very large meal. But its wings are a glory: slender and maneuverable, their translucent membrane glowing gold when the sun shines through them. (A sight most commonly available to their prey, who do not much appreciate the aesthetics. But I once had the pleasure of seeing a savannah snake airing its wings after being tumbled into water.)

“Ah, she’s a beauty.”

I had a smile on my face and words of agreement on my lips before I realized the remark had come from M. Velloin. At some point—I did not know when—he had crawled up to join me on the hilltop. He had brought field glasses, and raised them to better study the feasting dragon. Beneath that, his expression was not one of wonder, but rather of calculation, and I could guess what equations were in his mind.

On the other hand, I
had
come here to take advantage of the fruits of his hunt, and could hardly fault him for doing that job. I merely disliked him praising the beauty of the savannah snake with such a purpose in mind.

“They are solitary hunters, yes?” I asked, determined to make use of his knowledge.

“The females are, like that one there. Males will hunt together sometimes, in pairs or trios, occasionally quartets. Especially if they’re brothers. If you hunt males, you must be
certain
how many there are, or that last one will be on your head while you’re taking aim at the others.”

(I must confess my imagination presented me with a picture of M. Velloin shrieking and running about with a dragon attached to his scalp. The reality, of course, would have been bloody and not at all amusing, but the image entertained me.)

I tugged my hat forward to better shade my eyes. “How do you hunt them? With a rifle, I presume—but do you chase them, or lie in wait?”

M. Velloin snorted. “Good luck chasing them; they can outpace an Akhian without trying. If the terrain allows it, lying in wait works very well. Unfortunately this hill is too distant to be of any use, unless the snake drives its prey right past us.” He put down his field glasses and gave me a predatory smile. “Let me show you how it is done.”

The showing took several days. Even an experienced hunter like M. Velloin is not successful on every outing—not in bagging dragons, at least, though there was not an afternoon in which he failed to bring back
some
kind of carcass. We dined that first night on roast waterbuck, and he took two zebra the following day, whose striped hides our servants were set to defend from scavengers attracted to the smell. Okweme and his companions went out at dusk in pursuit of lions, but had no luck.