PATCHER Page 7

  “It’s huge,” she says to him. “Even if it is only an infant, it’s going to only get bigger. Look at the size of the egg it came from.”

  “All the more reason to just leave it here,” he says. “Where would we even keep it? I don’t think there’s enough food in my entire barn. We don’t even know what it eats.”

  “It still lives in its own birthing sac.” She points at the while coating over its body. “And it’s still eating… or breathing—I’m not sure which—through that umbilicus.” She spins to look at him. “It’s premature.”

  “If that’s the case, it doesn’t have long.” He pulls an old watch from his pocket, looks at it, then flips it closed. “Let’s come back this time tomorrow and if it’s dead, we’ll harvest it. Could probably use a lot of the organs. I know farmer Endd’ked needs a new kidney…” His mouth shuts when he sees the look of horror on her face. “What?”

  “It’s a newborn. It’s just arrived into this world and already you’re talking about turning it into a Donor.” Crossing her arms, she gestures with her head to the giant. “You haven’t even given it a chance.”

  “If it’s premature, it isn’t long for this world anyway.” He reaches for his rifle. “Best to just put it out of its misery.”

  But Bex is already moving in front of it. “It can defend itself. I saw it. So clearly it wants to live, and knows enough to fight back.”

  “Reflexes don’t mean anything,” he says. “A plant has reflexes.”

  “But it isn’t a plant, Vin. It’s a newborn… and I’m a Tender.”

  Vin throws his arms into the air. “Oh, here we go. This is what I knew was going on. You lose one Ward and suddenly you want to save the world.” He stabs his walking stick into the ground, leaning in towards her on all hands. “You Tenders live in a dream world, I’m here to tell you. All those new subspecies, all those new animals are as useless as spitting in the dust. If you want to make something of the world, you should be putting those new species to use.”

  “You mean cutting them up.” She holds him in a cool gaze, and for a moment, Vin breaks eye contact. “This is what I expect from poachers, but as a Patcher, I’d think you’d at least give living things a chance before you dissect them for parts. Or maybe I was wrong about you.”

  She sees the shame in his face as Vin wilts a little. “Your generation, you don’t know what it’s like or what it will be like.” When he looks back up at her, his eyes seem older, smaller, hidden amidst the aging flesh. “There’s nothing left. Everything in this world is used up, kid. And now you want to march a giant that could feed a village back to a village that could eat a giant. I don’t think you’ve thought this out one bit.”

  “It’ll die out here. It’ll starve, or get eaten by stalkers…” she pleads, but Vin’s point is unavoidable. Would the town be any kinder to it than the stalkers?

  “It will die anyway,” Vin says, and starts towards his orehorse. “Would you rather it dies to stalkers? Or dies to feed our town?”

  As he mounts his orehorse, Bex looks up at the hatchling, at its big dumb eyes moving from her to Vin.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “Even if we put you out of your misery, there’s no way we could bring you back to town unless you followed us. And that would be cruel.”

  Bindo greets her as she pats his muzzle, but when she turns around, the giant is standing, looking down at her, then at Vin. It turns, gather’s items, and starts to follow her. They begin to travel back up the ravine, and Vin looks back past her.

  “Your friend is persistent,” he says from the top of his mount.

  It’s true—huge lumbering steps bring the giant forward, up and out of the gorge as it sucks from its umbilicus. It pauses at the top, panting and grunting in ground-shaking breaths, bending over. It looks at her, raises a hand and then makes more of those big dumb sounds.

  “It’ll never make it to town,” she says.

  “Well, if it makes it even halfway, that’s less work for us.” Vin turns away and rides up ahead. Bex does the same, listening to the wheezing giant lumber along behind them.

  Chapter 9

  THE AMEER of Eastern Sea and Mountain paces in his chambers, feeling the cool marble on his feet. It’s easier to think while barefoot, the rhythmic steps, the clicking of toenail and talon a background to his thoughts. He can almost forgive the stiffness in his left leg, a gift from the Baron of Horn and Tooth years ago—had he known at the time that the donor was so old, he might have declined, but too late for that now. A tattoo twists around the ankle, embedded with gold leaf and gems. His bare back glints in the warm sun through his window, the grafted beetle shells, scales, and membranes throwing rainbows across the cold walls. The light catches him off guard on occasion, and he startles, stops, and looks at it for a moment.

  I’m old, he thinks. Old and paranoid.

  At the east wall sits a table, wide as the room itself. A map of the contested territories lies dotted with small red flags, black ink, tears, and notes written in blood. The Ameer has good reason to be paranoid, he imagines.

  If someone raided my town, killed my people and livestock, even if it seemed only to be a band of poachers… I’d surely seek revenge.

  But an investigation is unlikely, otherwise he would have heard it by now. No, the rumors and beetlefilm coming from the Bone Sea all fit the story. Poachers, twenty of them, raiding and beheading, cutting people down, harvesting limb and liver alike, had swept through. They spared no age, no creed, no trade.

  They burned the corpses. That was, perhaps the worst of it, almost too grizzly a detail for the Ameer to stomach. Those people would never rebuild, never patch themselves again. A burnt corpse can live on in no one. Their death was as permanent as the dust.

  He hears footsteps before his house guard Shunter even enters the room, his heavily grafted body hulking at the doorway. Short, spiny horns and protective scales start at his forehead, working their way back over his spine, passing between plated shoulders. A pair of strong arms sprouts from each socket, splitting at the end into one grasping claw, coupled with a long deadly spike. A venom sac bulges just behind the shaft and yellow sap hangs at the top of one of the weapons.

  “You’re leaking on my floor, Shunter.”

  The guard glances at the end of his arm and wipes the tip of his stinger casually along his pants. Small superficial limbs at the inside of his crotch further wipe and clean the spot. Behind him a small troop of advisors flows into the room. The supplicant announcer, Milm, speaks as they arrive.

  “The envoy has arrived,” he says.

  “From the villages?”

  “No. Not villagers.”

  The Ameer huffs. “I would have expected the surrounding villages might have sent regards at this point.”

  “No, sir.”

  The advisors line up along the wall, their eyes darting between the bodyguard and the Ameer. As bodies part to make way, the envoy arrives and the Ameer understands. They aren’t villagers at all, but poachers. They stand in a small group, their beady eyes shifting along his belongings, placing values on every statue and drapery. They walk with a smooth confidence, bordering on arrogance, and even Shunter straightens his bulk in the presence of the lithe, feral beings.

  Milm shuffles over to the Ameer and whispers. “This is the envoy. We…we tried to set an appointment, but they were very insistent.”

  “What of the reception?”

  “They say that their information is for only the ears of the Great Ameer, that speaking otherwise would be tossing seed to sand.”

  The Ameer clears his throat and steps forward to greet the motley collection of hunters. They stare back in silence.

  “I imagine the journey has left you hungry. Thirsty perhaps.” He raises a hand, gesturing to a nearby servant, but the lead poacher dismisses the gesture.

  “You’ll forgive us, Great Ameer, but it is our custom not to accept food in a household. The nature of our business makes such exchanges a fatal endeavo
r at times. I hope you understand.”

  “Very well.” It isn’t like he would have poisoned poachers, not immediately. But their presence is cause for alarm. If they run out of animals to hunt there, what’s to keep them from looking closer to home? “What brings you to my kingdom?”

  “I am Ak’klin Hur Mattsoyatami, Huntmaster of the East. I come to you as emissary of my people, and my trade.” He bows, flourishing an arm grafted from a much younger person, the skin still light and smooth, a birthhand. Bones, glass, and blades jingle from his belt and clothes as he straightens, holding the duke in his gaze. “We are honored that you would agree to meet us on such short notice.”

  “Welcome to our humble palace.” He gestures around the chambers, but the poachers do not move. Instead Ak’klin steps forward from the pack.

  “You will forgive me if I am not as accustomed to such formalities,” Ak’klin reaches for a bag and Shunter immediately assumes a fighter’s pose. The two freeze, their eyes locked.

  “It’s okay Shunter.” The Ameer holds up his arm, then turns back to Ak’klin. “Please, continue.”

  Thin, delicate fingers remove a bundle from the side of his belt as Ak’klin steps forward. “We bring news of a new emergent species, one that I believe the Tenders’ Guild is not even aware of.”

  “Is that so?” The Ameer’s eyes shift from the poacher to the bag at his side. Best not to overplay his curiosity though. He waits. Information will come in time. “Our last expedition to the coast brought little back… and I don’t believe the Tenders are in any position to discover new animals at this point in time.”

  To his surprise Ak’klin laughs. The others behind him chuckle in unison. “An expedition… quaint word. But semantics aside, your lordship, I do not believe the guild would have overlooked such a species. The simple fact is that it has emerged over the Boundless Desert, miles from the Bone Sea.”

  “A species emerging from the desert and not the sea…” The Ameer strokes the spines along the back of his head. “I imagine our grafters would be busy studying such a species for decades to come, but you’ll forgive me if my skepticism has the better of me. What you suggest simply doesn’t happen.”

  Officials chuckle from the sides, but Ak’klin shows no hint of humor or irony in his expression. “You’ve heard the thunder, your lordship. I imagine that is something at least that we can agree upon.”

  “We have all heard the rainless thunder,” the duke replies, the officials nodding. “People have even reported seeing lights and fire rain across the sky, hidden behind the Godcloud. It’s nothing new. These are simple people, farmers and peasants. They know little of the world or anything beyond it. And the gods laugh.”

  “The rainless thunder is no myth, your lordship. Our tribes have prayed for years, asking for a sign, something to prove that the gods have not abandoned us. We believe that this is a sign from them, a blessing if you will, that we are achieving our sacred duty.”

  It isn’t the first time the Ameer has heard excuses for people to behave in whatever manner they feel like. He himself has asked for countless blessings in the past, even as recently as a month ago. One does not simply go up against the Tenders’ Guild without notifying the gods of one’s intentions first.

  “And I assume you’ve received an answer.”

  Ak’klin turns and mumbles to the man behind him. The shorter poacher comes forward on two and a half legs, his face snarled in tattoos and grafted tusks. From within a bulging satchel, he removes a small bundle. The smell is strong and pungent—rotting meat and hair, but different somehow. Exotic.

  “We have only found this,” says Ak’klin. “We suspect there is more.”

  The bundled meat is the size of a head, perhaps bigger. He tosses it to the floor and with a flamboyant gesture, yanks back at the cloth, causing the item to spin in the air, revealing itself before landing on the marble floor. Everyone but the poacher leaps back. They were expecting a head, but not a hand.

  At least it looks like a hand, burnt and scarred, separated at the wrist bone. Either it’s missing a finger or has only five—though he has never heard of a subspecies born with five digits. Each of them ends in a flat, shovel-like claw. A band of silver encircles one of the digits, melting into it, charring the surrounding skin.

  “Great Ameer, we ask that you allow us to expand our tribe’s hunting territory to the outer desert where, in return, we will bring you more of these.”

  The Ameer isn’t really listening. He stares at the hand. There have been tales of ancient times when beasts roamed the world in vast numbers, some as large as a house. He had thought they were only children’s tales until now. It makes his bowels feel weak and damp with fear just looking at it, imagining what sort of monster would even wield such power and size.

  He simply nods, taking a while to find his voice. “You have it. Tell my advisor to take this to our laboratory for appraisal. This is a very intriguing find, Huntmaster Ak’klin. I appreciate you bringing this to my attention above the other kingdoms.”

  Another deferential nod from the poacher. “The Ameer has always been in our thoughts and in our hearts.”

  And with that, he and his troop turn and leave. Milm turns to him as the last of them exit, pausing a moment to take in what he is seeing on the floor. He looks up at the Ameer with an expression of shock.

  “See if you can send out our own men,” he says to Milm. “See if they can capture one of these giants alive before the poachers find it.”

  *

  There is plenty of reason to celebrate, but Ak’klin doesn’t allow it until they are well beyond the city gates. As they gain distance from the walls, their energy rises and rises until one after another begins to hoot at the gray desert sky. Pim, the shortest of them, pours water on his face, a defiant act of good fortune.

  After they calm down and reach their orehorse mounts, Ak’klin turns to address them. “We don’t have much time. I imagine we aren’t the first band to find one of these.”

  “But we have exclusive rights now,” Pim says, still wiping his face. “You heard the Ameer. The Eastern Sea and Mountain territory is ours. We may hunt all things from here to the Bone Sea. The Tenders’ Guild was the only thing in our way.”

  “For now,” says Ak’klin. “But I don’t think it will take long for the other Ameers to discover these. They are scattered far and wide. We’ve bought ourselves time. That’s all.”

  “And what if they do find out?” asks Pim. The celebration has drained from his face now, replaced by something much darker.

  Ak’klin smiles. “Then we make sure we harvest all we can. If that fails, we still have what’s left of the carcass, as well as the egg. I think you’ll find that it will buy us much more than simply time.”

  He mounts his orehorse, leaving his men with questions. That’s good. Ak’klin never likes to play his hand too soon. They were lucky to stumble upon the one they found, and had it not already been mortally wounded, they might have never learned just how easily killed these giants are. A simple cut and they leak their insides to the dirt, soiling themselves and filling their outer skin with urine and feces. The smell is horrendous, ruining much of the potential donor tissue. Surely there must be a better way to harvest the creatures before they stain their hides with blood and shit.

  And curious that. No crust, no scab, no grafting either. Even a stupid animal will crust almost immediately, the body cauterizing the wound. It is the way of things: all creatures understand they are part of others. But not these. They resist donation as if it were a death sentence—which it inevitably was for the unfortunate beast they stumbled upon.

  They will need to hurry, bribe more informants, feel out the market. Information from the rural hillsides could prove expensive, but that has never been a problem for him or his men. One doesn’t get to be the most prosperous poaching troop on the continent by waiting for the prey to kill itself.

  Chapter 10

  WHEN KENDAL was a kid he had always wond
ered what it might be like to be Godzilla. Now he knows, and the perspective is far stranger than he imagined.

  The only living things larger than him are what pass for trees here, and many of those are only taller than he is by a few feet. Though off in the distance, he does see a forest of what seems like tall bamboo rising twenty feet or so into the air. Foliage seems to exist in a constant state of parasitism, with different species growing from within each other. Small red saplings grow alongside the tall bamboo, sometimes piercing their trunks and emerging from the other end. The parasitism works both ways it seems, a symbiosis with the rough trunk and green needles reemerging from the top.

  He looks back at his captors, and wonders if this is normal. It’s easy to anthropomorphize, thinking of the younger one as a “she” and the older one as a “he.” She is, after all, pinker, softer, less rigid. She doesn’t seem to have much modification at all, just a small body wearing a patchwork outfit, and he begins to wonder if the she might some sort of outcast… or maybe a holy person.

  I’m really grasping at straws.

  He realizes halfway through their walk that something else has been bothering him—an absence of something. He hasn’t seen anything flying. No birds, or soaring mammals, no floating gas bags, pterodactyls… Gray clouds hang low in the sky, almost close enough to touch, and he covers his mouth with the mask, wondering if it is poisonous somehow. There are insects flying low, buzzing around his head. He swats at them as they dart at his exotic human flesh.

  “Kendal,” he says, placing his hand on his chest. “Kendal. What’s your name? What’s his name?”

  They ignore his attempts to communicate for the most part, but do on occasion, talk to one another in that fluting, chirping language. But since he has nobody else to talk to, he continues the conversation if for nothing else than to preserve his own sanity.

  “Is that forest a farm? Do you have food? Water?” He does all this with pantomimed motions, hoping to attract some sort of response, but human body language is as exclusive to humans as the birdlike jerks and twitches are to these guys. For all he knows he’s making threats on their family or calling their mother’s unspeakable insults—assuming they have mothers.