Enge and she leads others in the Daughters of Death.”
“An Enge came to this city, was imprisoned by me for she talked sedition. She talked of it to a respected scientist of advanced years named Ambalasei. What she said turned her from the natural way. She freed all of those deadly creatures and took them from here in one of my uruketo. They have not been seen or found since that day.”
“Strong hunter Fafnepto talked to me of this, asked for any intelligence on the matter that I might have. We talked and with our joint knowledge concluded that facts of importance should be presented to you. I do that now because all others have been forbidden to speak of the matter.”
“With reason. Anger without object present destroys.”
“I know — for I have felt that way.
“Tell me all that you know.”
“The uruketo left here and has not been seen since. No city in Entoban* knows of it.”
“Then they are dead?”
“I think not. This Enge has been to Gendasi* and survived the destruction of Alpeasak. If she were not a Daughter of Death she has the ability to rule as an eistaa. It is my thought that she has taken the uruketo beyond your reach. For now.”
“To Entoban*? Is this possible?”
“Possible and probable. No city in Gendasi* would accept their cargo of death — and no city has seen them. But Entoban* is large, most of it unknown to us, warm and filled with good meat. She has gone there, your uruketo has gone there, the traitor Ambalasei has gone there. I have not seen this, know none who have seen this. But I feel it so strongly through my body as I say it that it must have happened in just that way.”
Saagakel could not be still; she walked the length of the clearing, then back. Her muscles knotted and moved, her jaw snapped so hard that her teeth clashed together, but she was unaware of it. “What can be done?” she called out loudly. “You have been thinking of this — what can be done?”
“A search must be made. I know the land of Entoban * well for I have tracked and pursued the killer- ustuzou there. And killed them. There are Yilane of science present in Alpeasak who have ways of searching and finding. Until now they have only looked for ustuzou — but they can find Yilane just as well.”
Saagakel was calmer now, drained by her fury. “I must think about this and make decisions. I am glad we talked, Vainte, for I can now do something about the anger that is sealed within me. Go now and speak to Ostuku. Tell her to tell the others that in the morning we will discuss matters no longer forbidden. It will be like cleansing a wound, purifying it. We will, together, take action on this and there will be deaths. I was too kind.”
“I as well. I treated them as Yilane once, not the danger they were. They merit only death.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Hoatil ham tina grunnan, sassi peria malom skermom mallivo.
Anyone can bear misery, few are the better for good times.
The hillside above the spring was steep, the grass slicked by the afternoon rain. Kerrick missed his footing, skidded and fell, slid helplessly down the slope into a tangle of berry bushes. The thorns clung to him as he used the butt of his spear to clamber to his feet, ripped his skin as he pulled himself free. His thoughts had been on Nadaske before he fell, thinking that he should visit him on his solitary island, thinking in Yilane of course. It was far better than Marbak for expressing dissatisfaction so now he writhed and verbalized disgusting descriptions of the thorny growths as he tore at their restraint. It was a fitting end to a depressing day. Heavy rain had interrupted the hunt, driven the game to cover. The few creatures they did disturb had easily avoided his arrows to be killed by others. Once free of the thorns he went carefully down to the spring, dropped his spear and bow onto the cool moss, knelt beside them and splashed water onto the scratches in his skin. There was a crackling in the brush and he seized up his spear.
“I am Tanu, not murgu,” Hanath said when he saw the pointed spear. “Spare my life, brave sammadar, and I will respond with great kindness.”
Kerrick growled in answer and drank from his cupped hands. Normally he enjoyed Hanath’s good spirits — but not this day. He watched as the hunter lowered the large clay pot into the water to fill it.
“Women carry water, hunters bring meat,” he said, ill-temperedly.
“They do,” Hanath said, rinsing out the pot, cheerfully immune to any insult. “And this hunter brought plenty of meat to little Malagen before she baked this pot. Only she can make them this big, this strong.”
“A hunter has no need of pots.”
“This hunter does. A good pot to this hunter is worth a herd of deer.”
Kerrick’s ill-humor was forgotten as he considered this novel thought. “Why?”
“Why? You who have drunk with the Sasku manduktos and have tasted their porro, you ask me why? Porro that tastes better than a young deer’s liver, better than having a woman, is far better than eating deer liver while having a woman…”
“I remember — Herilak told me. You and Morgil had trouble with the manduktos in the valley. He said that you stole and drank their porro.”
“Never!” Hanath drew himself up, slapped his chest a mighty blow. “We are not thieves in the night who steal from others. Yes, we tasted some of theirs, a very little bit. Then we watched, saw how they made it. It is a very small secret. After that we made our own, drank that.”
“And were quite sick?”
“We were.” Hanath sat down on the bank, bent and drank deep from the full water pot at the memory. “It is a small secret, making porro, but it holds a big secret to get the mixture just right. We are still learning that secret.”
“Still? Is that what the pot is for? More porro?”
“It is and it isn’t. The manduktos make their porro from tagaso, but all that we brought with us has been used up. So now we must try other ways of making it. This is a very difficult thing to do.”
“It is even more difficult to understand what you are talking about.”
“I will tell you. You drank porro, you know how good it is!” Hanath’s enthusiasm died. He sighed. “It can be very bad, too, when you get the making wrong. So simple. We put the dried porro grains into water to soak, just like making mush, stir them around. Add the moss, cover the pot, keep it warm — and in a few days, porro! Sometimes.” He sighed again.
“What does the moss do?”
“We don’t know — but nothing happens if it is not stirred in. Without it there is just old sour mush. But with it the mixture seethes, makes noise as if it were alive, sends up bubbles just like a swamp—”
“That sounds terrible.”
“No, it is something excellent. The bubbles in swamp water stink, but porro bubbles tickle the nose, are very good. But they were better with the tagaso. Some of the seeds we use made us very sick.” His frown vanished as he seized the filled pot and rose. “But today there is a new one. I think it is ready. You must come and try it.”
“Only after you do,” Kerrick said wisely. He picked up his weapons and went with the other hunter whose enthusiasm had returned with the memory of their new mixture.
“Here is how we thought, what we did. The mush from tagaso, it looks like the mush we make from other seeds. A seed is a seed — isn’t that right? This time we have cut the tops off the grass that women make mush from. Then winnowed the grain. We soaked it and covered it, used the right moss, kept it in the sun. This morning when I put my ear to the pot I could hear no more happy bubbling. That pot has rested in the shade all day, Morgil has poured water over it to cool it. Now we try it!”
Kerrick had not been here before, had not realized the great effort that the two hunters had put into their new enthusiasm. They had raised their tent in an open vale away from the other sammads, where they could have
