Chapter 1 - Cells of the canopy
Namni
His frame is black as ebny, but his scales shimmer in the dim light of the canopy. His talons loll beneath him, awash in a silvery hue. But it’s those wings – those blue-green, leathery, iridescent wings – that catch every dying ray that filters through the leaves far above.
N
o one should die at 14. If I’m being honest, I don’t suppose that anyone should die - at any age. Except the Reapers. Fuck the Reapers. They should all suffer an agonizing demise. But besides those pricks, no one should ever face this kinda fate.
I guess there’s justice in the world… somewhere. And those who’ve done egregious things should suffer the consequences of their actions. But we’ve done nothing to warrant this kind of travesty.
When you’re hanging from some makeshift prison, a hundred meters above the muddwood floor, all kindsa crazy shite flies through your mind. I got ancestors I never met shaking their heads at me in angry judgment. I got kids I’ve not yet sired asking why I couldn’t give’em a proper shot at life. Hell, even the homuhns seem to look at me askance as they swing from branch-to-branch, from tree-to-tree. It’s like every feral soul in the whole damn Emerwold's gotta pause for a moment to heap some guilt on me afore they return to whatever mindless business a wild critter tends to in the canopy.
It’s quiet up here. The wind cuts through the leaves with a bit more force. And I can still hear the ever-present symphony of insects that rings so much louder on the forest floor. But all I can really focus on is the incessant creaking of those damn ropes.
The cages sway like metronomes as they strain against the tethers suspending us high upon the sky. And every time they complete another cycle, the ropes strain and twist against the weight of our cells.
Me: How long since he’s been gone?
I’m whispering. But it’s the kinda “whisper” you produce when you wanna communicate discretely to those who are tens of meters away. And like most of my previous messages, this one slides into the ether. No one can be bothered to answer me.
Me: Montal! Did you hear me?
He ain’t moved in hours. The hemorrhage on the side of his head shoulda clotted by now. But every few minutes I spy another few drops of blood escaping to the surface below.
It’s hard to tell from this distance, but the blood don’t look right. It’s darker than normal. Too thick. It’s the kinda blood I seen when I was a kid.
When the Warona boy fell off the Chesmagen Bluffs, clear into Gollia Bay. They fished him outta the water and he laid up for damn near a month. But in the final analysis, they probably shoulda just left him to the Aequin. He got hot as Syrus. The shite that oozed outta his wounds was black as night. And it smelled like last month’s cheese. He did not end well.
Me: Dammit, Montal! Wake up!
Jarin: Will ya stop already? He cain’t hear you.
Me: Lotta good you’re doin.
Jarin: What good would you have me do??
Me: I dunno. Do… something. You’re closer to him. He shouldn’t be out so long.
Jarin: Should I swing my mighty cock to his cage and slap’im awake?
Me: You think you could reach him?
I hate when Jarin shoots me that look. It’s the look that says I should know something. But I don’t know something.
Me: What?? What’re you gettin at??
Jarin: I appreciate your generous assessment of our family heritage. But his cage’s gotta be at least… ten meters away. And, well… my manhood’s not quite that impressive.
Me: We gotta wake him up.
Jarin: Dammit, Namni. We’ve been through this. We yelled at him. Threw shite at him. Tried swingin the cages to get a bit closer. We tried everything we could think of. It’s no use.
Me: I know. I get it. But we can’t just hang here… forever.
Jarin: No. But we can hang here till Pang returns.
Me: How long’s he been gone?
Jarin makes a fine show of surveyin the sky through the leaves far above. He sniffs the air. He puts an ear to the wind.
Jarin: Well, the current weather don’t lend itself to fine-tuned calculations, but judging by the position of the Sisters, and the angle of sunlight through the trees, he’s been away approximately… seventeen minutes longer than the last time you asked.
Jarin stares at me while he waits for the truth bomb to explode in my noggin.
Me: Oh… you got jokes.
Jarin: Who’s joking?! You ain’t shut your trap since that arsehole hung us up here.
Me: What else am I supposed to do? I can’t take another night like this.
Every sundown, as the shadows overtake the Emerwold, the marchons descend from the treetops. They traverse the infernal tethers, right into my cage. For the last three evenings, I’ve been swarmed by the biting hellions. At this point, I’m pretty sure that my visage is more blister than skin. Judging from the look of Jarin, he’s been suffering the same fate.
Jarin: If you have any suggestions – that don’t require the use of my prodigious ten-meter cock – I’m all ears.
It’s a funny thing about “I’m all ears”. No one ever says it unless they’re certain that you ain’t got shite to lay on their ears. Every time it’s ever escaped Jarin’s lips, I’ve yearned for the perfect comment that would knock him on his cocky arse. And every damn time… I ain’t got shite to lay on his ears.
Jarin: Wait… Do you hear something?
It’s an Oneian minute afore I realize he ain’t pullin my leg. He’s got all squinty-eyed. Scanning the dropways that span to-and-from the arbyr that stretches above us.
Me: No one’s walked across them planks since Pang left.
Jarin: No, you idiot. Not the dropways. The air. There’s something on the wind.
Me: This ain’t funny. Sure, there are birds around, but what good does that–
Jarin: It’s Spinner! He’s come back!
Jarin points and practically dances in his cramped little cage. It jitters back and forth as he motions to the sky below us. The day’s grown late and the muddwood looks darker by the minute. At first, it’s a challenge to make out much of anything against the foggy grime. But Jarin won’t stop gesticulating and, a few moments later, I almost hate to admit that I do see what he’s spied.
The wildlife amongst these branches is more than initially meets the eye. And it’s tempting to dismiss nearly any movement as just another mindless fowl. But it don’t take long to realize that something is indeed rising toward us – something with the telltale form of Spinner.
His frame is black as ebny, but his scales shimmer in the dim light of the canopy. His talons loll beneath him, awash in a silvery hue. But it’s those wings – those blue-green, leathery, iridescent wings – that catch every dying ray that filters through the leaves far above. As he ascends ever higher, the sound of them beating the air thwumps in my chest and quickens my heartbeat. When he finally reaches our altitude, he makes a full 360 around our hanging baskets and finally comes to rest, predictably, right on top of Kamini’s cage.
Jarin: Spinner! Buddy! Whud you bring us?
Spinner don’t acknowledge Jarin in any way. Spinner never acknowledges Jarin. Dracons have long memories. Plenty long to remember the many years, while Kamini was training him, when Jarin used to torment the little beast. Spinner’s apparently content to rest upon Kamini’s cage and wait for his master to animate.
Jarin: Awww, c’mon buddy. Give us a hand here!
Me: Maybe if you didn’t treat him like shite he’d pay you some mind.
Jarin: He don’t pay you no mind neither.
Me: Of course not. He’s Kamini’s dracon.
Jarin: What is Kamini doing, anyway?
Kamini’s spread out on the floor of his cage. His basket is larger than any of ours. Probably cuz he’s noticeably larger than any of the rest of us.
His black, velvety longboots are propped up against one wall of the cage. He lies flat on his back, his prodigious hood draped over his face like a blanket. His hands are raised behind his head, cradling dreams. It’s not just that he looks asleep. He looks… comfortable. Peaceful, even.
Me: He’s been out for hours.
Jarin: How can someone sleep at a time like this?
Me: Have you ever known him to pass up a few winks?
Jarin: Back home? Never. But we could die up here! That arsehole would sleep through a Trial if you let him.
Kamini: And what would you have me do?
His words catch us both off guard. He’s been perfectly still all afternoon. I just… assumed he was sleeping.
Jarin: You’re awake?
Kamini: No. I’m speaking to you now from the afterlife.
Me: Spinner’s back!
Kamini: I am aware. He’s sitting on my cage, after all.
I can’t really tell from this distance whether Spinner’s picking something off his talons, or whether he’s slowly devouring something that he caught down in the muddwood. Either way, it doesn’t seem to have registered with Kamini.
He’s as motionless as when I believed him to be asleep. He hasn’t sat upright. He hasn’t even removed the hood from over his face.
Jarin: Well… where’s he been all this time?
Kamini: How the hell would I know?
Jarin: Well he is your dracon.
Kamini: When last I put this hood over my eyes, I was trapped in this cage. And Spinner wasn’t.
Me: But did you send him somewhere? Did he try to get help?
Kamini: He’s a dracon, dumbass. He comes and goes as he pleases.
Jarin: Lotta goddamn good that does us.
Kamini: Spinner has registered your displeasure. And he is taking it under advisement.
Jarin: Great. That’s just great. Pang’s gonna come back any minute and slaughter us all. And all you can do is make jokes about your pet – that is, when you’re not catching up on your beauty sleep.
Kamini: Need I remind you of how we got in this situation in the first place?
It’s gotta be my imagination, but the entire forest grows instantly silent. The wind ceases. The birds stop chirping. The thrashing of homuhn tails is nowhere to be heard. The only “sound” is that of Jarin’s shame festering inside him. He hasn’t got a single word in reply.
Me: Ooh! Ooh! I know! Maybe Spinner can get us outta these cages?!
This actually rouses Kamini. His movement gives me hope that maybe I’ve managed to hit upon something useful. He removes his hood and sits upright, carefully staying the natural commotion that pulses through his cage as he does so. He spends a few moments surveying his cell anew.
Kamini: Five walls of this cage are a basket that’s been carved from a single block of bloodwood. It looks to me like your cages are constructed the same?
Me: Well… yeah, I think so. But what does that–
Kamini: His snout is smaller than my hand. Your teeth are sharper than his.
Jarin: Namni ain’t had his teeth filed yet.
Kamini: You’re missing the point. Spinner here is only slightly more dangerous than a pomeranth, but you think he can gnaw through this wood?
Me: I dunno. He could do it better than we could.
Kamini chuckles. I fucking hate it when he chuckles.
Kamini: They make the best shields outta this shite. It can stop an ebny spear cold. But you think that Spinner’s little chompers are gonna destroy this prison cell?
Jarin: But… the rope! He could burn through these ropes!
Kamini: How many times do we gotta go over this?
He’s my age, but when he talks to me in that tone, I feel like I’m bein lectured in the klyster again.
Me: What? Go over what?
Kamini: Repeat after me, gentlemen. Dracons. Do not. Breathe fire.
Jarin: Are you sure?
Kamini: Yes, you fartnuts! I’m absolutely positive! When have you ever seen a dracon breathe fire??
Me: Ol’ Butternose used to talk about all the fire-breathers in Chevia.
Kamini: And how many times has Ol’ Butternose actually been to Chevia?
Me: Well… I dunno. I mean, I’m not really sure–
Kamini: Never. The answer is: never.
Jarin feels just as scolded as I do. He’s positively pouting.
Jarin: Well don’t blame me just cuz everyone else knows that–
Kamini: When have you actually seen, with your own eyes, a dracon, of any breed, breathing fire??
There’s that silence again. It’s like the canopeia itself is waiting for an answer.
Me: But we see him hunt bottonflies all the time! He spits that goop. That hissing, smoking goop!
Kamini: That’s acid, Namni. Not fire.
Jarin: Awwww, what the hell?? What’s the damn difference? Fire? Acid? Who cares? The point is that he could break these ropes!
Jarin’s rather proud of himself now. His pout has instantly transformed into that what-you-got-to-say-to-that smirk. Kamini’s patience does not look as though it’s the product of revelation. He measures his words carefully as he replies.
Kamini: How high are we right now?
Jarin: I told you that I’m not doing that wyndleroot no more!
Kamini: Altitude, Jarin! I’m talking about: altitude!
Jarin: Oh… I thought you meant–
Kamini: How high off the ground are we??
Jarin: I dunno. It’s gotta be a good… hundred meters?
Kamini: So when Spinner corrodes that rope, and you go plummeting to the muddwood down below, what do you think happens?
Jarin is entirely uncomfortable. He looks as though he has a trump of an answer in his pocket. But he also senses that his trump may not be quite as trump-y as he thought it would be.
Jarin: We, umm… we splash. Into the water. What’s so bad about that?
Kamini: When you hit the water from this height, the impact will kill you.
Me: No, it won’t!
Kamini: Yes, Namni. It absolutely will.
Jarin looks at me as though I’m the rightful arbiter in this.
Jarin: Is he serious??
I just shrug.
Kamini: Serious as pypyrus.
Kamini can see that neither of us quite believes him. I suppose that’s why he continues the barrage.
Kamini: And even if, by some miracle, you survive the impact, what then? You’re locked in a cage. We’ve had no luck opening the door. And as you sink to the bottom, you’ll drown.
Jarin: I suppose… an Elladoran would drown...
Kamini: Yeah, yeah. I get it. You guys can hold your breath. For how long? An hour? Maybe more?
Me: I was clocked at almost two during the Evrnott Games.
Kamini: Congratulations. You can hold your breath for, maybe, two whole hours. Are you so certain that, in that time frame, someone down there will come along, see your plight, and care enough to drag you back above water?
Although I have no reasonable response, I’m still struggling to conceal my anger. It’s the anger that arises from simply knowing that the other person is correct. And whilst the air grows grey, I can still see quite clearly that Jarin shares my frustration.
Jarin: Then why’d that stupid bat-bird thing bother coming back at all?
Kamini: Well, that “stupid bat-bird thing” is my pet. But I also suspect that he’s preparing to feed again. On the marchons, as they come down the rope.
My frustration instantly transmogrifies into an unholy jealousy. We’ve been chewed up for the last three nights by those wicked pests. But Spinner’s been dining on them before they can get into Kamini’s cage?? I can’t even explain just why this feels somehow… unfair to me.
Could Spinner not be bothered to gnaw on the marchons assaulting our cages? If Kamini’s part of our crew, and Spinner is Kamini’s dracon, doesn’t that somehow make Spinner part of our crew as well? I mean, where’s the goddamn camaraderie here? The nerve of that filthy beast!
The mere thought of the marchons descending upon us fuels a new fit of scratching across my body. A thousand pithy retorts beg to launch from my throat, but they’re all jammed by the competing alarms of epic scratching that burn over every centimeter of my flesh.
I know the scratching is counterproductive. I know the risks of infection. But within seconds my nails are clogged with the detritus of half-formed scabs and bubbling puss. I don’t even try to feign composure as I reply, while tearing at my flesh.
Me: I just… I don’t understand. What’s the point of this? Why kill someone by dangling them from a canopeia until they starve? Or they’re devoured by insects?
Kamini: Stop being so dramatic. You’re not going to die.
Me: How can you be so sure?
Kamini: Well, as you’ve already pointed out, there are much easier ways to dispatch of dealers who’ve grifted you on a shipment.
Jarin: I dunno. That Pang’s a sadistic fuck. Just look what he did to Montal.
Kamini pauses for a moment. I believe he’s squinting through the failing light to spy Montal, prone and unconscious, lying inside the far cage. When he does speak, his tone is softer. Quieter. He’s as bothered as Jarin and I by Montal’s condition.
Kamini: That may be true. But we’re worth more to him alive than we are dead. And a Reaper will always put profit over blood feuds.
Me: We’ve been hanging up here for three days. Where’s the profit in that?
Kamini: I figured he’d try to sell us into the slave markets at Chacraju. But given how long he’s been gone, I’m starting to think that he went off to Despac.
Jarin: What can he find in Despac that he can’t get in Chacraju?
Kamini: The Scarlet Trust. Our closest headquarters. He can reach the Collective there.
Kamini: He would if he thinks he can ransom you back to the Collective.
I really don’t like the sound of that. I don’t like it because it makes too much sense. I don’t like it, because–
Me: If he contacts the Collective, that means Chey will find out what we’ve been doing.
Kamini: I sure hope so.
Me: What are you talking about?! If this gets back to Chey, she’ll have our arses in a sling.
Kamini: Would you rather face Chey’s wrath? Or end up in chains? Or… worse?
Jarin: I dunno… She ain’t gonna like this.
Kamini: No. But she’d also save our lives.
Me: Why did you say that Pang would ransom “you” to the Collective. Don’t you mean that he’d ransom “us”??
Kamini: You’re Inqoan. I’m not. Simple as that.
Me: True. But you’re still Scarlet. You’re still one of us.
Kamini: Awwww… that’s sweet. But Pang doesn’t know that. And even if he did, I doubt he’d care.
Jarin: But we’re family, Kamini. We’re all Scarlets. We are all the same crew.
Kamini: Would family be side-dealing behind the Collective’s back?
There ain’t much twilight left in these branches. I’m rather glad that Kamini can’t see my face. Right now, I’d prefer it if no one saw my face.
The gentle groan of carokins wafts upward from the wetlands far below. The thick leathery leaves of the canopeia sway in the waning rays of Syrus. I swear that I can hear those goddamn marchons starting to rustle their way from the highest reaches of the canopy, intent upon devouring my flesh for another interminable evening.
Jarin: Maybe Chey won’t find out about any of this.
Kamini: There ain’t much that doesn’t get back to Chey. But what would possibly make you think that?
Jarin: Before he dropped me in my cage, Pang asked me who we report to.
Kamini: And what did you tell him?
Jarin: I said that Gorata Bofelo is our captain.
Jarin’s chuckling for some reason. The fact that I don’t know why he’s chuckling makes me strangely nervous.
Kamini: Gorata Bofelo? Who in the hell is that?? I’ve never heard of her.
Jarin’s chuckling gives way to outright laughter.
Jarin: Of course, you haven’t. Because she doesn’t exist. I just made her up! Gave her a whole backstory and everything! Looks. Mannerisms. The works! I really spun him a tale!
Me: Good thinking!
Kamini: You ignorant simpleton.
Jarin: What?! What’s wrong with that?
Kamini: Pang has our life in his hands, over a deal that we botched, and you chose to lie to him??
Jarin isn’t laughing anymore.
Jarin: What would you have me do?! We don’t divulge Scarlet business. To anyone. Least of all, a Reaper!
Kamini: Yeah, that’s sounds all lovely. Brother-for-brother. One-for-all. All-for-one. All that shite.
Jarin: Damn straight!
Kamini: And once he realizes you’ve sent him on a leviaton chase, and he comes back with us still stuck in these pens, whutcha think he’s gonna do to us??
The first marchon drops off the rope and right onto one of my open sores. It doesn’t take but a few seconds afore it’s wantonly munching on my skin. The fact that it’s chosen a spot directly inside a previously-blistered outbreak only accentuates the pain. Normally, I’d be swatting at the tiny demon with all my might. But at this exact moment, I can barely bring myself to breathe, let alone defend myself.
Jarin: Hell… I, well… I dunno? Maybe he’ll take us all to the slave markets?
Kamini: If I know anything about that man, he’ll just march back and kill us.
Jarin: No! Why would you say that?! What about “profit over blood feuds”? And we’re “worth more alive than dead”?
Kamini: That was before I realized that you just wasted three days of his time trying to hunt down this mythical Gorata Bofelo.
Jarin: I don’t… understand.
Me: Sadly… I do.
Kamini: Time is money, Jarin. And you’ve just burned at least three days of a Reaper's time. At this point, he’ll probably just cut his losses, slaughter us in these cages, and leave us for the marchons to munch into oblivion.
Jarin: But what else could I have done?
Kamini: It’s too late to worry about any of that. Someone approaches.
There are lights advancing down the dropway. They’re a ways off. But they’re definitely coming in this direction.
Jarin: Is it Pang?
Kamini: I don’t know. But whoever it is, they’re not alone.
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