The Tropic of Serpents: A Memoir by Lady Trent (A Natural History of Dragons) (16 page)

At the top, with the guards standing respectfully aside, the oba gestured downward. “I have captured savannah snakes. But only their breath is of use; they cannot run with chains on, and if I remove the chains they escape.”

I found myself looking down into a dry, sandy moat, at the bottom of which two discontented dragons paced at the ends of their iron tethers. “You use them as guards?” I said.

“They impress people,” the oba said. “They are not useful.” He took a piece of dried meat from his
griot
’s hand and threw it to the sand below, where one of the snakes looked at it with resignation. (They will eat carrion, but prefer their meals to be juicy and running away.)

Offering advice to the sovereign of a country is a touchy affair, but his silence seemed to invite my thoughts. Cautiously, I said, “Were these captured as juveniles, or adults?” He indicated it was the former, and I rubbed one finger across my chin. “Hmmm. Perhaps if you raised them from the egg … some birds will imprint on the creature they see first. I do not know if it is the case with dragons.”

Ankumata smiled. It should have been encouraging—a sign that I had not offended him. His expression, though, was not exactly one of pleasure; if anything, I would call it
satisfaction.
As if I had played into his hands.

He said, “You will go into Mouleen and get me swamp-wyrm eggs.”

“I beg your pardon?” I said, echoed closely by Mr. Wilker.

“We have tried raising savannah snakes from eggs. It does not work. But the Mouri, the farmers on the edges of the forest, say the Moulish raise their dragons from eggs, and this is why swamp-wyrms eat anyone who tries to go into the swamp. You will bring me eggs, so that I may try it myself.”

As royal orders went, this was a tall one. “
Chele
 … who is to say
we
will not be eaten by the dragons? Or fall prey to disease, or to the Moulish. I am told they kill anyone who comes into their forest.”

He dismissed this with a flick of his hand. “The forest kills people, not the Moulish. They dislike hunters, but you are different. And I will send Faj Rawango with you.”

I had not forgotten the messenger who came to collect us on the docks. A short man, compared to the Yembe, and more ruddy of skin, nor was his name a Yembe one. He was Moulish? I briefly damned Yves de Maucheret for spending all his words on tall tales of the Green Hell, and none on describing that place’s inhabitants.

Even with a guide, however, our survival was far from assured. Our success was even more so. “If you will pardon me for saying so,
chele,
your kingdom’s climate is very different from that of Mouleen. I doubt whether any hatchlings would thrive here. And even if they did, this is quite a lot of work simply for a few palace guard dragons—” I stopped, my words cut short by understanding.

An understanding which, as it so often does, trotted out of my mouth without asking leave of my brain. “Ah. It isn’t your palace you intend to guard, or not only. You are hoping to use them against the Ikwunde. Or the Satalu.”

The oba’s face hardened. In conversation with a sovereign, or anyone else of power, it is not generally advisable to say what they have chosen to keep unspoken, especially when it pertains to matters of state. But after a pause, he laughed: a long, hearty chuckle that called an involuntary smile from me. “You see? I am not wrong to send you. Your mind is sharp; you see things well.”

I was also an outsider, not only to the Moulish, but to the Yembe. Such a person might die, and it would be no great loss to his nation.

Mr. Wilker and I exchanged looks. On the one hand, it was a research opportunity, and one we both desired; nor were the physical risks appreciably worse than they would have been without the oba’s involvement. On the other hand, it placed a burden on us, one we might not be able to fulfill. What if he was wrong about Moulish control of the dragons? Or what if they did indeed tame them, but we were not able to learn how? The warmth of our reception when we emerged from the Green Hell might depend heavily on what we brought with us.

I wondered how useful the eggs could possibly be. No large species of dragon reaches maturity in less than two years, and some take longer. Did Ankumata expect to still be at war two years from now? With enemies on both sides, I supposed he might. And even if he were not, it would be no bad thing to improve his country’s ability to defend itself. I doubted this man, heir to centuries of Bayembe sovereignty, enjoyed his present dependence on Scirland.

Carefully, Mr. Wilker said, “What if we decline?”

One dark, gold-ringed hand waved this question away. “Is this not something you want? And your assistant, the young woman. You would want her with you, of course, once her strength returns.”

This time I kept my thoughts behind my teeth. It was bribery, or perhaps I might more charitably call it payment: if we agreed, then he would block Sir Adam’s attempts to claim Natalie. “But if we do not go…”

“Then I imagine the girl’s father will retrieve her. Your ambassador says he is an important lord. I would not want to offend him.”

First the carrot; now the stick. If we did
not
agree, Ankumata would do nothing to stop Sir Adam. It might even go further than that: if I protested or caused too much trouble, I might find myself evicted from the country as well.

“Might we have time to consider your generous offer?” Mr. Wilker said. “We would have to speak with Miss Oscott before we could make any decision.”

“Of course, of course. Such choices should not be made rashly.”

We descended the stairs. I saw Galinke in a far corner of the garden; she sat with three other women, but I knew from the angle of her head that she had been watching us on the wall. It confirmed my suspicion that her interest in me had not been entirely casual, and that her royal brother knew some of what we had discussed. Which operated to my benefit, at least in part; whether I would thank her for it or not remained to be seen.

ELEVEN

A nice idea—Consulting Natalie—Companions in my madness—More preparations—The long rainy season

There was no privacy to be had in the palace. Mr. Wilker and I went into the lower town, ostensibly to visit the market, but in truth to talk away from interested ears.

“You are going to tell me I should not have brought Natalie,” I said with a sigh after we had cleared the gate at the base of the hill.

Mr. Wilker shook his head, looking resigned. “That ship sailed from Sennsmouth months ago—and if it were not Miss Oscott, it would be something else. He did not quickly volunteer the threat, but he wanted and expected us to press for it.”

“If I had enemies on my borders and allies only too eager to take advantage of my weakness, I suppose that I too might be ruthless in my use of tools.” I sighed again. “Empathy, however, does not make the tool any happier about her use.”

We entered the market. It was not the chaos of dockside Nsebu; this was laid out in an orderly fashion, though not the grid of streets common in many Anthiopean cities. The merchants and artisans organized themselves instead by lineage, each of which formed round clusters through which Mr. Wilker and myself wound. On all sides we were besieged by vocal and determined hawkers, selling everything from copper pots to religious charms.

Under the cover of this clamour, Mr. Wilker said, “What do you think?”

I shared with him my wall-top evaluation of the risks, and concluded by saying, “I won’t deny that I’ve been trying to think of how we might convince the oba to allow us into Mouleen. I thought I might approach him through Galinke, his sister. To become involved in the affairs of Bayembe, though … not to mention that it may not be fair to the dragons. They did not ask to participate in this war.”

Mr. Wilker’s laughter briefly lightened the concern that weighted his expression. “I might have guessed you would fear for the dragons’ well-being.” Sobering, he went on. “It’s a nice idea, conducting our work without getting tangled in local affairs. Maybe in twenty or fifty years it would be possible. But we chose to come here now, and having done so, I don’t think we can escape politics.”

We were talking ourselves into accepting. I wanted to see the swamp-wyrms of Mouleen; I had wanted to see them since I saw that runt in the king’s menagerie. They were ugly beasts, and not known for their charming personalities—but they were dragons, and that meant I loved them.

I could not in good conscience make that decision, however, without first taking a certain precaution. “We shall have to talk to Natalie. Whether the oba would have found another lever or not, she is the lever he has chosen to use, and I imagine she will have an opinion on the matter.”

At the beginning of our journey, I had thrown some sharp words in Mr. Wilker’s direction regarding the validity of Natalie’s wishes. Now their effect, and that of our trio’s months of partnership, began to show. He nodded, with no hint of surprise or reluctance. “Indeed. Malaria may have dulled her taste for adventure—but if not, then I think we know our course.”

*   *   *

Malaria had not, in fact, dulled Natalie’s taste for adventure. “I knew it was a risk when I came here,” she said cheerfully, despite the pallor that had overtaken her in the aftermath of the fever. “Pity it isn’t one of those diseases where, after you’ve had it, you never need fear it again. But what is this you say about Mouleen?”

I explained the oba’s requirements to her, and his halfheartedly veiled threat. She made a face. “I shan’t ask you to go into the swamp for me. If my impending deportation is the only thing making you consider it, then don’t worry about me; I’ll find some other way to deal with my family. Hide behind Grandpapa’s skirts, perhaps, or run away to join the circus.”

She spoke lightly, but I could see that she meant it. Her resolve comforted me. It is one thing to decide that you are willing to risk leeches and fever; it is another entirely to drag someone else along with you.

What showed on my face in that moment, I do not know, but Natalie’s smile faded and she reached out to take my hand. “Isabella, what is it?”

I could feel my answering smile waver. “Only reflecting on how fortunate I am, that I should not be alone in my madness.”

It sounds like a platitude, but it is the honest truth. I found myself nearly overwhelmed with gratitude more than once over the subsequent days, as we prepared for our descent into the Green Hell. I was grateful for Natalie’s companionship and enthusiasm; for Mr. Wilker’s reliability and professional cooperation; for Lord Hilford, my patron, whose money made my presence in Bayembe possible; for Faj Rawango, without whom this escapade would have stood at best a minuscule chance of success. I was even grateful to Ankumata. Undoubtedly he was using us for his own ends—but he had also permitted us into his country, provided us with quarters in his own palace, and given us both the permission and the guide that made the next stage of our research possible.

The preparations were extensive, and unlike any I had made before. On our previous trips into the bush, we had been able to bring pack animals for our gear, but Faj Rawango warned us that horses, donkeys, and mules all tended to sicken in the swamp. Our supplies must be minimal, or we would find ourselves overburdened when the animals died.

The economies we made, however, were in peculiar places. Two tents (very small) and a minimum of clothing, but seemingly endless quantities of gin and tonic water, which would be our main protection against not only malaria but the parasitic infestations caused by foul water. (On no trip before or since have I carried more alcohol than undergarments.)

We also agreed, in a hurried conversation, to bring with us not only our chemical materials, but also the preserved bones we had gathered. Leaving them anywhere in Atuyem was not feasible; someone would be sure to find them. Destroying them would have been difficult, as the main feature of preserved dragonbone is its remarkable durability. If they became too burdensome to carry—in bulk, not mass, as savannah snake bones were even lighter than those of rock-wyrms—then we would bury them, with the hope of retrieving them later, but until then we would keep them under our watch.

One of the necessary tasks has become an oddly routine part of my life over the decades. I wrote letters to Lord Hilford, my parents, my brother Andrew, and my brother-in-law Matthew Camherst, explaining the alteration in our plans, with the unspoken understanding that this might be the last communication they received from me. Certainly it would be the last for a while; there was no postal service in the swamp, and even these letters would not go out until the next Scirling steamer came into port. I did not have to lay out instructions for what should be done if I perished—that, I had taken care of before my departure—but the implication whispered ominously between every line. I was only grateful that I would not be within my mother’s reach when she read her letter.

Even that missive, however, was easier to write than the one to my son. I was painfully aware, with each line I scribed, that it might be the last he would ever hear from me. That had been the case with each letter, of course, but I felt it now more keenly than before. His brief note took me longer than all the others put together.

It was Seminis before we were ready to go. The calendar used in Bayembe, of course, is not the common Anthiopean one, and most of my Anthiopean readers will have no sense of what that means for the region. I will therefore make clear the significance, so that you may all appreciate our folly:

The long rainy season had begun.

At first the change was refreshing. Bayembe had been parched since our arrival; it was a positive delight to breathe air washed clean of dust, to see flowers bloom and gold things turn green. But the humidity in that season is dreadful—it is true what they say, that dry heat is more tolerable than wet—and, as you may recall, we were about to descend into a region known for its abundant rainfall.

Faj Rawango warned us. But he was a servant of the oba, and the oba wanted us to go; he did not warn us very strenuously. We, for our own part, were fools. None of us had experienced a rainy season in Eriga, let alone in the swamps of Mouleen, and Yves de Maucheret, the great Thiessois traveller whose writings were one of our only sources regarding the Green Hell, had not said much about the rain. We shrugged off Faj Rawango’s warnings, loaded our pack donkeys (with a twinge of conscience for the fate to which we were about to subject them), and bade farewell—though we did not know it—to our last dry moments for a long, long time.