Chapter 9 #2
“Badger,” he said, not taking his eyes off the creature. It hadn’t moved, but continued to stare at him with beady eyes. “Ancestors, but you grow them big up here.”
It was a sign of his agitation that he didn’t recognize the double entendre until it was out of his mouth. Edmund didn’t pick up on it, though. In fact, the dedicate dropped Sweetness’s reins and bolted toward him.
“Don’t hurt them!”
“Me, hurt them?” The Dervish waved a dagger at the immense teeth on display. “What am I going to do, give them indigestion?”
The badger snarled again. The Dervish inched back.
It had a hole to hide in, and there was no reason it should charge him.
He wondered why on earth the Sleeveless had kept the creature around.
Were they planning on cooking it? Surely not.
There was nothing worth eating on any of the weasel clan unless you were starving to death.
Edmund, to his absolute horror, ran at the badger and fell to his knees in front of the creature’s hole.
“Shit!” The Dervish grabbed for him. “What are you doing?”
He got his arms around Edmund’s chest and hauled backward. Inexplicably, the scholar fought him. “Let me go! I have to talk to them.”
“Talk? To a badger?”
Then again, he’s found a way to talk to a giant pillbug. For all I know, he can speak Badger.
Ignoring the Dervish’s grasp, Edmund put his hands up to the sides of his head, cupping them forward, and said …
something. It sounded like a string of growls put to music, a strange, liquid song that rose and fell unpredictably.
Because his chest was pressed against Edmund’s back, the Dervish could hear the guttural sounds rolling through the scholar’s frame like thunder.
The effect on the badger was electric. It twisted in the hole, sitting upright, and its ears lifted. It replied in the same liquid tongue.
Ancestors preserve me, he really can speak Badger.
Edmund paused. A moment later he spoke again, more hesitantly. The Dervish suddenly realized that he was hugging the scholar against him and hurriedly released him.
The badger watched as Edmund stumbled through a long sequence of growls, then said, “A gnole speaks human words, yes?”
Edmund’s shoulders slumped with relief. “Oh, thank the gods.”
“A human’s gnole words are good.” The badger—or gnole, apparently—actually reached out and patted Edmund’s arms. It had short, stubby fingers and blunt claws. The Dervish’s nerves screamed, but the sword didn’t seem to think his wielder was in any danger.
Edmund rose to his feet and backed up. “Ah … were you working here?” He looked around the ruins, now empty of any erstwhile employers. “Err…”
“Oh yes,” said the gnole. Remarkable how even across species, the Dervish could hear bitterness. “A gnole is working very hard.”
It emerged from the space under the table with a clank of chain.
It was encased in greasy rags and one of its legs bore a heavy iron cuff connected to a long chain that ran to a bolt in the floor.
By the look of it, the gnole could, with care, move about twenty feet, which gave it the run of the kitchen and the privy.
The Dervish, who would have sworn that his capacity for empathy had been sliced away years ago, found that he was still capable of outrage. He knew what it was like to be chained.
“We’ve got to get that thing off it,” he said.
“Her,” said Edmund. “Yes.”
The gnole gave him an appraising look. She was no taller than a child, but much broader, with teeth long enough to rip a man’s leg open to the bone.
“A gnole is named Dog Violet,” she said.
“A human is named Edmund,” Edmund said, and looked at the Dervish expectantly.
“A human is named the Dervish,” he said obligingly. He’d encountered much stranger grammatical constructions in his day.
“Can you pick locks?” asked Edmund, looking at the heavy padlock.
“No.” This was, in fact, one of the more bitter regrets of the Dervish’s life. “They must have left a hammer or a chisel … or a key…”
Our Friend suddenly appeared in a skitter of legs.
It had a pack slung over its carapace and clutched a strange square box, about a foot on each side, with a crank on one side and a peculiar metal growth on top, like a trumpet flower.
The pillbug put its two upper arms into holes on the sides of the box and began turning the crank with another arm.
A moment later, a high, scratchy voice emerged from the trumpet.
“Hell-o-new-frien-ds. It-is-good-to-fin-a-lly-be-ab-le-to-speak-to-you.”
“What,” said the Dervish, “the fuck.”
“How are you doing that?” said Edmund, his eyes as round as saucers. Dog Violet’s ears were flat against her skull.
“It-is-a-de-vice-like-a-mu-sic-box,” said the high, flat voice.
“There-are-on-ly-a-lim-it-ed-num-ber-of-pho-neme-s-in-your-spee-ch.” It was beginning to pick up speed now, the gaps between syllables lessening.
“The-sounds-are-inscribed-on-metal-discs-and-I-select-and-play-the-correct-ones. It-is-the-most-efficient-way-we-have-found-of-communicating.”
“That’s amazing!” said Edmund.
“That’s … certainly a thing.” The Dervish looked over at Dog Violet, who was also somewhat alien, but at least a fellow mammal. She met his eyes and shook her head in apparent disbelief.
“A gnole has heard everything now,” she muttered.
“Please-forgive-my-lack-of-skill,” Our Friend said. “My-associate-was-much-more-gifted-but-she-was-killed-by-the-other-humans.”
Edmund winced. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I swear that all humans aren’t like that.”
“There-is-no-need, friend-Edmund. We-have-met-a-number-of-humans-and-understand-that-you-are-not-of-one-mind.” It extended its antennae toward Dog Violet. “May-I-be-of-assistance-in-your-plight?”
“Eh?” said the gnole.
“It thinks it can get that chain off you,” the Dervish translated.
“Indeed-yes-new-friends.”
The gnole’s fur stood up in spikes along her neck. She looked from the alien face of Our Friend to Edmund, who was trying to examine the insect’s music box without touching it. Finally she looked over at the Dervish, and he was pretty sure he wasn’t misreading the fear in her eyes.
“If it was me, I’d let it try,” the Dervish said, pitching his voice to be as low and soothing as he could. Angharad would laugh to see him trying to charm a talking badger, but all he could think about was the weight of chains and manacles cutting at his skin and a cold stone slab underneath him …
Perhaps she wouldn’t laugh after all.
Dog Violet held out her hand in an unmistakable gesture. The Dervish stifled a sigh. And now the talking badger wants me to hold her paw? Really? It’s come to this?
Apparently it had. He reached out and took the gnole’s paw. She lifted her muzzle and nodded to Our Friend, then immediately closed her eyes tight. Thick fingers closed tightly over his.
Our Friend dropped its front end down to the ground, holding the music box carefully out of the way, and reached its antennae toward the lock that held the manacle closed. It inserted the delicate tips of both into the lock and began making tiny motions that rippled down their length.
The lock went clunk.
Dog Violet’s fingers convulsed around the Dervish’s, as if she was expecting her leg to be cut off. “Is done, yes?” she whispered.
“It’s unlocked,” the Dervish told her. Our Friend retreated back and reared up again, inserting its legs into the music box.
“I have an old friend,” Edmund said to the pillbug, “who would dearly love to know how you did that.”
“The-principles-of-lockmaking-have-been-written-about-in-several-texts-which-I-have-had-the-fortune-to-read.”
“Do you need help taking the manacle off?” the Dervish asked.
“No, the Dervish-human.” Dog Violet took a deep breath and opened her eyes.
“A gnole has waited for this.” She reached down and pulled the manacle open, revealing skin that had been rubbed raw and furless.
She stood, hefting the manacle in both hands, walked around the table, and flung it violently away.
It hit the end of the chain and rebounded violently, falling down with a clatter. Dog Violet turned back to the others and dusted off her hands as if she had finished some minor unpleasant chore.
“Now, humans, friend-bug, a gnole thinks that it is time we leave.”