Chapter 11 #3
“It’s harder to get between the ribs than you think,” the Dervish said, with the air of a man who knew what he was talking about.
“At least in the heat of battle and all. If you just want to sneak up behind someone and slide a knife between his ribs, that’s different, but if he’s trying to stab you back, it’s very hard to get the angle right.
Then you end up with your blade caught in his sternum and the bone grabs like you wouldn’t believe, and you’re trying to shove his body off the point while his friends run at you with murder in their hearts. ”
“This-sounds-like-a-most-unpleasant-business-friend-Dervish.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
Edmund had taken advantage of the lull to pull out his glasses and his notebook and begin frantically sketching Large Francis’s lungs. The wind tugged at the pages and he turned his back to try and shelter them.
“What-do-you-use-to-write-friend-Edmund?”
“This is a stick of wax and charcoal. It smudges less than regular charcoal, but it’s still not perfect.
When I have a moment, I’ll redraw them in ink.
” He smiled ruefully. “All my ink is probably frozen at the moment, mind you.” He looked down at the scrawl.
Not my best effort. Hopefully I can convince Large Francis to model for me again.
There’s definitely a monograph in pillbug anatomy to be had here …
And then his thoughts stopped as if they had run into a wall, because he was no longer at the temple and publishing a monograph was no longer as simple as making a fair copy and handing it over to the Brother Printer.
I will need money, he thought, aghast. Not just to live on, but to publish. And if I do not have money, then no one will learn what I have discovered, and this knowledge might be lost.
Edmund had once found himself in possession of a piece of knowledge that could save thousands of lives.
From the time he had learned it until the time he had been able to pass it on, in the form of feverishly copied letters, dread had squatted like a toad inside his chest. What if I die—choke on a fish bone—trip over my feet and hit my head—get run down by a wagon—before I can convince someone to listen?
He had never thought of himself as paranoid, but that week had been a numb terror.
But fortunately the seal of the Many-Armed God carried weight and the word had gone out and when he was sure that other people knew, he went into the room he’d been using—in a gnole warren, of all places—and cried with relief.
Of course, it was unlikely that the structure of Large Francis’s lungs would be nearly so critical. Still, you never knew what bit of knowledge would turn out to be vital.
“Edmund, are you in there?” asked the Dervish.
Edmund blinked at him, jerked abruptly back to the here and now. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He hastily rewrapped his notebook. “Sorry. Thinking.”
“About pillbug lungs?” The Dervish actually smiled at him, and Edmund’s heart lurched a little at the sight.
“Something like that,” he said.
When they reached the top of the pass at last, which was a narrow defile that could fit a farm wagon, assuming you didn’t mind scraping the paint, Edmund stopped and looked back down into the valley.
Pines laden with snow stretched out, eventually turning into fields in the far distance, as the land sloped down to the river.
Wisps of woodsmoke dotted the landscape, rising to meet the clouds.
It looked innocent and pastoral and not at all the sort of place where people would beat you senseless and steal your mules just because they could.
Dog Violet spat onto the ground in the direction of the valley and made a gesture that a human, lacking whiskers, would find difficult to duplicate. The Dervish also made a gesture, though it used two middle fingers. Edmund did not know the exact nuance of either, but could guess.
Nevertheless, knowledge was knowledge, and as they started down the far side, he sidled over to Dog Violet and asked, “Can you tell me what that gesture meant?”
The gnole looked at him as if he had been dropped on his head. “Book-man can’t figure it out?”
“No, no, I got the intent, I’m curious as to the exact translation.”
Dog Violet thought for a moment, muttering something to herself in gnolespeech. Edmund caught the word for mother and not much else. He waited.
“Means … uh … ‘suck your mother dry.’” Dog Violet rubbed her muzzle. “But that’s … uh … small words? Actual words are longer, but no one says them all, yeah?”
“Right,” said the Dervish, to Edmund’s surprise. “A good curse has to be short and roll off the tongue, so it gets cut down over time.”
“See, knife-man knows.”
Edmund nodded. “Profanity and endearments have that in common. A few centuries later, you wonder why ‘my cabbage’ is considered affectionate, when a cabbage is just a random vegetable, and what’s so endearing about it?”
“He really knows how to take the fun out of this, doesn’t he?” the Dervish said to Dog Violet.
“True words, knife-man.”
“So what’s the long form, then?” Edmund asked, plowing forward.
Dog Violet heaved a sigh. “‘A snake to suck your mother’s tits dry.’”
“Oh, that’s a good one,” the Dervish said.
“A gnole likes it.”
Edmund pulled out his notebook and jotted the phrase down. The Dervish shook his head. “You writing a phrase book for people trying to speak to gnoles?”
“Already did,” said Edmund, and treasured the look of astonishment on the other man’s face for the rest of the afternoon.