“Yes. However, there are those in the Shura that believe that Sirigar’s interpretation is false and merely a political expediency. Those Ones believe that references to the Great Corruption refer not to an external physical threat, but warn against a theological dilemma that would see our own beliefs diluted to serve a baser purpose. We believe it refers to Sirigar’s debasement of the Scents of GarSuleth.
“The only way to challenge and defeat Sirigar is in ritual debate before the Shura, the Supplication of Scents, but we must have arguments and commentaries to back up our claims. We had been diligently searching the Aromatic Archive of the Fragrant Libraries for such truths when Jeffries destroyed them. Irreplaceable scents that have been Khungarr’s guide and strength for generations are gone forever. And with them this One’s chance to defeat Sirigar.”
“And you think this collection of lost scents will provide those answers?”
“Yes. It is this One’s fervent hope that the scent texts discovered in Nazarr with Atkins will provide the scriptural proof this One’s olfaction has been seeking. They could hold the scriptural arguments necessary to absolve the Tohmii of their apocalyptic role.”
Everson paced back and forth, absorbing the information. “So you’re saying our only hope of survival is to aid you in your religious insurrection to unseat Sirigar?”
“It is.”
Having just put down a mutiny of his own, the irony was not lost on him. At least now he knew just how valuable the collection of stone jars was. That was worth knowing, and the jars themselves worth holding to ransom.
“Right. And how likely is this to happen?”
“That would depend on the contents of the scriptures.”
“Don’t you know what they are?”
It indicated its antennae stumps. “This one is unable to read the scents texts since Sirigar had this one’s antennae broken.”
Of course. With no feelers, it was crippled and scent-blind, effectively an invalid in their culture.
Everson exchanged looks with Atkins, who shook his head and shrugged. He hadn’t really expected the NCO to have any answers. After all, this was his call. Everson returned his attention to the chatt. “You’re not making this easy for me, are you? You want me to let you walk out of here, taking all those jars with you. Even supposing they provide whatever it is you need, there is no assurance that you can even dispose of this Sirigar.”
“This is true.”
He stopped pacing and turned to face Chandar. “Yet you expect me to trust you?”
“If GarSuleth wills it.”
Everson considered the implications, and then shook his head. “No. While it is clear that these jars are of great importance, I’m not willing to let them out of my possession. Not without knowing what they contain. Not without guarantees. Quite honestly, your continued presence here is problematic.”
Chandar cocked its head to one side. “So is yours, if this One does not succeed.”
The thing was wily. It might act helpless, but its immobile features hid a cunning intelligence. It had the perfect poker face. Everson paced the small cell while the arthropod watched impassively. The thing had him over a barrel, but he wasn’t going to let it know that. It had dealt its hand and it was a strong one.
His own hand was not so strong, but far from useless. He didn’t trust it. To that end he had put plans in place, a fallback position, but for now he would let it return to Khungarr, although he’d be damned if he gave up the one advantage they appeared to have.
He approached the chatt, staring straight into its black eyes. “Very well,” he said with deliberation. “I’ll let you return to your colony.”
Chandar became quite animated, clicking its middle limbs together. “GarSuleth wills it,” it said. “In sending the sanctified odours of GarSuleth you will have demonstrated that you urmen are part of GarSuleth’s will, that you possess a fraction of his essence, a fact Sirigar denies.”
“That’s not my problem. You say your olfaction means us no harm. Well, we want proof. Until there is some sort of deal struck between the Khungarrii and the Pennines, the scents will remain in our possession. You can take one. One jar, as a sample. The rest remain here.”
Everson ushered Atkins from the dugout and made to follow.
“But this One cannot read the scent texts,” said Chandar.
Everson turned and regarded it coolly. “Then you had better choose carefully.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“CORPORAL ATKINS TOLD us to wait here,” Norman snapped at Nellie Abbott.
Nellie arched an eyebrow and stared him down, arms folded. The FANY, dressed in her calf-length brown skirt and brown jacket, stood her ground, short curly hair framing a plain face. Some of the men assumed her hair was cut short in support of women’s suffrage. The truth was she simply found it more practical.
“I don’t care what Corporal Atkins said. And, frankly, I’m surprised you do. You never did before,” she retorted. “They should have been back here days ago. That’s what Lieutenant Tulliver’s message said. Something must have happened. We’ve waited long enough. We’ll have to go down without them. The Ivanhoe’s down there. Alfie and Lieutenant Mathers are down there, too, in case you’d forgotten!”
It had been a week since they watched, horror-struck, as the tank tipped over the edge of the Croatoan Crater, the Sub and Alfie inside, to be lost in the jungle-filled depression below. There had been no sign of fire, no billowing smoke and no string of explosions from the dozens of shells the tank carried, so there was every hope that it was still in one piece.
Since then the remaining tank crew had been without the tank’s addictive petrol fruit fuel, whose vapours had heightened their senses, and they had begun to exhibit withdrawal symptoms. Some had suffered more than others had, although they all felt sorry for themselves. Tempers grew short, then the cramps came, and the cold sweats, then the shaking, and finally a fever took hold.
Jack, the brawny gunner, trembled but never groused, never uttered a sound, though his pain showed in his eyes.
Cecil, the youngest, whimpered and called out in his delirium. Although he was the one who had taken most against Nellie, it was him who sought her out for comfort now, glad, as he said in the midst of his fever, that they now had a lady to take care of them.
Norman rolled, groaned and complained, as if playing out the most prolonged and dramatic death scene of his far from distinguished stage career.
Reggie, polite as ever, apologised profusely throughout his withdrawal for every cross word and whimper and every request for succour.
Wally, the bantam driver, took himself off away from the others and suffered stoically, his pain private.
Through it all, Nellie dutifully took charge of them, bathed their brows, gave them water, hushed them and soothed them. She wondered if, down there, Alfie was going through the same terrors. The mechanic was not quite the beau that Edith took him to be, but she had to admit, to herself at least, he had potential. He had an easy smile, a shared enthusiasm for motorbikes and engines and a willingness to accept her for who she was. Although Edith thought she could do better, Nellie found that she did not want to. Now Alfie was down in the crater, and she didn’t know whether he was alive or dead. She would move heaven and earth, or at the very least a truculent tank crew, to find out.
They would have to go down there. To that end, she conceived a plan while the others were ill and set about putting it into practice. It would give them something to focus on while trying to deal with their petrol fruit addiction.