They had used the last of Ivanhoe’s fuel to fend off the attack. It had survived the fall into the crater, but without fuel the Ivanhoe was twenty-eight tons of scrap.
“So what do we do now?” asked Reggie.
“We find Alfie,” said Nellie decisively. She looked around at the crew, an iron determination in her gaze, almost daring them to challenge her. None did. Even Norman, if he had anything to say, kept it to himself.
Taking what supplies they thought useful from the tank, they took a last look at the Ivanhoe and set off into the crater to find Alfie.
IN THE SHADE of the abandoned ironclad, the pale feeding tendrils of the ebony corpsewood saplings inched towards Mathers’ freshly dug grave.
The fungus, too, stretched out a fine filigree of threads towards it and this time reached the prize first, its mycelia spreading out over the mound, like a hoarfrost blanket, as they began probing down through the newly turned soil for the freshly buried remains…
CHAPTER FIVE
“IT WANTS WHAT?” said Everson in disbelief as he looked up from the daily reports.
Sergeant Hobson stood before the desk and winced in apology. “Petrol fruit fuel, sir. The chatt asked for it quite specific, it did, sir.”
“Did it now?” Everson sighed heavily and strode impatiently along the familiar trench route to the chatt’s dugout cell. He was trying to impose his authority after the mutiny and he resented the fact that he was here on terms other than his own. He saluted the guards, descended the dugout steps and peered into the makeshift cell. Chandar stood in the middle, facing the door, as if it expected him.
“Petrol fruit?” demanded Everson.
“This One had been thinking,” said Chandar.
“Evidently.” Everson slid the bolt on the door and dragged it open. “So enlighten me.”
“The urman called Mathers, he ingested the liquid. He was able to see what no urman ever could. He was able to read the odorglyphics, divine the sacred scents. He sensed the prophecy of the last of the Nazarrii.”
“So I believe.”
“You said this One had to choose which scent to take. It is this One’s belief that this liquid could help restore this One’s ability to read the scents. This One could divine which would be most useful to this One’s interpretation, one that will be of benefit to us both mutually, Khungarrii and Tohmii alike.”
Everson considered the proposal before shaking his head. It was a big risk. “I don’t know. It’s made our men mad, killed others. We have no idea what effect it would have on… one of your kind.”
Chandar hissed. It stepped forward, arms out, its two long fingers on each hand flexing, pleading. It swallowed a great gulp of air and regurgitated it into words: “For too long the Odours of GarSuleth have been denied this One. This One will take the chance. Would you not do as much for your clan, for the Tohmii?”
Everson pursed his lips. He had to admit it could be a solution to their stalemate, and he couldn’t see any other way forward. He just wasn’t very happy about it. “Very well,” he said. “But only under medical supervision. I don’t want anything happening to you.”
AS THE CHATT watched from across the cell, Captain Lippett poured a measure of petrol fruit fuel into a small canteen sat on a small Tommy cooker, under which he had set a short candle stub.
“I’m not going to let you drink it,” he told the thing. “This stuff has killed people. If you must persist in this madness, then breathe slowly and deeply as it vaporises.”
He turned to Everson. “I don’t know what help I can be if anything happens. Dissecting them is one thing, keeping them alive is another.”
“Well, I hope it won’t come to that, Doctor.”
Atkins arrived with a selection of stone amphorae and clay vials rescued from the ruined edifice.
Chandar studied the sealed containers. “This one. This. That one.”
Having made its choice, Atkins placed the selected jars on the floor.
“I want everybody out before I light this,” said Lippett by the Tommy cooker.
Everson and Atkins withdrew from the cell.
Nurse Bell stood by with a tray of medical supplies Lippett thought they might need if the worse came to the worst. Her lips curled in disgust. “What’s it doing?” she asked.
Atkins shrugged. “It seems to think that the petrol fruit fuel will restore its ability to smell.”
Edith’s eyes narrowed. “Is that possible?”
“With them? Hard to say. Damn near killed me, though; drove Mathers mad and made his crew paranoid.”
Despite her revulsion, she forced herself to watch, lost in thought, as Lippett lit the candle with a Lucifer and stepped sharply from the cell.
Everson pushed the door shut. He watched through the judas hole for a moment as Chandar arranged the jars in front of him. The small candle flame guttered under the bowl of liquid, casting high shadows and imparting an almost demonic quality to the chatt.
Chandar began fingering the knotted tassels on its silk wrap as if it had never seen them before. It lifted another tassel, looking at it. Then another.
It breathed deeply of the vapours rising from the bowl and reached out for one of the amphorae. With its two fingers and thumb, it drew the stopper from the jar and swilled the contents. It tilted its head back, its gaze following the imperceptible whorls and eddies of the rising vapours, as if watching the emergence of an invisible genie from the bottle. Occasionally it swirled the contents of the bottle to refresh its perception. It stoppered that bottle and repeated the same performance with the other two.
Slowly, it rose up to its full height, its mandibles clicking as its mouth parts smacked rapidly in its own speech. It seemed excited. It turned to face Everson, almost belching out the words “It is GarSuleth’s Will,” before staggering sideways and collapsing against the wall.
Everson yanked the cell door open and Lippett was first in. He blew out the candle and handed the bowl to Atkins. “Dispose of this,” he said, “out in the open.”
Nurse Bell hung back, unable to bring herself to enter.
“Nurse, we have a patient,” Lippett chided.
Hesitantly, she entered the dugout cell. Everson pushed in past her.
Chandar stretched out an arm towards Everson. “This One has been blessed. GarSuleth speaks to it once more.” In its excitement, its speech dissolved into the harsh smacking and clickings of its native language.
“It was a success, then?” Everson said.
Chandar cast its arms open, its vestigial limbs following suit. “It was… different, strange. This One saw nuances and connections it had never noticed before. It will take practise, but in time this One could once more sense the text as this One has always done. Perhaps better.” It picked up a jar. “This,” it said. “This One will take this scent back to Khungarr. It contains the Commentaries of Chitaragar. Khungarr has not possessed this essence for generations. The original has long since evaporated. Only fleeting notes of it exist in other distillations.”
It reached out to Everson, grasping his sleeves with its long fingers. Everson fought against the reflex to pull away.
“This One shall return to Khungarr,” it said. “It is GarSuleth’s Will.”
The Chatt had put the ball back in his court. He couldn’t allow the threat of the Khungarrii to loom over them for much longer.
Everson knew he had to keep his word and let the chatt go, but he didn’t trust it, not completely.
“Then I want someone to go with you to make sure you stick to your side of the bargain,” he said.