Tayva was now moving more rocks into the pit to heat. The tinker's corpse lay buried under the fire pit and was baked by the flames above. Tayva used a great pair of tongs to lift rocks already heated into one of a trio of dug-out logs hauled a long distance from their felling place. The heat was boiling the collected roots to remove the watertight covering of slime. That covering, besides being unpalatable, was poisonous and would kill the customers too fast if allowed to remain. Loria went to the shallow well and drew a bucket of water. She dumped it into the log and watched the run-off of poison flow down a sandy ditch the tinker had dug.
Tayva had finished transferring the heated stones and stood leaning on the tongs. "It would be nice to have someone else to do the scut work up here. Our energy is low, and there are my flocks of birds to sustain. Each bird I make takes more power, and the rush is less. We feed the water, or we'll have trouble."
When they had arrived years before, Ebnezzer's head had gone into the water behind the hut. Rotting away, the head had released the spirit that gave them a taste of true power and glory again. But the harder they worked the spirit, the more it demanded. Settling waterfowl were sucked beneath the waters, even though the cousins did nothing. Better prey was required on occasion.
"We need a death, but how to kill him?" Tayva asked as she went to the second dug-out log. It was empty, a basket of roots beside it. The roots had been steeped and heated so long they were comparatively soft. A tall, hollow stump wrapped in wire served the companions as a mortar as they ground the root to pulp.
"Knifing him is too messy," Loria stated as she motioned Tayva to help her lift a metal-tipped section of log. The dead tinker had molded the metal to the wood. The metal had come from one of the killing machines of Mishra, and Loria found it ironic that such a piece of dark history should continue to be used in the creation of death and deception. The log was their pestle, and both gripped the handle pegs in unison, lofting it and letting its weight and narrow point crush the roots inside the hollow stump.
"Beating him to death is too much like work," Tayva voiced in time to their work.
"We could smother him when he's drunk," Loria replied as she bent to remove pulp and add more roots. The toxic brew not only made murder easier, but its trade brought needed money as well as the joy of knowing that people were dying from its cumulatively lethal effects.
"Tedious waiting for him to pass out. Besides, we need him in the water," Tayva said. "I'm not going to carry him." She threw dead flowers into the second log; their decay and seeds would start the brewing process and add a narcotic kick.
"It is accidental drowning while drunk then." Loria crossed to the third log and examined the mixture. It was nearing completion. Just one more step before straining and bottling. "It's ready for the special spice."
Tayva chuckled in amusement as she walked to the sealed pot she had brought from home. Opening it, she looked down at a rotted bird. Its eyes were fallen in, and its feathers and flesh were tattered shreds. The bottom of the pot was swimming in preserving oil, but the blast of odor was a wet slap in the face, even in the already choked and polluted air. The bird twisted and tried to stand but could not on its broken legs; it was one of Tayva's spies who had decayed too much to be of any use. Tayva took the body in her hands and shuffled back to the third log. She knelt in the mud, squelching in the foul overflow from the brewing process. Her hands slowly juggled the pigeon as its liquefying flesh threatened to come apart in her hand. She cleared her mind and focused on the dank water behind their hut. She could feel its uncertain currents and taste it in her mind. The real world faded into her vision as her hands contracted into fists with a wet pop. She breathed foulness and dreamed.
When she came to herself, Loria was straining the now loathsome contents of the third log into a series of cheap pots. Tayva's arms were black with gore to the elbows, and she was lying in mud and toxic runoff. The roots, in their various stages of brewing, smelled like a rendering plant, and a haze of choking smoke from the burning coal settled over everything. It was beautiful.
Winton whistled as he picked his way to the cousins' house. He had slept through the late afternoon, as was his habit, and hunted birds in the early evening since the birds settled and were easier targets in early morning and at twilight. He had caught two waterfowl in quick succession. His casts had startled the birds in shallow water, and he had wrapped up a pair of birds in the small bolas. The third bird was a large crane of some sort. That one had almost flown away with his bola before Winton crashed through the reeds and wrung its neck. It was large and beautiful, and Winton believed he was carrying good luck to Tayva and Loria's hut.
The only sour note of the day had been his last cast. He had missed the bird completely and heard a loud crack immediately thereafter. He had searched through the water for the bright color of the bolas. One weight had broken on a lake rock and was throwing the balance of the weapon off.
That stroke of bad luck was lost in the canvas of fantasy he painted in his mind: the mighty hunter returning to his adoring women, the meat he had brought down buying their adulation and respect. It was such a pretty picture that he imagined Loria's poor acting as merely barely suppressed passion.
"Yes, " he said aloud to the world. "That one is yours for the taking. Just a dash of charm and then Tayva will love you as well. " He distracted himself with romantic delusions as he tramped through the twilight and saw the full moon rising over the horizon.
He could see the hut and the flickering light of a candle through the open door, a good trade candle instead of firelight or homemade fat lamps. He felt himself a noble guest at the sight of this extravagance.
He announced his arrival with a shout and strode to the door. "Here I am, ladies. With this feast and my company, we'll have fine dining." He stood proud in his stained and odorous clothes. His legs from the knees down were spattered with mud, and his shirt was wet with sweat and water from the birds he had killed. He hauled his catch over his shoulder and handed it to Tayva, looking past her to find Loria.
Loria was dressed in her best. Her clothes were patched with cloth of nearly the same color as the original fabric. Loria had groomed carefully. Her hair was the cleanest thing in the room.
"Thank you for your contribution, sir. Come have a cup, and tell us the news," Loria replied grandly.
Meanwhile Tayva was examining Winton's prize crane. She saw a bird with mud in its feathers and malformed legs.
She plucked it and sectioned it, placing gobs of meat on a skewer over the fire. Her dress, irregularly patched but well-fitting, was dyed carefully and was of one color. Unfortunately, that color was a muddy gray-green that vanished into the background. Each time she returned to the conversation, she noticed Winton was more puffed up and boastful than before.
Winton was perched on a stool and hunched over the table. The poor state of the furniture gave his self-important dialog a nervous edge as he tried surreptitiously to keep weight off the stool. When his elbows left the table in an extravagant gesture he hurriedly put them back down.
"The mayor of Cade himself asked me for news of the road. Wanted to know if I'd heard anything about the unrest down south. I get all the news on the road," Winton said as he picked at the gob of meat Tayva had placed before him. Cade was the smallest settlement Tayva knew of that actually had a name. Only one ignorant of the world found it of any note.
"And what did you tell him?" Loria asked as she gave him another full glass of brew and a wink. She was stoking him as she would stoke the dinner fire, slowly feeding it until it was just right. Winton took a large gulp of brew. It was rough as a cob and strong as a winter storm, but the best that he had ever tasted.