Deathsworn Vol. II

5 - Pot and Pan

Well, would you look at that, Pot, the marcher man is stirring," chirped a voice from nowhere.

"Observant as ever, Pan," another said, "two pipes say he hurls before he squawks."

"I'll take that bet!"

"You owe me two for the Zaffaarian already, don't forget," the second voice added.

"I know that. A gambler doesn't forget where he's lost, Pot, or else he doesn't stay a gambler for long. Not a successful one, anyway." 

"Just so, Pan. Here he goes, watch ..." 

Bard braced himself on his palms before opening his eyes. The world swam in turbulent rivers, its colours drowning dancers in a watery waltz. It was all he could do to distinguish the hazy outlines of two figures. 

He tried to speak but bile came up instead of words. His arms gave way and he retched violently into the earth, the sheer strain of it wracking his body with tremors. High-pitched laughter rang out from close by, but when he made to reply he merely retched some more.

"Slap my rump and call me a mule," the second voice from before cried gleefully, "that's four pipes of juji for me." 

"Get buggered, Pot, nothing came out!"

"A pig's a pig, no matter how loud it squeals, Pan. He was sick, it counts." 

Bard pushed himself to his knees. Elders, what is that foul stench? His surroundings gradually focused themselves, but instead of trying to talk he simply let his eyes devour what they could. He was in a cage, he surmised, one walled by bars of smooth timber. He doubted it was tall enough to permit him to properly stand, but it was wide so as to allow him to lay down without concern for his feet touching the other side. An orchestra of noise was playing out behind him, the din of busy tribesmen buttressing the ever-present song of the jungle. Bard didn't turn around to further inspect, though, for his attention was already in fetters.

Two men sat across the cage, youthful, cock-sure, handsome, and ... not Islanders. They were brothers, Bard knew that to look at them. In a different light he might have even mistaken them for twins. They shared sleek mud brown hair that skimmed down across their foreheads, and matching hazel eyes underneath wolfish brows. Their skin presented a grubby tan, the sort Bard had seen on clansmen in the Northern Territories back in Green Country. Neither wore the telltale furs of the clans, though, and they were altogether too pretty to have endured an upbringing in that part of the world. Instead, their tarnished grey tunics spoke of some amount of wealth, as did the worn riding boots climbing up their long, spindly legs.

"I'd like to say you'll get used to the stink," the slightly stockier of the pair, sitting on the left, said.

"You won't though," the one beside him added, running a hand through the dark inch of beard that straddled his slender face. "It seems the Ooamanee don't possess the common decency to keep their privy and their prisoners on separate sides of the village."

"Welcome to Ooama, all the same," the first one offered. "Don't mind the locals. They're not so bad once you've gotten over the whole dart in the neck thing. Mild toxin, the sickness will fade soon. I'm Pot, this is my brother, Pan." 

Pot talked so fast that Bard had trouble keeping up. He merely nodded, not trusting himself to reply without heaving.

"Water?" Pot asked. "We offered your friend some, but he thinks we've poisoned it." He nodded to the corner of the cell. Taaj was tucked in where two walls met each other, trembling knees hugging his chin and a sallow look of exhaustion plaguing his face. Those emerald eyes regarded the world with suspicion, but he said nothing.