The Bonehunters

Indeed, it seems they believe they will outlive civilization itself.'



'You propose little hope for civilization, Spite.'



'Oh, my lack of hope extends far beyond mere civilization. The Trell were pastoralists, yes? You managed the half-wild bhederin herds of the Masai Plains. Actually, a fairly successful way of living, all things considered.'



'Until the traders and settlers came.'



'Yes, those who coveted your land, driven as they were by enterprise or the wasting of their own lands, or the poverty in their cities.



Each and all sought a new source of wealth To achieve it, alas, they first had to destroy your people.'



Iskaral Pust scrambled to the Trell's side. 'Listen to you two! Poets and philosophers! What do you know? You go on and on whilst I am hounded unto exhaustion by these horrible squirming things!'



'Your acolytes, High Priest,' Spite said. 'You are their god.



Indicative, I might add, of at least two kinds of absurdity.'



'I'm not impressed by you, woman. If I am their god, why don't they listen to anything I say?'



'Maybe,' Mappo replied, 'they are but waiting for you to say the right thing.'



'Really? And what would that be, you fat oaf?'



'Well, whatever it is they want to hear, of course.'



'She's poisoned you!' The High Priest backed away, eyes wide. He clutched and pulled at what remained of his hair, then whirled about and rushed off towards the cabin. Three bhok'arala – who had been attending him – raced after him, chittering and making tugging gestures above their ears.



Mappo turned back to Spite. 'Where are we going, by the way?'



She smiled at him. 'To start, the Otataral Sea.'



'Why?'



'Isn't this breeze enlivening?'



'It's damned chilly.'



'Yes. Lovely, isn't it?'



****

A vast oblong pit, lined with slabs of limestone, then walls of brick, rising to form a domed roof, the single entrance ramped and framed in limestone, including a massive lintel stone on which the imperial symbol had been etched above the name Dujek Onearm, and his title, High Fist. Within the barrow lanterns had been set out to aid in drying the freshly plastered walls.



Just outside, in a broad, shallow bowl half-filled with slimy clay, basked a large toad, blinking sleepy eyes as it watched its companion, the imperial artist, Ormulogun, mixing paints. Oils by the dozen, each with specific qualities; and pigments culled from crushed minerals, duck eggs, dried inks from sea-creatures, leaves and roots and berries; and jars of other mediums: egg whites from turtles, snakes, vultures; masticated grubs, gull brains, cat urine, dog drool, the snot of pimpsAll right, the toad reflected, perhaps not the snot of pimps, although given the baffling arcanum of artists, one could never be certain. It was enough to know that people who delved into such materials were mostly mad, if not to start with, then invariably so after years spent handling such toxins.



And yet, this fool Ormulogun, somehow he persisted, with his stained hands, his stained lips from pointing the brushes, his stained beard from that bizarre sputtering technique when the pigments were chewed in a mouthful of spit and Hood knew what else, his stained nose from when paint-smeared fingers prodded, scratched and explored, his stained breeches from'I know what you're thinking, Gumble,' Ormulogun said.



'Indeed? Please proceed, then, in describing my present thoughts.'



'The earwax of whores and stained this and stained that, the commentary swiftly descending into the absurd as befits your inability to think without exaggeration and puerile hyperbole. Now, startled as you no doubt are, shift that puny, predictable brain of yours and tell me in turn what I'm thinking. Can you? Hah, I thought not!'



'I tell you, you grubber of pastes, my thoughts were not in the least as you just described in that pathetic paucity of pastiche you dare call communication, such failure being quite unsurprising, since I am the master of language whilst you are little more than an ever-failing student of portraiture bereft of both cogent instruction of craft and, alas, talent.'



'You seek to communicate to the intellectually deaf, do you?'



'Whilst you paint to enlighten the blind. Yes yes,' Gumble sighed, the effort proving alarmingly deflating – alarming even to himself. He quickly drew in another breath. 'We wage our ceaseless war, you and I.



What will adorn the walls of the great man's barrow? Why, from you, the usual. Propagandistic pageantry, the politically aligned reaffirmation of the status quo. Heroic deeds in service of the empire, and an even more heroic death, for in this age, as in every other, we are in need of our heroes – dead ones, that is. We do not believe in living ones, after all, thanks to you-'