Part Four
Chapter 40
D.C.
"Uhghghghrp!"
Haegtesse belched comfortably, prodigiously, skilfully. There was nothing aromatic, and very little wasted effort, and hardly any mess at all, about her intentional eruptions. They were roundly and justifiably admired - and not just because she was the Wrencanmodor, either. She was used to hearing after she passed by, "Wish I bealcian that way!"
This time, however, it was unintentional.
She had been grunting after a particularly gruesome wem on her shoulder, sitting alone in her dingy den, and the strain had stirred up a roiling in her stomachs, which rebelled unexpectedly. She shoved the chunks of goo from her lap with the back of her hand and scraped the floor clean in front of her with her foot, and went back to work on the wem, drooling.
Her concentration was broken again, unfortunately, by a bold knock on her door. There was no ignoring it, as she had an inclination to do: it was forceful, repeated, loud, insistant.
"Moc!" she spat on the floor, and pushed the door out with her stick. When the echoes of the crash had died, and the dust had settled, a large twatunge strode unsteadily across the door, carrying a beaming antunge across his broad shoulders. Haegtesse smiled wryly.
"Put down now, Smerian," said the antunge. Smerian stumbled, but caught his balance, and succeeded in getting her safely to the floor.
"Ah, Snecchen!" croaked the Wrencanmodor. She gave her a peculiarly inquisitive look. Snecchen shook her head, but held her fingers not far apart. Haegtesse nodded her understanding.
For the better part of a season; ever since the Bazaar, in fact; Snecchen had been trying to get Smerian to tell his secret. She had plied him with great quantities of cider, to his constant delight, and her predictable frustration, until he had worn down her resistance, rather than the other way around.
But in the throes of becumanfisc, Snecchen hoped, Smerian would be less guarded with his secret. She only hoped she would be able to control herself enough to keep after it, and understand him when he divulged it - the identity of the mystery Traeppedelfere held by the Mocwalwians in their camp across from Ceapig.
Haegtesse had been interested in the secret, too, for some reason, and Snecchen had kept her appraised of her continual lack of success at their regular meetings. The Wrencanmodor, casting a sarcastic look her way, had suggested trying becumanfisc to loosen his tongue, and Snecchen, feigning reluctance, agreed. She didn't know what else to do.
Smerian squirted a long stream of cider into his mouth. "Wrencanmodor," he began, wavering on his feet, "Smuh - hic! Smuh - hic!" he pointed to his chest. "Smerian, Snecchen. Buh - hic! becumanfisc?"
"First, say to me," Haegtesse said craftily, looking the unsuspecting maciantol in the eye, "what name Traeppedelfere at Mocwalwian hut last Bazaar?" Smerian looked accusingly at Snecchen.
"I not know she ask that!" she said, truthfully enough.
Smerian looked back at Haegtesse and licked his lips. They were suddenly dry. He took another drink of wine. "Please, Wrencanmodor," he pleaded, breaking out in a sweat, "I not cnawannawiht!"
He looked back at Snecchen. "I not cnawannawiht!" he repeated, taking yet another drink, almost feverishly. The two antunges exchanged knowing glances. "I see him, or I not believe it," he went on, licking his lips again. He sat down weakly on Haegtesse's cot, casting a disgusted glance at the mess on his hand. He flicked the hand away from him with a frown, sending mucilaginous strings arcing out from his fingertips, and passed the still tacky palm across his perspiring forehead. He blinked hard twice to bring things into focus, and swallowed nothing.
Smerian forced himself to speak. "Smaelaer! It was Smaelaer. Could not be, but was. Dead, I know - but not dead, and also not alive. I not know how - I not want to know! He still young, but not wake when I see. Smaelaer..."
He dropped his head, shaking it mournfully, shivering with the memory. "I sorry, Snecchen," he said. "No becumanfisc now. I feel sick."
Snecchen shrieked. "Flotasaec! Augh! Gemaed tungebunge gyttja saelig twat! Augh! Augh!" She rushed across the room and began pounding on the astonished maciantol's shoulders with all her might. "No becumanfisc - that right, at least, mocsaec! Saelig mocetan! Augh!" She flew out of the chamber in a rage, screaming all the way down the corridor, sending weird echoes of her anger careening off the walls far into the mines.
Smerian looked at Haegtesse with elevated eyebrows. "Something I say?"
"That not Smaelaer you see," Haegtesse explained. "Smaelaer dead."
"Um, I know," Smerian said uncertainly, "but it look like Smaelaer!"
"Monwyrt look like Smaelaer. Get off cot. Close door from hall," she directed him bluntly.
Smerian scratched his head, but obeyed. But just before he pushed the heavy slab completely shut, he asked through the crack, "Who Monwyrt?"
"Ask Snecchen. Shut door."
The door slammed into place.
"Heh, heh, heh," Haegtesse cackled to herself as she went back to work on her wem. "Soon," she muttered under her breath, "all Traeppedelferes know Monwyrt!" Her face broke into a smile of malicious glee, and she laughed in the harsh, biting, grating voice of her thoughts, long and lustily: "Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh..."
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