The Indigo King - James A. Owen [20]
When it was nearly dusk, the autumn light had faded to a haze that painted the belly of the clouds gold and crimson. As the sky grew dimmer, the king’s patience finally found itself rewarded when a shortish, slightly discombobulated man came staggering up the embankment.
He was more disheveled than in the illumination, but the manner of dress was the same, and he was here, in the appointed spot, at (almost) the appointed time. The king lowered himself from the cart with a grunt and a groan and bowed his head in greeting.
The odd man he’d been sent to retrieve spoke strangely, almost unintelligibly. Perhaps he was an idiot. Either way, the king reasoned, he needed to communicate his intention. With a series of half phrases and pantomimed gestures, it became evident to the man that the king was there to offer transport. He clambered into the cart, sitting next to the king, and stuck out his hand in greeting. The king looked at it oddly for a moment, then gripped the man’s wrist, as if looking for a concealed weapon.
The man laughed uproariously at this and said something the king finally realized was his name: “Dyson. Hugo Dyson. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
The king loosed his wrist and nodded. “Pellinor,” he said, tapping his chest. “Pellinor.” With that he grasped the reins and clucked his tongue at the horse. They were three days late and still had a long way to go.
Following their familiar-yet-still-a-stranger liberator gave John and Jack time to observe and evaluate him. He was, for all that their senses could accrue, Charles. But at the same time he was, as he insisted repeatedly, not.
Some of the scars he bore were fresh, but others were years old. He had not come here in a trice, as they and the badgers had done. It was possible he had gone through one of the doorways, as their hapless colleague had earlier, and found himself thrust backward in time—but that wouldn’t explain why he didn’t recognize them, or worse, why it seemed as if he had no memory of the Charles they knew at all.
Chaz was obviously uneducated, and he spoke with worse grammar than Uncas. He bore some of Charles’s mannerisms, and certain speech patterns were familiar, the cadences, the tone.… But both the scholarly rationalism and playful inquisitiveness were gone. What remained was the shape of Charles, his outline, but it was filled with fear, and distrust, and overwhelmingly, the basest of instincts: to survive at all costs. This was made clear right away.
“Get rid of the animals,” Chaz had said, to the badgers’ great dismay.
“We’re not getting rid of anyone,” John stated firmly, backed by incredulous nodding from Jack. “They’re with us, period.”
Chaz shrugged. “Have it your way. But they smell, and that means death here.”
“You aren’t a garden of roses yourself,” Fred pointed out.
“Fred!” Uncas exclaimed. “Mind your tongue! This be Scowler Charles you be addressin’!”
“There you go with that ‘Charles’ business again,” Chaz said, irritated. “My name is Chaz, not that it matters to you. And you owe me a life-debt.”
“For what?” asked Jack.
“Saving you from the Sweeps,” said Chaz, “but I’ll consider it paid if you give me the fat badger to roast.”
Uncas couldn’t decide whether to be offended at being called fat, or horrified at the idea of being eaten. Fred just bared his teeth and stepped in front of his father.
“You must be joking,” said Jack. “These aren’t merely animals—they’re our friends!”
“Thank you,” said Uncas. “I think.”
“Where we’re from, Chaz, we don’t eat our friends,” John explained.
“I thinks you’re here now, not where you’re from,” Chaz replied. “But I’m not really that hungry anyway.” With a last look at the badgers, he turned and trotted off. About twenty yards away, he turned around, a silhouette against the hillside. “Well? Are you idiots coming or not?”
There had been little