Page 55 of Son of a Witch (The Wicked Years 2)

“Liir, it’s a bridge. They can jump into the water.”

“Commander. Begging your pardon. No one swims in Waterslip at night, and rarely during the day, either. There are deadly water eels in the depths, and alligators that feed nocturnally.”

“I didn’t settle them there,” said the Commander. “Do I detect a note of insurrection in your voice, soldier?”

“I don’t believe so, sir,” said Liir. He was troubled, though, as he turned away.

So that there could be no possibility of a warning leaked to the Bengdanis, the campaign would have to commence at once. Liir conscripted Ansonby, Burny, and several others. Learning a trick or two from the high command in the Emerald City, Liir didn’t tell them the nature of their mission. They were to dress in dark clothes and to wear mosquito-netted caps, to smudge their faces with mud, and to tell no one what they were doing.

“It’s about the kidnapped Viceroy, I think,” Liir invented, when someone pressed him. “There’s been a lead. We’re going to smoke out the kidnappers. But we can’t give them a lick of warning or they’ll scarper.”

Sunset, with its usual caramel-orangey smear, was quick. The night creaked in on the wings of countless wakeful insects churring. An audience of billions.

“DETAILS TO FOLLOW, fellows, but first things first: This is a secret mission.” Liir and his companions huddled by the flatboats he’d commandeered for the exercise. “You’ve been chosen because you have girlfriends here. You’ll want to get back to them quickly as possible and hop into the sack with them. My advice is to try something new tonight. Make it memorable for you both, so if there’s a call for alibis, you’ll be prepared.”

“But fraternizing is frowned up,” said Ansonby.

“I mean if the Quadlings cry for scapegoats, you’ll be covered. Anyone needs advice in the sex department, ask Ansonby. Tell them about position six, Ansonby.” Liir winked. “It’s known as Choking the Mermaid in some quarters.”

He wasn’t fooling anyone. Liir was suspected of sexual ignorance, and he had a reputation for an old-fashioned reticence about such matters. The fellows looked unhappy.

“If we’re supplied with alibis,” said Burny after a while,“what about the fellows who en’t?”

“Tough luck hits us all,” said Liir. “Sooner or later. Maybe they’ll duck it this time. Maybe we will, too. Come on, we’re moving out.”

Once it grew dark, the mosquito problem drove most Quadlings into their stilted huts, though the odd canoe or flatboat sidled along. No one paid much attention. With the sky moonless at this time of the month—no doubt the Commander had already figured on this—visibility was reduced, helpfully.

A half mile north of Bengda, Liir signaled the boats in. He gestured at the rickety community cantilevered over both edges of the bridge, a hive of windowed light and the noise of supper and chatter. Then he explained the mission.

Burny was the first to speak. “Folks might die,” he said.

“Not sure on that score, but I believe that’s taken into account. Regrettable, but there you are.”

“But women and—and children,” said Burny. “I mean, what’s children got to do with tolls or paying taxes, or refusing to pay them? En’t they blameless an’ all that?”

“Are children still blameless if they’re going to grow up to be the enemy? I’m not going to discuss this. We’re not taking a class in moral philosophy. We’re soldiers and these are our orders. Ansonby, Somes, Kipper, you do the far end; we rest will start on this side. Here’s the supplies—tar, brushes, a flint when you’re ready. Knives.”

“What’re the knives for?” asked Burny.

“Carving your initials in the supports. You moron, what do you think the knives are for? Use them if you need to. Are we ready?”

“I can’t do this.”

“We’ll ask the Unnamed God for the successful completion of our mission.” Four seconds of silence. “Let’s go.”

They poled the flatboats forward and then nudged their way among the villagers’ fishing boats, which as usual were tied in a long barricade beneath the bridge to prevent night traffic from sneaking through toll-free. The soldiers got a shock when they roused an old Quadling grandfather from the bottom of his boat, probably avoiding his scold of a wife. They clapped their hands around his head and bound his mouth tightly. Then they tied him in a burlap sack and dumped him into Waterslip.

Commander Cherrystone had chosen the hour perfectly, for the children of the settlement were fed but not bedded down, and as the soldiers set to smearing the tar pitch, they could hear the shrill laughter, the tired crying, the occasional lullaby filtering down through the rush-matted floors above their heads. The noise made a suitable cover, were any needed, for the quiet work of arson.

Their retreat would have to be swift,

Liir knew, not only so that they would go unnoticed by fleeing Bengda villagers, but also so that his men would be spared the witnessing of what was bound to be ugly. All tyrants were harsh, but fire was more ungovernable than most.

He mouthed, “Set. Right. Light.” With trembling hands both teams reached for the oil-soaked rags, which were balled by net wire. The men impaled the rags on the end of their swords, and struck their quickflints. The length of the sword allowed each soldier to reach high enough to light the tar his mate had already smeared into place.

One team finished faster than the others, since Ansonby in his haste whipped his sword too swiftly around. Perilously, the clot of burning rag dislodged early, but Ansonby ducked, and the rag hissed into the river.

It was neat, a job well done, and both flatboats were eighty feet back before the timbers truly caught and the night became annealed with the light of hell. The river reflected the crackling timbers, the shuddering bridge, which almost at once seemed to be gateposted with pillars of fire thirty feet tall. Good strong stuff, that maya flower tar! Then the screams, the dropping timbers, the burning water.

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