Gathrid had to make a choice of pursuits. Bowmen to prevent escapes through the windows. Very thorough. There had to be a way to trace the principal. Hildreth, trying to frame Mulenex? Or some local entrepreneur trying to obtain Daubendiek for his own use? Torun had an underworld replete with famous names. A dog with an odd bark spoke from the far side of the inn. A cat yowled above Gathrid. A moment later a rope dropped and the watcher clambered down. He kept glancing around and muttering to himself as he stole to the cellar door.
He grabbed a nearby keg, knocked its bung out, started splashing liquid around. Gathrid sprinted toward the arsonist. The man just had time to look surprised. Another ignorant hireling. Who was no monk. Gathrid recognized him instantly. He was Bilgoraj's King, Kimach Faulstich. The Kimach Faulstich he deemed responsible for Gudermuth's destruction. The arsonist ran like all the imps of Hell were after him. Gathrid chased him a few hundred yards, then doubled back.
He hoped to pick up the director of the team. He'll keep trying till he succeeds, till you go broke or there's a shortage of blades. He's got pride. But he won't risk his own people. There, a long table had been set up under dull infrared lamps. The table was covered with drying fibers. At the end of the table was a scale.
Kawakita scooped up a small handful of fibers and weighed them, removing several, then dropping a few back on. Then he slid the fibers into a Ziploc bag. Sorry, the man said. He moved toward the door as quickly as the dim light would allow. Mbwun-the word the Kothoga used for the wonderful, terrible plant, and for the creatures those who ate it became.
Kawakita could now visualize parts of the Kothoga's secret religion. The plants were a curse that was simultaneously hated and needed. The creatures kept the enemies of the Kothoga at bay-yet they themselves were a constant threat to their masters. Chances are, the Kothoga only kept one of the creatures around at a time-more than that would be too dangerous. The cult would have centered around the plant itself, its cultivation and harvesting.
The climax of their ceremonials was undoubtedly the induction of a new creature-the force-feeding of the plant to the unwilling human victim. Initially, large quantities of the plant would be needed to ensure sufficient reovirus to effect the bodily change. Once the transformation was complete, the plant need be consumed only in small quantities, supplemented of course by other proteins. But it was critical that the dose be maintained. Otherwise, intense pain, even madness, would result as the body tried to revert.
Of course, death would intervene before that happened. And the desperate creature would, if at all possible, find a substitute for the plant-the human hypothalamus being by far the most satisfactory. The Kothoga knew all about this plant, thought Kawakita. What appeared to be a blessing turned out for them to be a curse. They had tried to control its power, but failed. The legend told it best: the devil failed to keep his bargain, and the child of the devil, the Mbwun, had run wild.
It had turned on its masters. It could not be controlled. Kawakita remembered clearly the day everything came together for him. It was an apotheosis, a revelation. It explained everything. And the proof lay within his grasp: his extrapolation program. And then he had asked for the intermediate form.
He wondered what Whittlesey must have felt: bound, perhaps ceremonially, being force-fed the reovirus from the strange plant he himself had collected just days earlier. Perhaps they brewed him a liquor from the plant's leaves, or perhaps they simply forced him to eat the dried fibers. They must have attempted to do with this white man what they had failed to do with their own kind: create a monster they could control. A monster that would keep out the road builders and the prospectors and the miners that were poised to invade the tepui from the south and destroy them.
But then civilization came anyway, with all its terrors.
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