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“Or that’s what they want us to think,” said Param.
“Well, it worked,” said Rigg. “I’m thinking it. But do we believe it?”
“Why would they want to seem stupider than they are?” asked Umbo.
“Camouflage,” said Loaf. “Disguise. If they act like animals, then we don’t try to fight them, we avoid them.”
“I just want to wash this mess out of my shirt,” said Umbo.
“Wear it with pride,” said Olivenko. “Stained by yahoos in Odinfold.”
Loaf headed up the slope toward the yahoo oak. Umbo spread his shirt on the grass and jogged after him.
“Ready for more flung poo?” asked Loaf. “Aren’t you chilly?”
“It washes off my skin better than off a shirt,” said Umbo. “And yes, I worked up a sweat trying to wash the shirt, so now it’s chilly. But I will bravely and rationally defy the need of my body to get warm, and continue walking into noble combat with my soldier friend with a blob on his face.”
“I’m happy to see that you’re maturing nicely.”
“Almost ripe now,” said Umbo. “Fat lot of good it’ll ever do me.”
“You mean because the only woman in our party only has eyes for Olivenko?”
Umbo felt a stab of despair. As long as no one said it out loud, he had been able to halfway fool himself into not knowing that Param was sweet on the scholar-soldier.
“She’s young—as young as you, Umbo. She’s lived in a cage all her life, with only her mother for company, and I think we can agree the queen w
as crazy.”
“Beyond fecal,” said Umbo. If he used the word himself, they couldn’t taunt him with it.
“So let Param have her schoolgirl crushes on handsome young soldiers,” said Loaf.
“Young?” asked Umbo. “Olivenko?”
“Compared to me he’s young,” said Loaf. “And here we are at the fecal tree.”
Loaf boldly stood even closer to the tree than Umbo had. Sure enough, there was a rustling in the branches and a wad of dung flew out, aimed right at Loaf’s head.
But it never got there. Loaf’s big hand flew up and caught it. Incredibly fast reflexes, thought Umbo. A moment later, Loaf’s arm flashed like a catapult and the nightsoil flew back into the tree much faster than it had come out. Somebody in the tree yelped.
“How much poo do they have in their bodies?” asked Umbo.
“Maybe they can’t have a bowel movement until they have somebody to throw it at,” said Loaf. “So they have a lot stored up.”
“That makes us what? A laxative for yahoos?”
Rigg and the others came up behind them. “They both went back down the tree,” said Rigg. “Into the roots. And I bet they store vats of poo to make their FPs.”
Umbo knew the game. “Foul Potatoes?”
“Fecal Projectiles,” said Rigg.
“Flying Poo,” said Umbo. “Not so pretentious.”
“Fart Pellets,” said Rigg.
“Fetid Pies,” said Umbo.
