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"Could be anything. Usually it's feeding ground. One group allegedly goes in another's area. It's hazy at best. About a third of Kentucky's divided up between the tribes. If they're caught, it's called an arrest but it boils down to being taken hostage. So they hold a contest. If the 'intruder' side wins, the hostages and their worms are released. If the 'intruded' side wins, a ransom and restitution are paid."
"Sounds rather civilized," Valentine said.
"Again, except for yelling, you won't have to do much."
Zac, Gibson-the man behind Zak-and Cookie gave them a quick legworm riding lesson, and issued them each a cargo hook and a climbing goad.
The cargo hook resembled a pirate's replacement hand, hanging from a chain whose links were wide enough for the attachment of lines. They used a pair to attach a long lead to the mule. The goad resembled a mountaineer's pickstaff, with a crowbarlike digger at one end and a long spike at the other. To mount the legworm, you plunged your goad into one of the many thick patches of dead skin-the worm's skin reminded Valentine of fiberglass insulation-and lifted yourself up to a height where a buddy could pull you the rest of the way up. Under no circumstances were you to use one of the longish whisker spikes projecting here and there from newer patches of skin in cracks between the dead material.
"They'll twist good if you grab a whisker," Cookie explained.
"Do they ever roll?" Valentine asked, though he knew the answer.
"Only if they're hurt," Zak said. "You abandon ship quick if that happens."
Bee went first. She plunged her goad hook up high, almost at the top of the worm thanks to her reach, then swung up on pure arm muscle. She accepted the rifles, then helped Price up, who then aided Valentine and Duvalier in their climbs. Ahn-Kha eschewed his goad; he stuck the implement between his teeth and jumped up, grabbing great handfuls of spongy skin, and clambered up with his toes.
"That's how the Grey Ones in the west mount," Ahn-Kha said. He attached his wood-framed pack, plunged the chained cargo hook into the creature's back, then casually gripped the chain with his long toes. Only the Grogs could sit astride the worm's broad back; the humans rode in a leaning sidesaddle fashion.
"Just like you're on a flying carpet," Cookie said. He looked at the strangers' faces. "None of you have heard of a flying carpet? Ignorants!"
"Everybody set?" Zak called back. His head was visible over the cargo netting holding down the trio's supplies.
"All-top and rigged," Price called.
"A lot of us don't say that anymore," Gibson said. "We just say 'yeah.' Try it, tender-thighs."
Zak reached back with a pole capped by something like an oversized legworm goad with a point on the end and stuck the hook down between the legs. That part of the legworm, right under Gibson, gave a little rise and they started ahead.
"You can stop bellyaching that people who aren't one of us aren't one of us anytime, Gib," Zak said, too quietly for anyone but Valentine to hear.
After the initial jerk of motion, the legworm ride made a believer out of Valentine. Whatever the legs were doing below, up top the creature simply glided as though riding on an air cushion. Little changes in the topography came up through the beast with all the discomfort of a cushioned rocking chair.
The mule was all too happy to follow behind without his pack.
Zak continued, "For all you know the gal's being brought to a tribe wedding, or the scarred guy's the Casablancan Minister of the Great Oval Office and Rosegarden traveling incognitpick. So be a good tribe or be silent."
Normally Valentine would be a little embarrassed at overhearing a dressing-down. Except he didn't like Gibson. But good manners won out and he diverted his hearing elsewhere: to the steady staccatto crunch of the fast-falling legs. He'd forgotten how strange legworms sounded. Marbles poured out of a bag in a steady stream onto a pile of crumpled paper, as Evan Pankow, a veteran Wolf, had described it in his first year of training.
The gentle motion of the legworm relaxed Valentine.
"You guys ever sleep up here?" Valentine asked.
"Only one at a time," Cookie called. "Other two have to keep each other alert."
The beast must have dipped its nose-if nose was the right word for the scowlike front end-and scooped a car-hood-sized divot from the earth with its tusks. Zak employed his legworm crook again and worked one of his three reins.
With the legworm in motion the "music" they'd been told to expect started. Like a massive balloon deflating, the beast dropped a cemetery-plot-sized mass of compost behind.
Valentine cautiously took a whiff. All he could smell was Price, and the other people and Grogs.
"Be thankful for small favors," he said to Duvalier as another colossal fart sounded like the horn of Jericho. The mule gave a start.
"It's always loud at startup," Price said. "Gas gets built up while it stands still. Give it a minute and you'll just hear a plop now and then as it makes a deposit."
Duvalier planted herself on the legworm's spongy back, holding her hook under her chin. "I don't mind at all if it means traveling off my feet."
Valentine wished he could see the reins better. The Grog's he'd encountered in Oklahoma used four, two set to either side. The men of the Bulletproof used three, one on each side and one up top. Valentine made a mental note to ask Zak about its utility.
