Chapter Eighteen
Caine paused, shielded his eyes as the sun finished separating itself from the horizon. It painted a bridge of glittering jewels from the far bank to the near one, just a few klicks to the east. There, mote-sized silhouettes led larger, longer ones out into the shining sand flat that lined the water.
“What are they doing?” Dora wondered aloud.
Faces turned toward Caine and Yaargraukh; their time with the h’achgai had given them some advance knowledge of what they would encounter on their way into Forkus. The Hkh’Rkh looked over. Riordan nodded; he’d been fielding most of the questions since they’d set out before dawn.
Yaargraukh lifted his head slightly. “The figures are those of workers; I do not know if you would deem them serfs or slaves. After the height of the backflow, they gather alluvial soils before the flats become dry. They are much richer than the soils of the wastes and are crucial to crop production.”
Ayana was frowning. “How is it that the river’s backflow reaches these flats? We are almost three thousand kilometers from the ocean.”
Yaargraukh’s neck circled lazily. “We asked the same question, but the h’achgai lacked relevant knowledge. It may be a combination of the profound gravitic pull of the moon and the extreme weather we observed from orbit. But whatever the cause, the tidal reach on this river exceeds the greatest on my homeworld or yours.
“As far as river rising to run across these flats, I suspect it may be caused by the long bend you can see in the river, just before it reaches the city. That seems to impede the backflow and causes the excess to flood the lowlands at those times when it cannot move through that meander swiftly enough.”
Newton nodded. “I have seen that occur. But what creatures are the workers leading?”
“They are domesticated examples of ubiquitous, and dangerous, herd animals known as dustkine. They drag the soils back to the city’s agricultural zones.”
Duncan shielded his eyes. “Which look to be just two klicks ahead.”
“That is correct. As we approach it, we may have melee weapons at the ready, but not firearms. Arashk indicated that they would likely be presumed to signify hostile intent.”
“I detect no patrols or watch posts,” Newton replied, scanning the thinly vegetated margin ahead.
“Indeed. There are none at the outskirts,” Yaargraukh confirmed.
Dora nodded. “But there could still be eyes watching us approach, eh?”
Yaargraukh stared meaningfully at her. “I suspect there are always eyes watching.”
***
The brownish-green patches that marked Forkus’ agricultural limit hardly looked like vegetation. “Don’t tell me they actually eat that,” Bannor muttered, his tone as much one of disbelief as disgust.
Caine laughed. “You’re looking at the staple crop, I’m afraid. And it’s just as unappetizing as you’d expect.”
“It stinks, too,” Duncan observed, nose wrinkly.
“That is the ordure of wild dustkine,” Yaargraukh added.
“They just let them roam in here? Don’t they eat the, the . . . ?” He looked at the almost scabrous growth.
“It is lichen. And yes, they do eat it, but in doing so and tarrying here, they, er, enrich the soil even more.”
Dora spat. “Well, this just gets better and better. Do they at least hunt some of these dirt cows?”
“Some,” Caine answered, “but it’s a major undertaking for both the praakht who serve the local lords. Usually, they have nothing better than stone weapons. Yet, dustkine are almost twice as large as their domesticated cousins and almost as tough-hided as an x’qao. So it’s a long hunt, which depends on separating the most vulnerable while threatening the others’ rear flanks.”
“Heh. Then why don’t the lords send x’qai to hunt them?”
Yaargraukh’s neck wobbled again. “Because when they do, there is nothing left for anyone else.”
***
As they drew abreast of the first mud-brick constructions at the outskirts of the city, Riordan realized that having spent days conceiving of them as “adobe” had put a very specific image in his head: the even, orderly buildings associated with the pueblos of the American Southwest.
What he encountered now was anything but. Leaning, awkward lumps—you couldn’t really call them domes—dotted the skirts of the city. Ahead, they became more densely packed and grew larger, but not in the form of more massive single structures. The buildings ahead were simply chaotic agglomerations of the same sad heaps that were greeting them on the edge of town. Colored and shaped like dung piles that had failed multiple attempts at mitosis, each one’s entrance was guarded by an armed praakh or two. Or sometimes, in the case of the bigger dung heaps, three. And the smell—
Bannor’s question echoed Riordan’s metaphoric musings: “Are they actually made from dung?”
“No.” Dora’s reply was as certain as it was grim. “Dung is what they’re burning.”
Duncan frowned toward the already warm sun. “For heat?”
“For everything,” she said. “Think there aren’t places still doing it on Earth? Tag along with me, next time we get back.”
As they advanced deeper into the thickening wilderness of cob huts, eyes followed them, some long after they’d passed: they were among the very few heading toward the tall, ancient structures near the river juncture. The tighter the quarters became, the more Riordan noticed the ammonic reek of ketosis. A growing portion of the faces were so haggard and empty that they hardly seemed self-aware. The most malnourished barely moved, and those that did were chased away from even the most dismal hovels.
In addition to the ketosis, another stink grew as they approached the core of Forkus: that of tanneries and equally odiferous boneworks. The h’achgai had shown Riordan examples of that craft: finely turned arrow shafts, spear hafts, tools, even a collapsible drying rack. When he’d asked about the process, the Dornaani translator became useless: too many words for which there were no equivalents. Not that any of the Crewe was presently concerned with those gaps in their nascent command of “Low Praakht”; they were too busy adapting to the overpowering mix of odors that was a daily reality for the inhabitants of Forkus. Most of whom were a species they’d not seen yet, but were instantly recognizable from Arashk’s painstaking descriptions:
Praakht. Their complexions recalled the evolving norm of Earth itself: not so dark as Newton’s (who was equal parts African and Samoan) or as light as Dora’s olive-bronze. There was little discernible variation in their hair color—dark to very dark—but here and there, hazel and green eyes stared out from beneath the heavy bone brow ridge that Newton had predicted they might see.
The h’achgai’s descriptions had led Baruch to expect many characteristics associated with Neanderthals, so he’d familiarized the group with the most likely differences. Some of the Crewe had nearly—or actually—rolled their eyes at his forensic precision, but Lieutenant Baruch’s conjectures were proving impressively proleptic. Caine half-turned to mutter as much back at their hulking doctor.
Newton grunted. “They are not just Neanderthal, though. And there is a great deal of variance in the ratios of limb length.”
“Malnutrition?” Ayana wondered.
Baruch shook his head. “Unlikely. A diet so deficient that it will cause gross skeletal stunting would have other health effects.” He glanced sideways at a particularly short-legged yet broad fellow hefting a stone axe as they passed. “His role, musculature, and weight suggest he has always been strong and well fed, meaning his limb ratios are not genetically remarkable.”
“Then what would cause such dysmorphia?”
Newton’s tone was polite if a bit impatient. “It is not dysmorphia if it is a normal variation within a species, as I suspect. As to the cause it . . . ” He stole a glance at another male whose proportions were more akin to their own, but whose features were narrower, sharper, even elongated in places. “The regularity of the variations suggests hybridization. But with what, I cannot begin to guess.”
Dora eyed a female warrior whose features were so absolutely like those of a Neanderthal that she could have walked out of a life-size diorama in a museum. “Y’know what we haven’t seen, yet?”
Yaargraukh glanced at her. “A market.”
She nodded. “I’ve seen some bartering for a few items, but nothing more than that.”
Caine heard her hanging tone. “But—?”
“But I’ve been listening to what’s going on in those hovels, looking when I can see inside. They’re making their own clothes and tools, I think. At least the basics.”
Bannor nodded as he slowly tuned his focus from one compass heading to another. “You’re right. Which is damned strange.”
Duncan frowned. “Why? Maybe that’s all they can afford.”
Bannor’s answering nod was tighter. “Exactly, but you tend to see that in smaller, not larger communities.”
“Green Beanie is right,” Dora muttered. “Little town means little trade. People make do or make their own. Big town or city? Big money means less barter. Even in the poorest parts.” She stuck her chin at the path before them. “We’re not passing through a slum; this is how Forkus is, for the most part. Make do or make it yourself.”
Ayana shrugged. “Actually, all the pieces fit.”
“Meaning?”
“There is almost no plant life. The wastes are vast and dangerous. The only trade arteries seem to be rivers. Resources are scarce. Dried dung is the primary fuel.” She seemed surprised by their still-questioning glances. “What we call industry cannot grow here. Food is the basic currency, goods after that.” She frowned. “It is not the praakht that are stunted; it is their world.”
“Assuming it’s really their world at all,” Riordan amended. “Looks like we’re coming to the better part of town.”
Duncan leaned forward, trying to look between him and Yaargraukh. “How can you tell?”
Riordan opened the gap a little. “Look up ahead, right along our path.”
“Huh,” Solsohn huffed, “I guess it was only a matter of time before we ran into a welcoming committee.”
“That is a strange expression,” Yaargraukh commented, “since brandished firearms are rarely a sign of welcome.”
***
By the time they’d closed to within speaking distance, the armed contingent before them had almost doubled in number. Whether that was out of precaution or curiosity was unclear.
Riordan allowed that his orders might have amplified both. He’d had the whole group seal up and lower their visors as they approached, and those with Dornaani vacc suits had initialized what Duncan had dubbed “armor mode.” Bannor had his hand cannon ready within a sack; Caine wondered if these guards would even know what it was, but there was no reason to take that chance.
Yaargraukh was, by necessity, the one exception. Having neither suit nor helmet of any kind, he approached without any additional, impressive gear. But he and Caine had already considered this problem and had strategized a way to turn it into an advantage.
Hopefully.
With the Dornaani translator running and patched into its own tactical channel, Riordan took a moment to scan the eight individuals blocking their path. Almost half of them were clearly Homo sapiens, without any visible trace of hybridity. But whereas the h’achgai had indicated that the “original” humans of this world were dark complected—“much darker than him,” Arashk had explained, pointing to Newton—all of these were considerably lighter. One would have struck Caine as extremely fair even if he’d seen him in Stockholm’s Old Town.
The leader took a step forward from the center of their inverted wedge formation. As he raised a hand for the newcomers to halt, Riordan quickly scanned the remaining, nonhuman members of the city watch.
Two were cadaverously lean, skin taut over facial bones that had probably been human at some point. Or maybe still were. Another was almost as tall as Yaargraukh and either wearing an ornate suit of armor or had a body segmented like an armadillo’s, but which had sprouted hard, uneven flanges. Caine mentally doubled the time he’d need to review the video he’d been recording since arriving.
The watch’s equipment was even stranger and more varied than they themselves. Their firearms ranged from handguns to heavy rifles, no two the same design. The largest was either some form of cassette- or belt-fed weapon with a bore so large that it could even have been a micro-missile launcher.
Their armor was an even more eclectic—not to say bizarre—mix. Only three of them were wearing complete suits of a single manufacture, none of which were the same, and one of which could have started out in the Tower of London. The other guards boasted protective gear that ranged from chain mail to ballistic composites to random parts of plastic combat armor, sometimes all on a single warrior. Indeed, everything about them—from their highly personalized equipment to their loose formation—underscored that they were, in fact, warriors, not soldiers.
The medium-sized leader, who was both fully armored and nearly motionless, nodded to the most idiosyncratically outfitted of the others, who strutted forward and emitted a stream of gibberish.
The Dornaani translator tossed out a few equivalences: pronouns and articles that probably had their origins in Low Praakht. Or vice versa. Once again, Arashk had allowed them to prepare for this eventuality: that they’d be addressed in one of several more formal or respectful cants, particularly if they attracted the attention of harrows and scythes. And it very much appeared that they had.
Yaargraukh responded to the indecipherable address as they’d planned. “We shall speak in the low tongue.”
The spokesman was suddenly less expressive, more collected.
So: his flamboyance is an act. To invite underestimation.
His demeanor now wholly at odds with his outlandish garb, the human spoke with subtle menace rather than excited rancor. “Do you mean to insult us with this speech?”
“What is amiss with our speech?” Yaargraukh made his pronunciation so harsh that it was almost indecipherable and decidedly unpleasant to the ear. Hkh’Rkh had many sounds that the human mouth was incapable of duplicating. According to Arashk, the speech of the x’qao had many that were similar . . . which was now proving useful.
As he and Yaargraukh had hoped, that gave the spokesman further pause. When he resumed, it was in a tone of an equal or even a servant, not a master. “How should I call you, Arurkré?”
The Dornaani translator buzzed uselessly at the last word. But whatever it meant, the change in tone and posture suggested it was one of careful respect.
“With all due respect to your masters,” Yaargraukh replied, “if I wished to announce myself by name, I would have been preceded by a herald.”
The spokesman glanced back at his motionless, grey-draped superior, who made a casual gesture.
The liaison nodded, turned back to ask a different question. “Where are you from?”
“I would have my own question answered first, which I ask again: Why do you take offense at our speech?”
“You speak Low Praakht. Poorly.”
Yaargraukh released a stream of an almost forgotten tongue of the Hkh’Rkh. It sounded like a rockslide killing a herd of angry cattle. “Do you find this tongue more seemly?”
Another one of the watch’s number—one of the near-cadaverous humanoids—responded to a gesture from the leader, whose thoroughly modern combat helmet remained sealed. “I have not heard that tongue before.” He turned toward Yaargraukh. “And it is hard for us to understand you, Arurkré.”
Riordan waited for the translator to identify that term or title . . . but to no avail. “Nothing,” he whispered on the tactical channel to Yaargraukh, who would continue to simply ignore the word. So far, that strategy—avoiding any requests for clarification—was working well enough. Instead, he simply gestured to Caine.
Riordan eye-triggered his visor; it opened slowly. “We have no knowledge of any other languages in this land.” He kept his voice calm, indifferent.
“‘In this land’?” was the new speaker’s gravelly repetition-as-question.
Riordan shrugged, gestured to the six impassive figures behind, all in sealed suits. “We chose to have them educated in this tongue, that they might not become too proud.”
That statement caused a mix of puzzlement and consternation, and Riordan was pretty sure why: they were wondering, would ten apparent scythes tolerate such treatment? The only logical answer would be that the two who were speaking were so fearsome and powerful that they did not dare do otherwise. Riordan waited patiently as the welcoming committee completed that calculus.
The first spokesmen resumed, this time with a hint of actual deference. “Do you know whose domain you enter?”
“We know enough to wonder if that question is a trap. Is not Forkus a domain shared by many great ones?” The startled reaction proved the value of Arashk’s knowledge once again. Before the speaker could recover, Caine followed with, “As far as the names of the great, we cannot know that the names we have been given are current. Besides, any we fail to name might perceive that as a slight.” He made sure his smile was utterly humorless. “It would be imprudent to give offense and make enemies before we have even entered into the city proper.”
Several small smiles were the only answer to Riordan’s observation . . . until a broad-chested animal with jaws like a predatory hippopotamus rumbled out from behind one of the highest, humpbacked fusion of numerous adobe hovels. Its rider was of the same species as the other extremely lean warriors in the group, who bowed slightly as she prompted her savage-looking mount toward Riordan. She had a lance in her free hand, tipped with a long, chromatically bright sliver of metal and fixed with a red pennant. A brace of varied flintlock and percussion-cap pistols were snugged in saddle holsters in front of either of her thighs.
She reined in the growling, drooling beast a meter in front of Riordan and looked him up and down. She did the same with Yaargraukh, then glanced back at the perimeter guards. It was not exactly a provocative glance, but Riordan saw the warning in it: Contradict what I’m about to say . . . if you dare.
She turned back abruptly. “In this city, you make final answer to my Liege Shvarkh’khag, sworn suppliant of Brazhglu’u, for any offenses you may give or laws you may break. Although there are few restrictions upon such as you, show the restraint that you yourself would expect, Arurkré”—she leaned toward Yaargraukh—“or that harrows would show any lord, in any land. Including your own.”
She was about to tug her mount away, paused. “With respect, X’qagrat’r,” she said to Yaargraukh in a voice that sounded disapproving rather than deferential, “it does you no honor to have servitors that sound like hawkers in a ’vansary paddock.”
She started at the voice in which he answered her: sharp with authority and the clashing of a horn-hard split palate. “And now that they know my discipline, I will allow my servitors to learn the languages appropriate to their station.” He paused before adding. “In my own time.” He was very still for a long moment. Everyone, including the Crewe, was visibly motionless, eager, and possibly fearful, at what he might say next. Caine found himself beginning to worry as well until the Hkh’Rkh asked, first of the rider and then of the liaison, “Have you other questions?”
The thin rider simply shrugged and returned behind the cover of the tumorous pile of rammed earth structures from which she’d emerged.
The liaison swallowed. “No, Arurkré,” he murmured. “You and your scythes—”
Yaargraukh gestured toward Caine and then Bannor as he lifted his head.
“—and your harrows may pass,” the human corrected hastily.
Without acknowledging the speaker’s permission or deference, Yaargraukh led them past the guards, and into the shadows cast by the tall ruins at the center of Forkus.
***
“Report,” ordered Riordan as soon as he’d resealed his visor and checked that his radio was sending the weakest possible signal.
Bannor and Dora offered similar assessments: there had been no observable reaction force supporting the guards, and no one was following them. “Of course,” she added, “there’s no telling what’s possible in this crazy place.”
Riordan was inclined to agree with her. “Newton: species?”
The doctor began with a heavy sigh. “Before planetfall, we knew of two human varieties: Ktor and terrestrial. After landing, we found what appear to be two more: h’achgai and praakht. Now, we see yet another—the thin ones—and a biped that might be partly human but is certainly mixed with something else, judging from its . . . er, hide? Skin? Perhaps it is part x’qao. Which are themselves yet another new form of intelligent life.”
“For some values of ‘intelligent,’” Bannor grumbled.
Newton was undeterred. “In short, we have doubled the number of known sapient species and subspecies since we dropped. And all are humanoid. I hardly know what else to say.”
Well, I do: “and we discovered all of them on the very first planet we found beyond the Dornaani’s self-imposed survey perimeter.” What the hell was going on here twenty millennia ago? Or more? But that was a discussion for later: much later. Instead, Riordan wanted Duncan’s feedback on—“Technical?”
Solsohn exhaled. “Also crazy. You saw that whacky mix of firearms and armor. No weapon matched any other, and only a few parts of the protective gear did. Even the age and usage defied any pattern.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the rider’s pistols were probably local manufacture. Visor zoom-in showed crude casting, bone furniture. Some of the watch’s guns looked completely rebuilt; every part had different levels of craftsmanship and probably different alloys. But then there are other guns that aren’t rebuilt at all. And I don’t mean they look as if they were preserved under some local version of Tutankhamun’s tomb; I mean they are factory-new. Which makes no sense: not one of our thermal scans showed anything large or hot enough for industrial-era production.”
Dora’s voice was haunted. “Maybe rogue Ktor traders do come out here?”
Bannor tsked. “If so, why would they leave that wreck hanging in far orbit? It’s good salvage. And that begs yet another question: Why would they come here? Hardly looks like this world is a trove of valuable resources.”
“There is another possibility,” Duncan realized in a hushed voice. “Remember what we saw on Turkh’saar? Everything the Ktor swiped from the twentieth century was in that super-cosmolene. Nothing had decayed or aged.”
Before anyone could agree or demur, Ayana murmured, “My linguistic report may bear on that observation.”
“Go ahead,” Riordan muttered, slowing as they neared the first of the ancient ruins. X’qai of different types were ranging between them. “And please, make it fast.”
“I did not get consistent directional audio of the conversation among the patrol that met us, but the fragments confirm that whatever language they speak among themselves has more than coincidental similarities to older Ktoran dialects.”
“Wait,” Dora objected, “I know you heard the Perekmeres bastards talking in Ktoran all the time, but are you saying they made you learn their version of Shakespeare?”
“More their equivalent of Beowulf. And no, they did not teach me, but they have many sayings, and the ones they attribute to the Progenitors are still rendered in that ancient tongue.”
“How much did you understand?”
“Nothing, Commodore. I cannot translate it. It is more akin to hearing cadences and phonetic similarities that are still shared by languages as far removed as ancient Icelandic and modern English.”
Riordan frowned. “Could the Ktoran influence be as old as these ruins?”
“Sir, I doubt that terrestrial models of linguistic drift and shift obtain on this world. Earth was inherently more conducive to travel and migration. We also devoted many of our plentiful resources to shorten those travel times and remove obstructions.”
“So you are saying—?”
“The introduction of Ktoran speech could be as recent as a few dozen decades ago or a few dozen millennia.”
“No matter which, it is hardly welcome news,” Newton grumbled.
“Indeed not,” Riordan agreed, suppressing a shudder. “Is everyone’s destination guidon still showing? Good.” He glanced at the direction his own was indicating. Two tall, reclaimed ruins stood on that northeast heading, each capped by a bowl-shaped cistern. Looking between them, Caine could just make out a low but massive stone structure near the river. Its Paleolithic construction recalled what he had seen at Machu Pichu and Malta. “Only four hundred meters to the ferry. Arashk says the river should be at its highest in an hour. Close ranks. Brisk pace but unhurried. Let’s go.”