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Chapter Twenty-Two

“Why do you call the market a vansary?” Katie asked as the Crewe disembarked under the watchful eyes of a mixed group of warriors cadred by two human “troops.” The pennant atop the dock’s bone-lading scaffold showed the colors of its owner: a liege known as Vissakash.

Bannor was scanning the weapons of the watchers as he answered. “It’s called a vansary because the closest term Low Praakht has for ‘market’ translates as ‘caravansary.’ They just shorten it.”

“Not that it’s really a market,” Duncan added. “It’s more like an occasional suq hosted on the premises of a major trader: Kosvak, a h’achga. He’s the first vassal of Vranadoc.”

“Who is . . . ?”

“A human liege,” Yaargraukh rumbled, “and independent. As the commodore implied last night, it is best to conclude such conversations before we reach the vansary. Once there, we must assume any exchanges will be overheard.”

Dora looked around casually. “And are we really sure the streets are any better?”

“‘Sure’?” repeated Duncan; he’d overseen counterintelligence and security since the Crewe had boarded Hsontlosh’s ship. “Every day, I become less sure of anything in this place. But since there’s no sign of refractive audio analyzers or old-fashioned parabolic mics, yeah, this is probably our best opportunity. Particularly for topics that we haven’t been able to discuss yet.”

He was answered by knowing nods: oblique and coded conversations on simple matters were safe enough in the Legate’s precincts, but not the bigger issues. Particularly not the one that loomed above all others: whether or not Tasvar and the Legate were, knowingly or otherwise, proxies of the Ktor.

Whereas Riordan usually put aside formal titles, they were on the winding streets of a broadly hostile city; operational standards applied. “Sergeant Girten, last night you asked what we know about the Legate. The answer is: not as much as we’d like. His personnel have unusual gaps in their education and technological capabilities. I suspect that’s because they have their hands full preserving the machines and knowledge that is most crucial to their survival.

“However, what is harder to explain, and mystifying, is the equally strange silences that dominate what few records seem to exist about the nature and history of their organization.”

“Silences such as?” Wu asked slowly.

Bannor shrugged. “The Legate, whoever that is or was, is a name that has been around for a very long time, possibly centuries. Over time, it was thought it was just a title, something from a lost legend and that it had never been attached to an actual person.”

“But now he is known to exist? Or at least, someone claiming to be him?”

Bannor nodded.

“Well, where is he, then?” O’Garran asked irritably. “On that island . . . er, Zrik Whir?”

Bannor shook his head. “That’s the one place his followers know he isn’t located. Although it’s also possible that he might have started out there.”

Ayana nodded, adding, “And more recently, there are rumors that he has at least visited that island again in the past several decades. During the same period, the Legate’s bases began their continuing ascendance: they are far more widespread and effective than they were even fifty years ago.”

“So,” Katie mused, “whoever first wore the mantle of the Legate had humbler beginnings.”

“Much humbler,” Duncan emphasized. “Apparently, the original Legate wasn’t really a power-holder like the lieges. He built and then sponsored a growing network dedicated to helping escaped humans avoid recapture by their owners.”

“Owners?” Dora hissed.

Duncan glanced at her sideways. “Do you think our kind serve x’qai willingly?”

“How do they hold on to us, then?”

“The oldest of methods,” Bannor replied. “Hostages.”

Dora frowned mightily. “I thought human servitors weren’t allowed to have families.”

Bannor’s tone and eyes were grim. “Just enough to keep them in line.”

“Bastards,” Girten grumbled.

“Won’t get any argument from me,” Duncan muttered. “Nor from the Legate’s people. The one piece of history that all of Tasvar’s people know is that the organization started out as a cross between an underground railroad and a string of well-defended safe houses. Over time, it grew, and sites in the toughest cities had to evolve into full-on strongholds like the one here. But in the past thirty years, its numbers and holdings tripled in size.”

“Any idea why?”

“Tasvar and his troops may be cordial, and even friendly, but they don’t share much information about themselves. Which I guess I can understand.”

Katie nodded. “You mean, because they still don’t trust us.”

“I mean they can’t trust anyone. Even themselves.” Duncan shrugged in response to the questioning looks. “No one can stand up to pain forever, and the x’qai enjoy torture almost as much as killing. At least, that’s what the Legate’s people say.”

“As do the h’achgai,” Yaargraukh rumbled.

“And the Mangled,” Wu added.

“Yeah,” Solsohn sighed, “that seems to be one of the few things that everyone can agree on.” He shrugged. “There’s really not much more than that. I get the feeling they don’t have much real history for the reason they don’t have any real science; there’s just no time for it.” He shook his head. “But I’d give a lot to learn how the hell Tasvar learned English.”

Riordan heard the rising tone on which Duncan had ended; he had a theory. “So, what are your thoughts?”

“Not so much thoughts, sir. More an interesting coincidence.”

“Go on.”

“Well, it was just about thirty years ago that trouble started brewing back in our neck of the woods. Specifically, that was when the Accord started having serious problems, mostly because your pal Nolan Corcoran discovered that the Doomsday Rock wasn’t a random asteroid but an alien attack.

“Fast forward through first contact, invasion, and the discovery of the Lost Soldiers. Back in the Ktoran Sphere, the big Houses go on a witch hunt for the rogue operators who were behind all those disasters. They kill most of them and exile the rest to the Scatters.”

Newton shook his head. “Those exiles cannot be here yet. The earliest they began their journey was five years ago . . . on an STL ship. This system is hundreds of light-years distant. At least.”

Duncan nodded. “Absolutely right. But now, let’s turn the clock back oh, say, almost two centuries. The big players in House Perekmeres have just decided to go rogue. Some of the other hegemons think they’re nuts but don’t dare say so. So that group comes up with a contingency plan: establish a hidden colony out beyond the Scatters. That way, if the crazy schemes fail and they’re exiled, they’ll have a place already waiting.” He gestured at the world around them.

Chief O’Garran looked like he’d bitten into a rancid lemon. “So you think the Legate is actually—what? A front for Ktor renegades who set up a safe haven?”

Duncan shrugged. “I’m not married to the scenario: just trying to find one that explains both the amber eyes and the English language.”

Riordan raised his hand, as much to steer them around a congested cluster of huts as end the debate. “We won’t settle this without more information. But Duncan’s scenario tracks with something we’ve all felt: that even if there are some Ktor genes in the population here, the Ktor culture itself doesn’t seem to be. For instance, there’s no trace of their various social rankings and titles. Similarly, there’s no apparent knowledge of the Sphere itself or the Accord, let alone any recent events in either.

“It’s possible that a bunch of Ktor colonists brought knowledge of English with them. It’s also possible that we’re not the first ship to ever mis-shift into this system. But here’s a final fact to consider: if the Ktor or their descendants are still in charge here, then why haven’t they concealed everyone with amber eyes? And why would Tasvar admit to understanding English? We have to remain watchful, yes, but so far, I don’t feel that we’re being duped.”

Katie sighed. “But from whut ye’re sayin’, it’s still not safe to ask more about this world for fear that it might set them to asking more questions about us. And maybe themselves.”

“Unfortunately, that ignorance is much more likely to kill us than Ktor who might not even exist on this planet,” Newton added.

Riordan paused long enough to be sure he was heard loud and clear. “We are in a world where the greatest danger is to appear weak, and that is precisely how we will be seen if we start asking about its most common pitfalls and dangers. Better to be silent and presumed dangerous than to show everyone that you’re an easy mark because you’re not from Bactradgaria.”

“But boss,” mumbled Dora, “Tasvar knows that already.”

“Yes, he does. And we’ll discuss it when we return from the vansary.”

Miles’ voice was tense. “Yeah, but where? I swear to God, if Tasvar hasn’t already realized we’re using the practice chamber for conversations we don’t want him to hear, then he’s a low-grade moron.”

Bannor smiled. “That’s not a problem any more. We approached him on that and he’s agreed to give us access to a place we chose: outside, on the roof of one of the towers.” There was a general chorus of approving mutters and grunts.

“We need a second language, too,” Dora said a bit more loudly than she should have. “Our own battle language, like Tasvar.”

“I suppose you have a suggestion?” Ayana asked with a rise at the end of her question; it made her sound almost impish.

Veriden grinned at her friend. “I do. Spanish is best. Over half of us already speak some. And I could teach the rest of you, so you’d catch up fast. Yes?”

Riordan kept his voice low. “Spanish is great because most of us at least speak a little of it. Unfortunately, that’s also why it might be the worst language: because it’s so widely used on Earth. And if Ktor colonists are how Tasvar got his knowledge of English . . . ”

After a long frowning silence, Dora shrugged. “Yeah, you’re right. So what’s our next choice?”

Riordan managed to hide his surprise at Veriden’s easy compliance. “On the other hand, we’ve got a number of folks who speak a fair amount of German.”

“Who, other than you and Yaargraukh?”

Craig shrugged. “I grew up with Yiddish in my ear. When we landed in France, that made me the closest thing we had to a translator.”

“And me,” Solsohn added. “My ex-wife was Danish, from a town that straddled the German border. Her mother was from just south of it.”

“And just to make life harder for eavesdroppers,” O’Garran added, “we’re already coming up with our own words. Like ‘trog.’” He smiled triumphantly in response to several pairs of rolled eyes. “Before long, between that and German, whatever patchwork language we’re speaking isn’t going to make sense to anyone outside the Crewe. Now where’s this damn, eh, vansary?”

“Yeah,” Girten followed, “and how are we going to buy anything, if we don’t have money—or what passes for it—around here?”

Riordan smiled. “Tasvar implied we would be furnished with an expense account, for lack of a better term.”

Craig became eager. “Really? So what are we getting? Local weapons? Supplies?”

“All that,” Bannor answered, “and, hopefully, a business opportunity.”

“A what?”

“A way,” Riordan answered, “of making our own way in the world. That’s part of what Tasvar is providing in exchange for the smokeless powder.”

“You mean he’s set up a meet?” Dora asked, at once eager and wary. “How do we know we can trust him?”

“We don’t need to,” Bannor smiled.

“What? Why?”

“Because Arashk is our go-between,” Riordan answered. “But better still, Hresh is vouching for us.”

Wu nodded, understanding. “Because as an oathkeeper, if he attests to our trustworthiness, he is committing his own oath and honor in place of ours. Ta’rel mentioned this.”

“There is a similar convention among the praakht,” Yaargraukh added.

“Yeah,” Miles agreed. “There are lots of trogs in the Legate’s ranks, but none can join until they’ve sworn an oath of loyalty in front of an oathkeeper.”

Riordan increased the pace. “We won’t actually meet with Arashk’s group. They can’t risk being seen with us. But once we locate our contact, Hresh will send them a prearranged signal that we are the ones who can be trusted.”

“And how do we locate this contact?” Katie wondered.

Bannor smiled. “They will be the only ones selling oars.”

“Oars?” Miles laughed. “Really?”

Riordan nodded. “I suspect it’s an attempt to sow seeds of misdirection.”

“It encourages any one observing us to presume that our next mode of travel will be by boat,” Yaargraukh expanded.

Up ahead, the haze of dung fires thinned, revealing fitted stone structures and tall, smooth outlines of reclaimed ruins beyond them.

“Are we headed in there?” asked Peter, a bit reluctantly.

Bannor shook his head. “We’ll be skirting it, staying just inside the edge of Vranadoc’s area of control.”

“More like ‘turf,’” Dora muttered, glancing at the buildings and ubiquitous armed bravos standing at their entrances. All wore a distinctive symbol or color, sometimes both. “A lot more like gangs than ‘domains.’”

“You’re not far off,” Miles chuckled. “That’s the Low Praakht term for their own groups. They call themselves ‘tribes’ in the wastes, but here they’re gangs. Or great gangs, if they’ve got more than a few dozen mouths to feed.”

Riordan nodded ahead. “There’s the vansary. One o’clock. Low ruin expanded by a slightly lower, fitted-stone wall.”

“Not the mad rush of merchants I was expecting,” Newton admitted as a steady flow of persons both entered and exited the wide opening.

“Probably because there aren’t enough excess goods to support general trade,” Duncan said with a frown. “Even when it’s almost all barter.”

Veriden smiled sideways at him. “Much as I hate agreeing with Mister Suit, he’s right. I was born in a place almost as bad. You watch: almost everything will be items most people can’t afford and wouldn’t be able to use.”

Riordan nodded toward the opening, where a human—or was it a trog?—was stopping individuals intermittently. Two guards who were clearly trogs stood behind him, silent and watchful. “Wrap the robes tightly, now.”

Dora snickered. “Okay, boss, but you know it’s not gonna fool anyone, right?”

“Not up close, no. But it makes our gear less visible from further away. And that’s helpful enough.”

As they neared the opening, the troggish human took a step toward them. The outline of a circle had been tattooed on the center of his forehead. “I speak with my Liege Vranadoc’s voice in this place. You are expected at the vansary.”

“We are honored,” Riordan said. Yaargraukh nodded diffidently.

But the gatekeeper’s eyes had fixed on Newton. “I did not know . . . eh, was not told that there would be . . . ” He leaned closer to Newton. “If you are from Zrik Whir, you must know this place is not safe for your kind.” He glanced at a rammed-earth platform that was pushed up against the marshalling yard’s north wall. Riordan turned his head just enough to bring it into his peripheral vision.

Reapers. At least a dozen of them, but standing in four different groups. Some were watching the entry, but most were disinterestedly scanning the crowd winding through the hides and tents of the vansary.

In the meantime, Baruch had drawn up to his full, impressive height. He stared down at the gatekeeper. “I am from an island, but it is very unlikely you have heard of it. If you wish to question me further, I shall comply.”

Riordan turned his head just enough to ensure that neither of the guards could see his small smile. Newton had responded just as they’d rehearsed it: a truth that not only evaded the question, but did not deny being from Zrik Whir, either.

“Questions will not be required,” said the gatekeeper. “You are free to enter with your friends.” He moved aside, already preparing to intercept another approaching group.

Veriden’s tone was pure preen as they strolled through the opening. “I see you took my advice about mal de ojo,” she said, glancing sideways at Caine.

“No reason why I shouldn’t,” Riordan answered. If it made Dora happy to feel that her beliefs—not to say superstitions—were being acknowledged, then that was fine with him. But beyond that, Caine had to admit that, although there was no evidence that Yasla possessed parapsychological gifts, there had certainly been times when Ktor actions or knowledge defied reason. It went far beyond their prowess and extraordinary control over their bodies. There had been too many occasions when they had apparently exchanged or acquired knowledge more rapidly than should have been possible over the distances involved. And if they had indeed left some mark on Bactradgaria . . . well, better safe than sorry.

“I didn’t know you were actually from Samoa,” Duncan was murmuring as they surveyed the wilderness of blankets and tents before them.

“My father was a professor and a naval reserve officer on Guam when he met my Samoan mother. From there, we lived in Okinawa, Hawaii, and ultimately returned to Samoa.” He may have smiled. “I am in no danger of running out of islands with which to mislead interviewers, trog or human.”

“Or in his case,” Miles added, jerking a thumb back at the gatekeeper, “a trogan.”

“A . . . a what?” Craig stammered.

Yaargraukh’s tone was that of dogged, even grim, patience. “Just this morning, Chief O’Garran assigned that label to Legate troop leaders who are trog-human hybrids.”

“Trogan,” Miles repeated. “Kind of catchy, I think. And not racist, like their own words for mixed-species folk.”

Riordan hadn’t heard those. “Which are?”

Wu glanced sideways at him. “You don’t want to know, sir. Really.”

They had to form a tight column as they entered the wilderness of ware-loaded blankets scattered on the vansary’s dusty marshalling ground. At the far end was a paddock, apparently for dirtkine. To the left were the ancient walls which anchored a larger stronghold that had been built out from them. It was fronted by a portico of rude columns which, judging from the troughs of stone in front of them, doubled as hitching posts. And to the right—

Riordan was careful as he let his gaze return to the platform upon which the bored scythes and harrows stood. Behind them hung bleached hides bearing the sigil of their host: Kosvak, first vassal of Vranadoc and one of the few h’achgai who held such a high position.

But despite that reminder of whose domain they were visiting, the reapers did not comport themselves as guests: their swagger and behavior was anything but respectful. As had been the group encountered at the edge of the city, they were a polyglot group of many races. This time, however, when Caine’s glance passed over the humans among them, he noticed a few eyes that glittered a distinctive amber, visible despite the distance and dust being raised by both sellers and buyers.

Several larger and decidedly metallic gleams caught Riordan’s attention: not only did each group hold a bone staff topped with the banner of their liege, but surmounting each was a gold disk, shining like a small sun in the early morning light.

“Hey, boss,” Dora muttered, “are you actually going to look at what’s on offer, here?” She smiled mischievously. “Or are you just going to gawk like a tourist?”

“I figure I can just gawk, since I have such a supremely capable tour guide.”

She snorted a short laugh as they continued to wend their way through the vendors.

“No stalls,” Ayana murmured, “but many have low tents.”

Duncan nodded toward the portico to the left. “Or not so low.” That end of the marshalling ground seemed to be where the larger, or preferred, merchants were clustered. Many had pitched tents large enough to hold several persons.

“Good way to endure a long day in the sun,” Newton observed.

“An even better way to make deals in private,” Duncan added. “And given some of what’s on offer, I could see that being a major consideration.”

Riordan was inclined to agree. As Dora had predicted, none of the core resources of Bactradgaria were present. The closest was what appeared to be specially treated animal sinew and a variety of products fashioned from them: ropes, heavy nets, and thick bowstrings.

Also as Dora had foreseen, the rest of the goods would only have been of interest to those who held, or aspired to, considerable power. Expertly crafted obsidian weapons were displayed alongside scalpels and other surgical tools, not all of which were familiar to Riordan. Nearby, several of the very thin humanoids were negotiating commissions for crafting several mystifying implements. Trogs, or probably trogans, were doing much the same with flint knapping, most of their projects involving knives or arrowheads.

But the mainstay of the vansary was a wide array of more costly—and rare—resources and the finished goods made from them. Ingots of copper, tin, bronze, and iron lay alongside metal weapons, armor, and tools, many of which were repaired salvage. Fluids in crude glass tubes, some quite noxious, were the predominant chemicals, although the pride of place was given to more esoteric compounds: salves, unguents, and what appeared to be machine lubricants. Newton shrugged helplessly when Caine asked what he thought the various substances might be; the translator did no better.

Then there were the salt merchants—a whole row of them—who were the most contentious in the vansary, busily undercutting each other’s prices while disparaging the purity of competitors’ supplies. By comparison, those who dealt in mined substances—coal, sulfur, talc, limestone, and possibly phosphorus—were taciturn and not disposed to haggle at all: their wares seemed so intrinsically valuable and rare that they were assured of selling out their stock by day’s end.

The most enigmatic of the merchants were two who remained fully robed and had no wares on display, but, after brief conversations with customers, retired into their tent and always reemerged with a small hide pouch. The contents were light and irregularly shaped, and the hushed nature of their exchanges led Veriden to chuckle, “Wonder if they’re drug dealers.” Riordan had to admit they certainly acted that way.

But Peter murmured. “No. They are not.”

“How do you know?”

“Look at the hand of the one who is receiving the payment.”

Riordan did. “Yes?” Although dust-covered, it looked almost greenish.

“That hand is Ta’rel’s.”

Dora’s eyes went wide. “He’s a drug dealer?”

“He most certainly is not,” Peter hissed. “He deals in moss—a curative, of some sort. And very valuable.” Instead of heading in that direction, Peter turned away.

“What? Don’t you—we—want to meet him?”

“It is he who doesn’t want to meet.”

“How do you know? He didn’t even see us!”

Wu let a very small smile escape. “Oh, I’m quite sure he did. But just like Arashk and his group, he cannot risk being seen with us. If he wishes to make contact, I am sure he will. Let us move on.”

“Not so fast, Peter,” Duncan muttered. “Turn around.”

They all did.

Two hides further along the winding path between the display hides of the vendors, the white edge of an oar-blade was visible around haggling praakht.


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