Chapter Nineteen
The wait to board the ferry—which, remarkably, was made of bone and cured hides—was almost too short. As they waited to cross to the narrow fringe of buildings on the far bank, the wind out of the north pushed the odors of the city further behind, leaving them in fresh, brisk air. The only drawback: the same wind also carried more of the dust from the wastes beyond the less imposing ruins scattered among the far shore’s profusion of primitive windmills.
The humanoids who presided over the ferry’s operation were of the same type as the one whose body had recalled the segmented surfaces of a pangolin, albeit without the bizarre, hornlike extrusions. Although the Crewe had witnessed them moving freely among the x’qai on their approach to the jetty, they evinced none of the perpetually simmering aggression of the “killspawn.”
The stevedores and crew were all praakht, although Caine had begun to notice further distinctions among them. Those with the elongated, narrow features spent more time arguing and shouting; they were disproportionately represented among those loading the boat. Obversely, its far less disputatious crew generally looked more akin to Neanderthals, albeit somewhat more lithe.
Halfway across the swollen, yet strangely currentless river, the weather once again proved that, at least in this region, it could not be reliably predicted even thirty minutes ahead of time. Thunderheads appeared on the eastern horizon, apparently rearing up high into the sky. However, that proved to be an optical illusion; in actuality, they were approaching at over twenty knots.
The last few hundred yards of the crossing were hastened by attaching the ferry’s far shore guideline to a stone-sunk windlass turned by three dirtkine. They were even smaller than those they had seen dragging alluvial soils, more suited to turning machines in the workhouses and mills of the city. Had it not been for the speed with which they pulled the barge to the north shore, it might have foundered in the deluge that sped out of the east and ran hard along the course of the tributary, driven by a howling gale. As it was, the boat’s drainage flaps had to be opened as soon as it was safe ashore; it was so filled with rainwater that it would have foundered if launched again.
Five steps ashore taught Caine and the others that they would have to rethink their comfortable assumption of being able to move through the rain with their visors down. Only the Dornaani suits had overpressure sufficient to keep the helmet visor from becoming opaque with condensation. But no suit or technology could rescue them as the dusty sand rapidly transformed into a thick sludge so treacherous that they couldn’t keep their footing without the help of their unobstructed senses. So the visors stayed up.
By the time they reached the Legate’s stronghold—an almost windowless three-story building with an immense footprint—they were thoroughly drenched. The wind had driven the surging torrents into their faces and so, washed down into their vacc suits. They’d acquired an escort shortly after debarkation: a mix of Neanderthals and modern humans. Almost a third of the latter were armed with crude muzzle-loaders and wearing cured hide armor, cunningly segmented to allow great freedom of movement. Sheathed swords and hatchets rode at their hips and while they guided the group to the Legate’s reinforced concrete fastness, they did not come close enough to engage in conversation. There was no telling whether that was the result of pure chance, personal choice, or explicit instruction.
However, this much was clear: they had arrived at an important destination, and probably pivotal meeting, looking like a pack of drowned rats in high-tech wrappers. Their escort faded back to shelter in hovels or beneath narrow underhangs of ancient buildings that had been reclaimed with sunbaked bricks.
The guards on either side of the door were equipped much like the others, except one was wearing chain mail, and the other held a great axe at the ready. Their eyes were patient and unreadable, except for the tendency to flit briefly toward Yaargraukh, not in trepidation so much as curiosity.
“We have been told—” Riordan began.
“You are expected,” the one in the chain mail said calmly. “Keep your hands empty and where they may be seen.”
When the group had complied, he rapped his fist in a complicated pattern against a bone clapper mounted alongside the entrance. Above it hung an almost heraldic pennant depicting a sword crossed over a . . . stick? Riordan squinted. Wait; is that a—?
Duncan was pointing at the same emblem. “What is that? Some kind of pen? Here?”
Wu sounded pleased. “Apparently, even here, there are places where the pen is mightier than the sword. Or of comparable strength.”
The bone clapper answered the guard in a very different pattern of clacks and clicks. He stepped aside, adding, “Your escort is on the way. You are welcome guests, but you are watched. At all times.”
Over the hammering of the rain, O’Garran’s half-hushed exclamation was almost inaudible. “We’re expected?”
“Not sure I like this, boss,” Dora added.
“The lack of questions is suspicious,” Ayana agreed.
“Particularly the lack of questions about my resemblance to an x’qao,” Yaargraukh added regretfully.
Riordan waited for other comments. “I didn’t expect this either,” he eventually said in English. “But it’s what Arashk predicted: we were likely to be admitted easily because we’re human and have advanced equipment.” Riordan stared at the dark opening; the wall just beyond the threshold bent in what looked like the start of a defensive dogleg. “And if this is a trap, then they’re pretty inept by not asking questions.”
There was a long pause. Then Bannor laughed.
Ayana sounded satisfied. “Of course. If the Legate was attempting to mislead us, detailed inquiries would be a necessary charade. Otherwise, we might begin to suspect that we were being admitted too easily.”
“Could it be a double-fake?” Duncan asked warily.
“I’d ask the same thing,” Riordan said with a nod, “except that since the Legate clearly is expecting us, he’s probably aware of why we’ve come, too. If not, he wouldn’t have let us get this close.”
Bannor smiled. “So maybe we just passed the real test: to reason that out.”
Riordan could hear the grin behind Duncan’s words as they started forward. “Well then, what are we waiting for?”
***
Riordan, not Yaargraukh, was invited to sit at the center of the shallow arc of stone seats in the room to which they’d been led. The overpowering odor of camphor which hit them as they had exited the dogleg was somewhat fainter here. Not that it had been unpleasant—compared to the reek of the streets, it was wonderful—but Caine was reminded of an old axiom: no matter how fine the perfume, you wouldn’t want to live in the bottle.
As the last to be ushered into this room, Riordan had a few moments to run a surveying glance around the cavernous outer chamber. The large empty spaces—two stories in many places—were reminiscent of those found in old armories, power plants, utility stations, or smelting factories. But he could only guess at the thickness of the walls, because they were almost completely hidden. Dozens of catwalks linked ground-to-ceiling stone silos, keeps, even towers. It was as if someone had built a castle inside out.
The guards who’d escorted them to their seats nodded respectfully, exited, and returned with two hide-covered chairs of bone, as well as a woman in chain mail. Nodding to the Crewe, she dismissed the guards before sitting.
After a quick survey of their faces, she began studying each of them at length, a small smile growing as she did. When none of them offered more than a wan imitation of her smile, she laughed. “Well, I can see that you are not new to this!”
Riordan smiled back. “New to what?” With any luck, his casual irony would show her that the game was over: that they understood very well that, during potentially dangerous encounters, untrained persons usually filled silences with nervous chatter. But they had silently mirrored their host.
Happily, she did not miss his meaning. She looked round the group with a slow, appreciative nod. Which allowed Caine to concentrate on what his peripheral vision showed him of the walls: particularly, any darker lines that might mark observation or murder slits in their deeply shadowed grooves.
“I suspect,” she mused, “that if I offered refreshments, you would not touch them.”
“Perhaps later,” Caine replied. “At present, I’m still enjoying the scented air. What do you call the plant that produces it?”
“Ursheve,” she answered, lingering on the phonemes as if to underscore that they had not come from Low Praakht. “You are not familiar with the aroma?”
Caine’s aversion to lying was all that informed his response this time. Arashk had told him—repeatedly—that above all else, they must not lie when meeting the Legate, that his servitors had a mystic ability to detect prevarication. Riordan had simply nodded politely, but now—psychic phenomena aside—he was acutely aware that they were not being met so much as they were being observed. “I know the scent,” Caine replied, “but did not expect to encounter it here.” All true.
The woman’s interest was markedly keen. “Truly? So you have smelled it in the wild?”
“I don’t remember where I first encountered it.” Which was also true. “I was simply wondering why you have concentrated the odor near the entry.”
“To repel the insects, of course.”
Riordan folded his hands: the prearranged sign that he considered it safe for the rest of the Crewe to join the conversation. “We have been fortunate not to encounter so many pests as must trouble you here.”
“Pests?” she repeated, unable to fully suppress her surprise and . . . incredulity?
“Is the use of cam—ursheve—common among the, uh, lords of Forkus?” Bannor asked.
She almost managed to keep a puzzled frown from bending her brow. “Almost none of the other lieges or their vassals make use of it.”
“Is it expensive?” Ayana wondered.
“It is. But it is worth every groat to us.”
“Groat”? Really, translator? “When you say ‘us,’ do you mean the Legate?”
Her brows no longer resisted the frown. “No, I mean any humans who can afford it. Without ursheve, the x’qao vassals would be able to wear down our guards with constant attacks.”
Duncan understood what she meant by “attacks” a moment before the rest of them. “You mean, they could send large insects?” He indicated their size with his hands.
“Yes,” she confirmed.
Yaargraukh’s neck circled slightly. “As we entered, I saw no apertures large enough for such creatures to exploit.”
She seemed more fixed upon his voice than his words. “Danger comes in all shapes and sizes.” Her smile returned. “Have you any other questions?”
“Yes,” Dora almost shouted. “Your guard said we were expected, but he didn’t tell us how. And neither have you!” When the woman did nothing but continue to smile and watch her, Dora slapped the side of her chair. “Coño! Your guard wouldn’t have said it unless you expected us to ask!”
The woman’s smile and gaze remained untroubled . . . which is how Caine realized what she was actually doing: assessing the group’s dynamics. In this case, identifying the individual with the lowest tolerance for delays, frustrations, or constraints. In this world where humans had little power and even fewer alternatives, such impatience could prove to be a lethal liability.
Riordan leaned forward, drawing the woman’s eyes off Dora. “I’m sure you will understand that although it is very gratifying that we were expected, it is also a somewhat unsettling mystery. We are, as you must also know, new to this city.” She nodded. “It would be easier to understand your knowledge of us if only we had any connections among the praakht.” He paused. “Or even the h’achgai.”
At the last word, her smile broadened slightly. “Yes. If only. Did you have any trouble on the way?” Her eyes flicked toward Yaargraukh for an instant.
“There was a welcoming committee,” drawled Duncan, glancing at Caine.
“Ah. Reapers.”
Riordan nodded. “There was also a herald of, er . . . ”
“Of Shvarkh’khag.” She nodded. “It is not typical to be confronted by a herald of the greatest liege, but nor is it particularly unusual.” She smiled openly at Yaargraukh. “It is probably because you were along.”
He glanced toward Caine; her question put them at a crossroads they had foreseen. The Hkh’Rkh’s answer was slow, allowing him to emphasize his flawless articulation of human phonemes. “I am not an x’qao.”
She simply nodded. “Nor are you a grat’r, clearly. Given your skill at speech and implements, the herald probably concluded that you are a unique arurkré. To my knowledge, no one has ever seen nor heard of an x’qagrat’r.” She smiled, nodding toward him. “And apparently, I still have not.” When he did not immediately reply, her smile became satisfied. And knowing.
He glanced at Riordan. Until now, they had managed to conceal their most dangerous vulnerability: their near-complete ignorance of the world. But now . . . Well, Caine thought, leaning back with a crooked smile, it was an accomplishment to get this far.
The woman was no longer merely smiling. She was openly amused, but not in a disparaging or superior fashion. “Shall I tell you what those words mean?”
Riordan nodded.
Yaargraukh’s rattling exhale was his species’ version of a defeated sigh. “Please.”
Abruptly, she was no longer watching and observing, but explaining with the animation of a born teacher. “You,” she said, gesturing toward the Hkh’Rkh, “resemble a slightly larger, and vastly more intelligent and composed, specimen of a species known as grat’r.”
“Is that what they call themselves in their own tongue?”
She blinked at the question. “I . . . I do not believe the grat’r have a language of their own.”
“Then what does that name mean?”
“It is from the Deviltongue words gra and tur. Colloquially: ‘does-not-die.’”
A new voice spoke from just beyond the entry. “However, in formal x’qajo, it is a phrase that signifies an unusual property that is innate to some creatures.” A man strolled through the doorway: he wore a loose robe draped over a combination of plastic and cured hide armor. “The closest meaning in Low Praakht would be ‘intrinsic rebirth.’”
Two guards appeared at the doorway as he sat; they turned and faced outward.
“I am Tasvar,” the man explained. “I speak for the Legate and will ask several questions on his behalf.”
Caine nodded. “I understand . . . but we may not be at liberty to answer all of them,”
Tasvar nodded. “In which case, you must leave. Immediately.”