“I know just how they feel.” Evillia ran a hand through her thick dark hair. “You can stick eating tongs in me now, because I’m done all the way through.”
“It’s not so bad as that,” Radnal said. “I’m sure it’s under 50 hundredths, and it can get above 50 even here. And Trench Park doesn’t have any of the deepest parts of the Bottomlands. Down another couple of thousand cubits, the extreme temperatures go above 60.”
The non-Tarteshans groaned. So did Toglo zev Pamdal and Peggol vez Menk. Tarteshem had a relatively mild climate; temperatures there went past 40 hundredths only from late spring to early fall.
With morbid curiosity, Moblay Sopsirk’s son said, “What is the highest temperature ever recorded in the Bottomlands?”
“Just over 66,” Radnal said. The tourists groaned again, louder.
Radnal led the line of donkeys around the Bitter Lake. He was careful not to get too close to the little water actually in the lake at this time of year. Sometimes a salt crust formed over mud; a donkey’s hoof could poke right through, trapping the animal and slicing its leg against the hard, sharp edge of the crust.
After a while, the tour guide asked, “Do you have all the pictures you want?” When no one denied it, he said, “Then we’ll head back toward the lodge.”
“Hold on.” Eltsac vez Martois pointed across the Bitter Lake. “What are those things over there?”
“I don’t see anything, Eltsac,” his wife said. “You must be looking at a what-do-you-call it, a mirage.” Then, grudgingly, a heartbeat later: “Oh.”
“It’s a herd of humpless camels,” Radnal said quietly. “Try not to spook them.”
The herd was a little one, a couple of long-necked males with a double handful of smaller females and a few young ones that seemed all leg and awkwardness. Unlike the donkeys, they ambled over the crust around the Bitter Lake. Their hooves were wide and soft, spreading under their weight to keep them from falling through.
A male stood guard as the rest of the herd drank at a scummy pool of water. Golobol looked distressed. “That horrid liquid, surely it will poison them,” he said. “I would not drink it to save my life.” His round brown face screwed up in disgust.
“If you drank it, it would end your days all the sooner. But humpless camels have evolved along with the Bottomlands; their kidneys are wonderfully efficient at extracting large amounts of salt.”
“Why don’t they have humps?” Lofosa asked. “Krepalgan camels have humps.” By her tone, what she was used to was right.
“I know Krepalgan camels have humps,” Radnal said. “But the camels in the southern half of the Double Continent don’t, and neither do these. With the Bottomlands beasts, I think the answer is that any lump of fat—which is what a hump is—is a liability in getting rid of heat.”
“In the days before motors, we used to ride our Krepalgan camels,” Evillia said. “Has anyone ever tamed your humpless ones?”
“That’s a good question,” Radnal said, beaming to hide his surprise at her coming up with a good question. He went on, “It has been tried many times, in fact. So far, it’s never worked. They’re too stubborn to do what a human being wants. If we had domesticated them, you’d be riding them now instead of these donkeys; they’re better suited to the terrain here.”
Toglo zev Pamdal scratched her mount’s ears. “They’re also uglier than donkeys.”
“Freelady—uh, Toglo zev—I can’t argue with you,” Radnal said. “They’re uglier than anything I can think of, with dispositions to match.”
As if insulted by words they couldn’t have heard, the humpless camels raised their heads and trotted away from the Bitter Lake. Their backs went up and down, up and down, in time to their rocking gait. Evillia said, “In Krepalga, we sometimes call camels desert barques. Now I see why: riding on one looks like it would make me seasick.”
The tourists laughed. So did Radnal. Making a joke in a language that wasn’t Evillia’s took some brains. Then why, Radnal wondered, did she act so empty-headed? But he shrugged; he’d seen a lot of people with brains do impressively stupid things.
“Why don’t the camels eat all the forage in Trench Park?” Benter vez Maprab asked. He sounded as if his concern was for the plants, not the humpless camels.
“When the herds get too large for the park’s resource, we cull them,” Radnal answered. “This ecosystem is fragile. If we let it get out of balance, it would be a long time repairing itself.”
“Are any herds of wild humpless camels left outside Trench Park, Radnal vez?” Toglo asked.
“A few small ones, in areas of the Bottomlands too barren for people,” the tour guide said. “Not many, though. We occasionally introduce new males into this herd to increase genetic diversity, but they come from zoological parks, not the wild.” The herd receded rapidly, shielded from clear view by the dust it kicked up. “I’m glad we had a chance to see them, if at a distance. That’s why the gods made long lenses for cameras. But now we should head back to the lodge.”
The return journey north struck Radnal as curiously unreal. Though Peggol vez Menk rode among the tourists, they seemed to be pretending as hard as they could that Dokhnor of Kellef had not died, that this was just an ordinary holiday. The alternative was always looking over a shoulder, remembering the person next to you might be a murderer.
The person next to someone was a murderer. Whoever it was, he seemed no different from anyone else. That worried Radnal more than anything.
It even tainted his pleasure from talking with Toglo zev Pamdal. He had trouble imagining her as a killer, but he had trouble imagining anyone in the tour group a killer—save Dokhnor of Kellef, who was dead, and the Martoisi, who might want to kill each other.
He got to the point where he could say “Toglo zev” without prefacing it with “uh.” He really wanted to ask her (but lacked the nerve) how she put up with him after watching him at play with the two Highhead girls. Tarteshans seldom thought well of those who made free with their bodies.
He also wondered what he’d do if Evillia and Lofosa came into his cubicle tonight. He’d throw them out, he decided. Edifying a tour group was one thing, edifying the Park Militia and the Eyes and Ears another. But what they did was so edifying … Maybe he wouldn’t throw them out. He banged a fist onto his knee, irritated at his own fleshly weakness.
The lodge was only a couple of thousand cubits away when his donkey snorted and stiffened its legs against the ground. “Earthquake!” The word went up in Tarteshan and other languages. Radnal felt the ground jerk beneath him. He watched, and marveled at, the Martoisi clinging to each other atop their mounts.
After what seemed a daytenth but had to be an interval measured in heartbeats, the shaking ceased. Just in time, too; Peggol vez Menk’s donkey, panicked by the tremor, was about to buck the Eye and Ear into a thornbush. Radnal caught the beast’s reins, calmed it.
“Thank you, freeman vez Krobir,” Peggol said. “That was bad.”
“You didn’t make it any better by letting go of the reins,” Radnal told him. “If you were in a motor, wouldn’t you hang on to the tiller?”
“I hope so,” Peggol said. “But if I were in a motor, it wouldn’t try to run away by itself.”
Moblay Sopsirk’s son looked west, toward the Barrier Mountains. “That was worse than the one yesterday. I feared I’d see the Western Ocean pouring in with a wave as high as the Lion God’s mane.”
“As I’ve said before, that’s not something you’re likely to have to worry about,” Radnal said. “A quake would have to be very strong and at exactly the wrong place to disturb the mountains.”
“So it would.” Moblay did not sound comforted.
Radnal dismissed his concern with the mild scorn you feel for someone who overreacts to a danger you’re used to. Over in the Double Continent, they had vast and deadly windstorms. Radnal was sure one of
those would frighten him out of his wits. But the Stekians probably took them in stride, as he lost no sleep over earthquakes.
The sun sank toward the spikes of the Barrier Mountains. As if bloodied by their pricking, its rays grew redder as Bottomlands shadows lengthened. More red sparkled from the glass and metal and plastic of the helos between the lodge and the stables. Noticing them made Radnal return to the here-and-now. He wondered how the militiamen and Eyes and Ears had done in their search for clues.
They came out as the tour group approached. In their tan, speckled robes, the militiamen were almost invisible against the desert. The Eyes and Ears, with their white and gold and patent leather, might have been spotted from ten thousand cubits away, or from the mountains of the moon.
Liem vez Steries waved to Radnal. “Any luck? Do you have the killer tied up in pink string?”
“Do you see any pink string?” Radnal turned back to face the group, raised his voice: “Let’s get the donkeys settled. They can’t do it for themselves. When they’re fed and watered, we can worry about ourselves.” And about everything that’s been going on, he added to himself.
The tourists’ dismounting groans were quieter than they’d been the day before; they were growing hardened to riding. Poor Peggol vez Menk assumed a bowlegged gait most often seen in rickets victims. “I was thinking of taking yesterday off,” he said lugubriously. “I wish I had—someone else would have taken your call.”
“You might have drawn a worse assignment,” Radnal said, helping him unsaddle the donkey. The way Peggol rolled his eyes denied that was possible.
Fer vez Canthal and Zosel vez Glesir came over to help see to the tour group’s donkeys. Under the brims of their caps, their eyes sparked with excitement. “Well, Radnal vez, we have a good deal to tell you,” Fer began.
Peggol had a sore fundament, but his wits still worked. He made a sharp chopping gesture. “Freeman, save your news for a more private time.” A smoother motion, this time with upturned palm, pointed out the chattering crowd still inside the stables. “Someone may hear something he should not.”
Fer looked abashed. “Your pardon, freeman; no doubt you are right.”
“No doubt,” Peggol’s tone argued that he couldn’t be anything but. From under the shiny brim of his cap, his gaze flicked here and there, measuring everyone in turn with the calipers of his suspicion. It came to Radnal, and showed no softening. Resentment flared in the tour guide, then dimmed. He knew he hadn’t killed anyone, but the Eye and Ear didn’t.
“I’ll get the firepit started,” Fer said.
“Good idea,” Eltsac vez Martois said as he walked by. “I’m hungry enough to eat one of those humpless camels, raw and without salt.”
“We can do better than that,” Radnal said. He noted the I-told-you-so look Peggol sent Fer vez Canthal: if a tourist could overhear one bit of casual conversation, why not another?
Liem vez Steries greeted Peggol with a formal military salute he didn’t use five times a year—his body went tetanus-rigid, while he brought his right hand up so the tip of his middle finger brushed the brim of his cap. “Freeman, my compliments. We’ve all heard of the abilities of the Hereditary Tyrant’s Eyes and Ears, but until now I’ve never seen them in action. Your team is superb, and what they found—” Unlike Fer vez Canthal, Liem had enough sense to close his mouth right there.
Radnal felt like dragging him into the desert to pry loose what he knew. But years of slow research had left him a patient man. He ate supper, sang songs, chatted about the earthquake and what he’d seen on the journey to and from the Bitter Lake. One by one, the tourists sought their sleepsacks.
Moblay Sopsirk’s son, however, sought him out for a game of war. For politeness’ sake, Radnal agreed to play, though he had so much on his mind that he was sure the brown man from Lissonland would trounce him. Either Moblay had things on his mind, too, or he wasn’t the player he thought he was. The game was a comedy of errors which had the spectators biting their lips to keep from blurting out better moves. Radnal eventually won, in inartistic style.
Benter vez Maprab had been an onlooker. When the game ended, he delivered a two-sentence verdict which was also obituary: “A wasted murder. Had the Morgaffo seen that, he’d’ve died of embarrassment.” He stuck his nose in the air and stalked off to his sleeping cubicle.
“We’ll have to try again another time, when we’re thinking straighter,” Radnal told Moblay who nodded ruefully.
Radnal put away the war board and pieces. By then, Moblay was the only tourist left in the common room. Radnal sat down next to Liem vez Steries, not across the gaming table from the Lissonese. Moblay refused to take the hint.
Finally Radnal grabbed the rhinoceros by the horn: “Forgive me, freeman, but we have a lot to discuss among ourselves.”
“Don’t mind me,” Moblay said cheerfully. “I’m not in your way, I hope. And I’d be interested to hear how you Tarteshans investigate. Maybe I can bring something useful back to my prince.”
Radnal exhaled through his nose. Biting off words one by one, he said, “Freeman vez Sopsirk, you are a subject of this investigation. To be blunt, we have matters to discuss which you shouldn’t hear.”
“We also have other, weightier, things to discuss,” Peggol vez Menk put in. “Remember, freeman, this is not your principality.”
“It never occurred to me that you might fear I was guilty,” Moblay said. “I know I’m not, so I assumed you did, too. Maybe I’ll try and screw the Krepalgan girls, since it doesn’t sound like Radnal will be using them tonight.”
Peggol raised an eyebrow. “Them?” He packed a world of question into one word.
Under their coat of down, Radnal’s ears went hot. Fortunately, he managed to answer a question with a question: “What could be weightier than learning who killed Dokhnor of Kellef?”
Peggol glanced from one sleeping cubicle to the next, as if wondering who was feigning slumber. “Why don’t you walk with me in the cool night air? Subleader vez Steries can come with us; he was here all day, and can tell you what he saw himself—things I heard when I took my own evening walk, and which I might garble in reporting them to you.”
“Let’s walk, then,” Radnal said, though he wondered where Peggol vez Menk would find cool night air in Trench Park. Deserts above sea level cooled rapidly when the sun set, but that wasn’t true in the Bottomlands.
Getting out in the quiet dark made it seem cooler. Radnal, Peggol, and Liem walked without saying much for a couple of hundred cubits. Only when they were out of earshot of the lodge did the park militiaman announce, “Freeman vez Menk’s colleagues discovered a microprint reader among the Morgaffo’s effects.”
“Did they, by the gods?” Radnal said. “Where, Liem vez? What was it disguised as?”
“A stick of artist’s charcoal.” The militiaman shook his head. “I thought I knew every trick in the codex, but that’s a new one. Now we can rub the plenipo’s nose in it if he fusses about losing a Morgaffo citizen in Tartesh. But even that’s a small thing, next to what the reader held.”
Radnal stared. “Heading off a war with Morgaf is small?”
“It is, freeman vez Krobir,” Peggol vez Menk said. “You remember today’s earthquake—”
“Yes, and there was another one yesterday, a smaller one,” Radnal interrupted. “They happen all the time down here. No one except a tourist like Moblay Sopsirk’s son worries about them. You reinforce your buildings so they won’t fall down except in the worst shocks, then go on about your business.”
“Sensible,” Peggol said. “Sensible under most circumstances, anyway. Not here, not now.”
“Why not?” Radnal demanded.
“Because, if what was on Dokhnor of Kellef’s microprint reader is true—always a question when we’re dealing with Morgaffos—someone is trying to engineer a special earthquake.”
Ra
dnal’s frown drew his heavy eyebrows together above his nose. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Liem vez Steries inclined his head to Peggol vez Menk. “By your leave, freeman—?” When Peggol nodded, Liem went on, “Radnal vez, over the years somebody—has smuggled the parts for a starbomb into Trench Park.”
The tour guide gaped at his friend. “That’s insane. If somebody smuggled a starbomb into Tartesh, he’d put it by the Hereditary Tyrant’s palace, not here. What does he want, blow up the last big herd of humpless camels in the world?”
“He has more in mind than that,” Liem answered. “You see, the bomb is underground, on one of the fault lines nearest the Barrier Mountains.” The militiaman’s head swiveled to look west toward the sawbacked young mountain range …
… the mountain range that held back the Western Ocean. The night was warm and dry, but cold sweat prickled on Radnal’s back and under his arms. “They want to try to knock the mountains down. I’m no geologist—can they?”
“The gods may know,” Liem answered. “I’m no geologist either, so I don’t. This I’ll tell you: the Morgaffos seem to think it would work.”
Peggol vez Menk cleared his throat. “The Hereditary Tyrant discourages research in this area, lest any positive answers fall into the wrong hands. Thus our studies have been limited. I gather, however, that such a result might be obtained.”
“The freeman’s colleagues radiophoned a geologist known to be reliable,” Liem amplified. “They put to him some of what was on the microprint reader, as a theoretical exercise. When they were through, he sounded ready to wet his robes.”
“I don’t blame him.” Radnal looked toward the Barrier Mountains, too. What had Moblay said?—a wave as high as the Lion God’s mane. If the mountains fell at once, the wave might reach Krepalga before it halted. The deaths, the devastation, would be incalculable. His voice shook as he asked, “What do we do about it?”
“Good question,” Peggol said, astringent as usual. “We don’t know whether it’s really there, who planted it if it is, where it is, or if it’s ready. Other than that, we’re fine.”
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