by Martha Wells
“We’re here,” Merit called back. Bramble stepped to the side, angling to see. Delin stood at the edge of the opening. He was small and slim like all Golden Islanders, his gold skin weathered and worn like an old tree. All Islanders had straight white hair, but now Delin’s was ragged and unkempt, and his long beard was in disarray. It was hard to make out details in the bad light, but she thought his cheeks and the soft flesh under his eyes were sunken, a sign of illness. She wanted to growl aloud in disappointment. This wasn’t a rescue; he was a prisoner too.
“Speak Kedaic,” an unfamiliar voice ordered.
“They don’t understand it,” Delin protested, in Kedaic.
Merit squeezed Bramble’s wrist, and she bit back a quiet hiss of triumph. When Jade had told them at the beginning of the trip that they would pretend not to understand the western trade language of Kedaic, Bramble had thought it was a lot of trouble for not much return, especially once the expedition groundlings had seemed so trustworthy. Moon had thought it necessary, but then Moon was the most suspicious person Bramble had ever met.
Now it was proving more than handy. And it didn’t escape her that Delin had just reminded them of it. Whatever was happening, Delin was still on their side.
The unfamiliar voice said, “I don’t know that I believe you. Vendoin said not to trust you.”
Bramble looked at Merit to share the outrage, and Merit rolled his eyes.
Delin was clearly thinking along the same path. He said, dryly, “Since Vendoin betrayed and poisoned me and my friends, and stole myself and Callumkal away to hold us prisoner, you will understand why I am uninterested in her opinions.”
So just Callumkal and Delin, no one else, Bramble thought. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or newly terrified. If Jade and the others weren’t here, where were they? What had happened to the sunsailer and Rorra and the rest of the Kishan crew?
There was a slight hesitation, and the voice said, “Do they understand Altanic? Speak to them in that.”
Delin switched to that trade language to say, “Are you well?”
“We’re all right,” Merit said, in careful Altanic. “They gave us Fell poison and we still can’t shift. Are the others here?” Bramble nodded approval of the question, knowing it would add veracity to the Raksura-can’t-speak-Kedaic fiction.
Delin answered, “No. Vendoin says they were left on the sunsailer. Perhaps I believe her.”
Bramble almost bit through her lip in anxiety.
“Are you all right?” Merit asked. “You smell like you don’t feel well.”
Bramble heard the Hians react to the question, as if they found it unsettling. Delin said, “Vendoin added a mixture to the supplies sent down to the sunsailer, a combination of Fell poison and some other simple that made us all unconscious. It has made me quite ill, but I recover.”
Bramble drew breath to speak, but Delin added, “I know your sister Bramble is very afraid, but you must reassure her, so she does not panic and make herself ill too, you understand.”
Bramble let the breath out, startled. Ah, I think I see. She nudged a nonplussed Merit, who said doubtfully, “I’ll try.” She nudged him again and he added, “She’s very upset. What do they want with us?”
Speaking Kedaic, the other voice interrupted, “That’s enough.”
In the same language, rapidly, Delin said, “But surely I should be allowed to tell them that we go south to another place of the foundation builders, and I have no notion yet why Vendoin has betrayed us—”
“No, that’s enough.”
Bramble barely heard the rustling, the protests as Delin was pulled away. “Why?” Merit whispered. “Why is this happening? What do they want?”
Bramble swallowed down bile and tried to remember everything Vendoin and Callumkal and the others had said about the foundation builders. “The Hians knew things about the city the Kishan didn’t.” The Hians could see in colors that eluded both the Kish-Jandera and the Raksura. Vendoin had said she was translating all the writing on the walls, but they had only had her word for it, and now they knew her word was nothing. “Maybe there was a map to this other foundation builder place. Vendoin wanted it for the Hians, and not the Kish-Jandera, and she stole Callumkal and Delin, and us, to help her get inside it.” That presupposed a lot of things, the main one being that the new city would be sealed like the sea-mount city. It also presupposed that Vendoin valued Merit and Bramble’s contribution to opening that city, which was not an impression that Bramble had had before.
Merit said, “We don’t know that the others are all right. Delin didn’t see what happened either.”
Bramble turned away. Her mind was racing and she needed to settle herself and get down to some serious thinking. “We have to get away and find them.”
Merit hissed in frustration. “How? We can’t even shift! I can’t even make light!”
“I don’t know, not yet.” Except Bramble knew she wasn’t Merit’s sister, not the way the Altanic word meant, and that she wasn’t afraid, not the way the Hians would think, not the paralyzing fear of helpless prey. Delin knew that as well as she did; he was preparing the Hians for something, the way Arbora would prepare the ground of a garden for planting. “Delin is trying to give us an opportunity. We just have to wait to see what we can do with it.”
CHAPTER TWO
The Port of Gwalish Mar
Sleeping in swamps was always difficult. The brackish mud was too cool against Moon’s scales to be comfortable, and every time he managed to doze off, something crawled over him. The clouds of insects sheltering in the tall grass weren’t much interested in Raksura, but the ugly little things that looked like fish with legs had sharp teeth and were annoyingly persistent. Moon had always found sleeping in his scaled form awkward and not restful, but the distractions made it nearly impossible.
Fortunately for his temper, the sky was finally darkening toward evening. Moon shoved himself up out of the mud and slid through the sharp grass blades and over to a much larger puddle. He found a knot of driftwood near the edge and chunked it in. “Stone, wake up.”
Bubbles broke the muddy surface, then a big dark scaled tail whipped up and took a swing at Moon. He dodged and went to find a less muddy place to clean off in.
He waded through the waist-deep grass out to one of the pools where the sea entered the wetlands. Sitting on his heels in the cool salt-water, he scrubbed the sticky mud off his scales with handfuls of sand. The empty sea stretched out, the evening sky was indigo and purple, and the quarter moon gleamed on the water. The breeze held saltwater and the intense green scent of the wetland grasses, leavened with various flowers and laced with bird scat and dead fish. All the groundling shipping that he had spotted throughout the afternoon, both surface sailing ships and flying boats, had already made port.
Moon glanced around again out of habit, even though nothing could see him except for a few tall spindly shore birds striding away through the shallows. Then he shifted.
His wings, tail, spines, and black scales flowed away into his soft-skinned form. Anyone watching would now see a tall lean groundling, with dark bronze skin and dark hair. He was dressed in light pants cut off at the knee and a loose brown shirt, the kind of clothes some groundlings wore for sailing or other work. It wouldn’t draw attention in most of the groundling ports Moon had visited, but this wasn’t exactly a groundling port. He felt the wind lift his hair and scratched at the back of his neck where he hadn’t managed to get all the mud out of his spines.
With no warning, Stone stepped out of the grass. Moon twitched in spite of himself. Stone was in his groundling form now too, with gray skin and hair, in battered clothes much like Moon’s, and a pack slung across his shoulder. He was somehow already dry and mostly clean, despite having been buried in a mud wallow for most of the afternoon. Clearly not in any better a mood than Moon was, he said, “What’s taking you so long?”
“I’m waiting for you.” Moon hissed at him and followed him back through
the grass.
The port that lay just beyond the wetland was far enough from the protected Imperial Kish territories to be wary of Fell. Since Raksuran consorts were almost always mistaken for Fell by uninformed groundlings, approaching it by air in the late afternoon daylight had been impossible. Also, it had been several long days and nights of flight across the archipelago to the mainland coast, and they had needed a few hours rest. If their quarry had come here, they were already too late to catch them; the best they hoped for was some confirmation that they were on the right track.
They slogged through the weeds until they came to a seawall constructed of huge chunks of sandy-colored rock. It was nearly fifty paces tall, and reminded Moon of the ancient roadways in the east and down in the Abascene peninsula. Following Stone, Moon clambered up, the rough texture of the rock still holding the day’s heat and warm against the hard soles of his feet.
At the top Moon saw the lights of the port, though it was already dark enough not to be able to make out much detail. But Rorra had described it well enough for Moon to know what they were looking at.
A long curve of lights marked the dock area where the sea-going ships would tie up, though many lay at anchor in the protected harbor. Just past the docks were tall dome-shapes dotted with light that weren’t made of stone or metal or wood, but were a kind of resin excreted by tame creatures that sounded like a combination of herdbeast grasseaters and skylings. The domes were used as dwellings and warehouses for cargo. Past them were clusters of tall spindly metal structures that looked like giant flowers; those were docks for flying boats. Between them a mutli-storied web of bridges and walkways and suspended structures linked the stalks for the groundling crews and formed an upper city for the skylings.
They made their way along the seawall as it sloped down slightly until it was only twelve or so paces above the muddy ground. When it turned toward the harbor, Moon and Stone climbed down and headed in toward the domes.
Moon tasted the air and winced. Groundling cities held a myriad of different scents, but this place had a bitter undertone of predator musk that confirmed all of Rorra’s warnings. It also made the skin of Moon’s fingertips itch, an urge to flex the claws he didn’t have in this form.
The area around the nearest dome was lit by tall lamps hanging from metal poles. The dangling glass bubbles were filled with the darting, glowing flickers of trapped insects. More light spilled out of a large round door, and figures moved inside.
It was too far from the flying boat docks to be useful to them, so Moon meant to pass it by. But as they crossed the circle of light, a shape came rumbling out toward them.
It was large and thick, with heavy muscles in its arms and legs, and slick light green skin. Its head was a rounded lump set directly on its shoulders, and its nose and wide mouth were equally compressed, as if it was designed not to give an enemy anything to get a grip on. Its hands were big and clawed, and bone spikes stood out all over its body, along its arms, on its shoulders and the top of its head. Moon thought they were inserted, not natural, since there was bruising on the skin around them. It was wearing a harness of fishskin with various sharp metal implements attached to it and a bone armor plate over its genitals. From the webbing on its feet, Moon guessed it was a swampling.
It advanced on them, making a gargling noise Moon realized was a laugh. In gravelly Kedaic, it said, “Soft skins. You know what we do with soft skins here?”
Stone stopped and tilted his head to regard the swampling with his one good eye. The other eye was clouded, and had been from birth; Moon had never been sure how well Stone could see out of it. Stone said, easily, “No. What do you think I’ll do when I find out?”
Moon winced and rubbed his temple, and said in Raksuran, “Don’t.” They had been traveling hard, Stone doing the flying so they could move as fast as possible, feeding on nothing but the fish Moon could catch during the brief rests when they found an uninhabited island or a sandbar. If Stone’s temper snapped, it would just make this harder.
To the swampling, Stone said, “Wait.” He turned to Moon and said in Raksuran, “‘Don’t’ what? You’re the one with the temper.”
Moon folded his arms. “You’re senile and delusional.” Admittedly, Moon wasn’t exactly in a good mood either.
“After him, you’re next.” Stone turned back to the swampling. “Now what do you want?”
The swampling hesitated, rocking on its heels, the blades on its harness jingling. It had clearly expected them to be afraid. That they weren’t implied its estimation of their ability to defend themselves was incorrect, possibly fatally so. But it rallied and said, “There’s nothing but trouble for softskins here.”
Stone said, “Good, that’s exactly how we like it.”
Moon snarled in irritation and asked the swampling, “Is there a resting place for flying boat crews?”
The swampling looked from Moon to Stone. Stone seemed to be taking up far more room than could be accounted for by the size of his groundling body. The swampling stepped back and pointed. “They mostly stay on the hive masts, and the webs.”
That was no help. Moon suppressed a hiss of frustration. They didn’t have time to search the whole upper city.
Stone eyed the swampling a moment more, then stepped past it and walked on into the darkness. As Moon followed, the swampling made a last attempt to dominate the encounter and called after them, “Careful. Somebody might get eaten.”
“Not just now. Maybe later,” Stone called back.
Moon hissed. “That’s not funny.”
Stone glanced at him. Moon couldn’t read his expression in the dark, but he was fairly sure he was getting that annoyed look again.
There were broad pathways of hard-packed dirt between the domes, and no real attempt to light the way. The other structures seemed makeshift at best: shacks and lean-tos made of driftwood and fragments of large insect carapaces, probably from the same creatures who made the resin for the domes. Huddled figures sat outside, watching the foot traffic pass. The scents were intense, bitter and smoky and rotten and sweet, and Moon could identify few of them. Stone didn’t react, but then Stone didn’t react to a lot of things. Though his senses were far more acute than Moon’s, he was able to filter out scents and sounds much more effectively.
They found their way through a cluster of domes, most rowdy with small crowds of various species of swampling and other scaled groundlings. Like the first swampling had said, Moon didn’t see any groundlings with soft skin. No one approached them, and most ignored them, but Moon caught one or two watching them with a possessive intensity. It made his back teeth ache and his prey reflex twitch. He hoped he and Stone could do their business and get out of here without killing anybody. He said in Raksuran, “Maybe we should have done this in daylight.”
“No, it wasn’t worth the risk.” Stone sounded less irritable. “The last thing we need is for some ally of the Hians to figure out that we’re on the right trail.”
Moon hoped they were on the right trail. When they had left the others, Lithe’s visions had still been indicating movement.
They came to the area where the giant stalks of the flying boat docks towered up. Squinting, Moon saw several boats anchored on each of the nearest, tied off to the elaborate flower structures that extended out to partially enclose their hulls. The upper city stretched overhead, the complicated webs of cable and platforms dotted with light. Voices and the sounds of movement drifted down.
They could safely ignore the bladder boats, which were kept aloft by giant inflated air bladders and were much slower and more difficult to steer than the others. There were several kinds of craft Moon didn’t recognize, and some spiky shapes that might be made from the same material as the giant insect carapaces. But on the third flower stalk were three Kishan-made boats, grown from the moss that converted sunlight to the power that allowed them to fly. But none was the right shape and all were much smaller than their quarry.
An armor-plated form stagg
ered toward them in the dimness, then staggered rapidly away as Stone growled low enough to make Moon’s bones vibrate. Moon felt pretty certain that if the Hians had stopped here, they wouldn’t have left the upper city. Even with Kishan fire weapons, this place was too dangerous.
Below the nearest stalk lay one of the structures made from the nearly complete carapace of a giant beetle-like insect. The scents and the smoke drifting out was foul, and a few swamplings had collapsed outside. Some big scaled groundlings stood near the door, watching Stone and Moon.
The predator scent was getting stronger. “We need to move,” Moon said. It was getting harder to control his prey reflex. “Or we could shift and kill everybody in town.” The longer he was here the more attractive the second option became.
“We wouldn’t have to kill everybody.” Stone eyed the group near the carapace. It was hard to tell if he was joking. He turned back to the docking stalk. “Let’s see if there’s any rational people in the upper levels.”
A ramp curved up the first stalk. There were cage-like structures on the sides, which was disturbing, until Moon realized they were climbing bars, basically a staircase without steps, clearly meant for races other than the swamplings or scaled groundlings. More predators watched from below, though no one tried to follow them.
The ramp was gritty underfoot and they followed it up two turns to the first flower structure standing out from the main stalk. Small bulbs of light lit the interior, the glowing insects flickering inside. More climbing racks filled the space, leading up to smaller rooms tucked in among the curving petals. On the floor of the chamber lay bags for supplies and some baskets. As Moon and Stone climbed closer, the miasma of the town faded a little and was alleviated by a strong scent of clean fur and fruit.
The sources of the clean fur scent hung from the climbing bars. They were long limbed, long bodied, with narrow heads and large eyes in shades of yellow and green. Their hands had spidery, nimble fingers, and surprisingly, so did their feet. They must be a treeling race, not intended for the ground. Moon realized the small metal frames with the straps lying among the other supplies might be meant to help them walk on flat surfaces, like the way Rorra’s boots worked.