by J Jordan
“We wait for her,” he growled.
They didn’t wait long, although the few minutes they spent in the hangar had been stretched into an hour of nodding at frowns and trying to converse with shadows.
“Hello.”
Blank stare.
“Hi. How are you?”
Piercing stare, hand on knife hilt, raised brow.
“Romney Balvance. And these two are with me.”
Menacing smile.
She had actually sharpened her fangs into knife points, thought Romney. That must have cost a fortune, just bribing a dentist to go through with it. Then again, the automatic rifle slung over her shoulder was probably worth a few thousand notes too. She must be doing well for herself, he decided. Bravo, fang lady.
Romney sensed her approach. The newcomer had crossed the threshold of the hangar while he was admiring the specialized dentistry. He turned casually and came face-to-face with the young woman.
Romney’s initial description of the woman was pixie, though there were many places where the word failed. In fact, her large green eyes and her upturned nose were the only traits captured by the term “pixie.” Her hair was probably in a “pixie cut” at one point, but months of disrepair had made it shaggy. Pixies were never known to wear biker jackets with the sleeves cut off, nor did they wear BDU bottoms in desert camo. And they certainly didn’t keep knives in their combat boots, or holstered on each hip, or holstered around a thigh. Romney needed to add a word to his descriptor: “combat pixie.”
This new phrase better captured the jacket, the camouflaged pants, the black combat boots, the fingerless gloves with the studded knuckles, and the network of tattoos running down each arm. When stretched, it could even encompass the contents of the sleek, black case she held in her left hand, whatever they might be.
In the darker corners of modern society, she could be described as adorable. This thought crossed Romney’s mind and settled there for a time, until he noticed her eyes. She had been staring a little too long. Romney had the strange feeling that he was now a fuzzy creature on the lowest end of the food chain. He was ready to put this feeling aside, until she grinned.
She didn’t need sharpened fangs.
The combat pixie extended her free hand and exposed another network of tattoos running along her forearms. Romney made out the elaborate detail in each pattern, not quite understanding the significance of the Camerran tribal brand of the northern shores. He was prepared to comment on their detail, when his hand was nearly broken in her grip. He squeezed back the way a terrier might tighten its grip around a bear. Her grin deepened.
“Lorna Reymus.”
“Romney Balvance. A pleasure.”
“Mila told me all about you.”
“Yes,” said Romney, his bravado still intact, “we are headed to Andarametra.”
“Cool. I got a gig there too. You can ride with me.”
“For more crowns,” said Lucco.
Lorna’s grin faded. She turned to the elf and regarded him carefully. A hush fell over the room.
“But they’re with me.”
“Extra passengers equals more weight,” explained Lucco. “More weight, more fuel, more money.”
The elf stopped explaining the economics of the matter, because he had noticed the sudden vacancy of space around him. Lorna Reymus stood before him, while everyone else in the hangar stood as far away as possible. Romney was now a part of the latter.
A knife had somehow found its way into Lorna’s hand. The tip was pressed into his neck. The room, as one person, took a deep breath. Lucco gulped.
“No,” said Lucco, “I will take them too. I will overlook the expenses this time. And any time. For you, Ms. Reymus, I will waive all fees.”
“The name is Lorna.”
“Yes, right. Of course, Lorna. All fees waived, plus a discount to my usual asking rate.”
“How thoughtful,” said Lorna. Her stare remained cold, and her knife stayed at his throat.
“And I will cover the export fee when we land,” he said, his gruff voice cracking. “For friends.”
“Too kind,” said Lorna. “Really.”
She turned away and the entire room sagged, the collective sigh of relief muffled by the rumble of the air conditioner. They wouldn’t have to clean a good pilot off the floor today.
“We are ready in five. Takeoff in ten.”
“And could we get someone to take our bags?”
The looks Romney received said he shouldn’t press his luck, but then a look from Lorna Reymus said that they had pressed theirs.
Vera Serana, known to Romney as Fang Lady, was the first to chip in. She took the heavy duffel bag from Romney and escorted him to the plane outside. Another attendant, with a terrible scar on his left cheek, was wheeling Romney’s suitcase ahead and whistling a tune, all while shooting worried glances at Lorna. The rest of the impromptu flight crew looked equally nervous. Lucco was a silent and bloodless wreck as he climbed into the cockpit.
Little did they know, Romney and his associates had just received concierge from three of the top five most wanted criminals in Andar, two of them ranking in the top ten of the OIB’s most wanted. Vera, the Viper of Lamoro, was public enemy number three. And she was courteous as she stowed the last of their belongings into the cargo hold. The Viper of Lamoro asked if anyone wanted something to drink, as Lucco began his flight checks in the cockpit. They declined respectfully.
Romney made a note to look up Lorna Reymus once they landed in Andarametra. Of course, if he did, he would find nothing official. But if Cora did the research, she might just find a few archived entries in a long-dead forum. They would contain spelling errors, exclamation marks, expletives, and graphic details.
Their plan was to arrive in Andarametra by six in the evening, which would give them just enough time to check into their hotel and catch dinner with Cora’s former colleague at Lanvale Prime, a doctor of Andaran mythology and an accomplished archeologist. Cora wanted to conduct the interview by email, but Dr. Victoria Costa had insisted on holding it in person. Romney looked down at his watch. Then he looked down at the terrain below. The earthen reds and browns of the Andrean desert had melded, then given way to the stony gray and verdant greens of the Andrean valley. He tried to predict the arrival time in his head, then turned to Cora for help.
“We’re late,” she said, looking up from her laptop. “We should have crossed over Las Montañas de la Profeta by now.”
“Come again?”
Cora scooted over to Romney’s seat and pressed her face against the window.
“You see those mountains in the distance over there? The ones way out in front of us?”
Romney pressed his face against the glass. He made out a cloudy line of mountains in the distance.
“Those are the Prophet’s Mountains. They are the dividing line between Andrea’s Course and the continent of Andar.”
“And we should have passed over them by now,” said Romney, looking at his watch. “How fast do you think we’re going?”
Lorna peeked over her chair.
“Low and slow. We’ll look like a sightseer flight to the patrols. They’ll ignore us that way. But when we get over the mountains, we gun it straight for Andarametra. We’ll make up some time then.”
“How much time? When do you think we’ll land?”
Lorna did some mental math in her head, made evident by her scrunched lips and her furrowed brow. Her face returned to its normal serenity when the calculation was completed.
“Eighteen thirty, local time.”
Romney did some mental math of his own, but Tykeso jumped in before he could give the answer.
“Six thirty.”
“So it’s twenty minutes to the hotel,” Romney said. “Call that seven, to get checked in and situated. Let’s just invite her to dinner.”
“There is one problem with that,” said Cora. “She goes ‘off the grid’ at seven o’clock.”
“Nineteen hundre
d,” said Tykeso, ignoring Cora’s glare.
“What do you mean? Doesn’t she have a cell phone?”
“I didn’t ask for details. She said she loses phone and internet after seven. I assume it’s some kind of curfew at the university or a bad data plan.”
“Well then, I guess we talk to her tomorrow morning. That gives us time to get situated.”
Romney leaned back in his seat and watched the world below. The land looked nice from his chair. Wild and free, untouched by man’s relentless drive for progress. Not a shopping mall or a skyscraper in sight. His mind wandered to the people below, if there were any people there. What would they do? What would be a day in the life of Joe Smithson, native of the Andrean valley? Romney closed his eyes for a moment, just to blink.
And in that blink, he saw the young woman in her frayed robes, moving through the valley. She walked slowly, relying heavily on her oaken staff. Occasionally, she stumbled. But each time, she would right herself and continue moving ever forward. Her people were counting on her. Andrea would not fail them. She had no choice.
Romney's eyes found the terrain below. It was rockier now. And the cabin had dropped several degrees. When he looked away from the window, he found Lorna sitting in the seat beside him. She was watching him. Romney felt queasy.
“Hey,” he managed.
“Do you have any relatives in Camerra?”
Romney thought about it. He didn’t want to answer.
“Why do you ask?”
“You look familiar,” said Lorna, “and all you have is that dress coat on. You know it gets cold in the desert, right? I thought maybe you had some Northshoreman in your ancestry. The cold doesn’t bother them at all. Nor the Azerrans, north or south, but you strike me as a Camerran. And I just feel like I’ve seen you somewhere in Camerra before.”
Lorna smiled at him. Romney tried his best to share the sentiment but found it difficult. He was getting mixed signals. Lorna’s smile was pleasant. It said, “You’re all right, and I want to know more about you.” But her eyes. Goddess, her wide, cold eyes. They said, “I am the cold wind of Ruin, the fires of Carnage, the edge of the blade of Death.” She nudged him playfully.
“Strong and silent. Maybe you are Azerran after all. Mila says I shouldn’t generalize like that, since not every Azerran is strong and silent, and many of them do shiver in the winter. But I’ve known several Azerrans and they were ripped. They didn’t talk much either.”
Romney found nothing to answer, nor did he see a way to further the conversation. He ventured his own question.
“Oh, yeah?”
This pleased Lorna, so Romney tried another.
“You travel a lot?”
“For my job,” she said. “I go to Andar a lot, but I’ve also been to Desridan and Azerra. I don’t go to central Camerra very often. I usually just work on the coast. And Tambridan too. But it’s boring there.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Lorna nodded. Her smile brightened.
“What do you do?”
“I solve problems,” said Lorna.
“Really?”
She nodded.
Romney cut his next question off at the pass. He didn’t want to ask Lorna what problems she solved, because he decided the answer would frighten him. Or worse, it would leave something to his imagination. So he smiled and nodded back, then looked over to Cora for help. Cora was busy sifting through research on her laptop, and was probably enjoying Romney’s immense discomfort anyway. Lorna was still watching him from her seat. Smiling and watching. Tykeso’s snore did nothing to the silence.
“How do you know Devon? My little brother isn’t much for meeting anyone outside of work.”
“We work for him” said Romney. “We’re consultants.”
Lorna’s brow raised. Romney kicked himself in the privacy of his mind. Her next question was already locked in place.
“What do you do?”
“Consulting. Top-level stuff. Really secret. I don’t think he’d want me sharing anything.”
“Oh no, that’s okay,” said Lorna. “I’ve done top-level work for him too.”
The next question jumped from Romney’s mouth, like a cat to a laser dot.
“What kind of stuff?”
Lorna grinned. It was the kind of grin that could refrigerate blood.
“Are you sure you want to know?”
Romney gave himself another mental kick. No, he didn’t want to know. Her eyes said everything: “I have seen the horrors of the world and I have laughed at them.” But then his curiosity flared. He nodded.
“I handled most of the groundwork for Devon. It was mostly making sure all parties involved were properly synergized, and providing solutions to any issues that came up. It was interesting work, but I just freelance now. It’s better if I do my own thing.”
Romney nodded again. It was a good enough answer for him. It touched on all the key points without leaving any concrete details. But the furnace of his curiosity was ablaze with more questions. What kind of issues? What kind of solutions? Which parties needed to synergize? What did Lorna Reymus do, really?
His logic centers presented a simple answer. Lorna was a new age manager, probably something to do with logistics and strategic alignments, or something like that. It explained the tattoos, anyway.
“What do you do for Devon?”
Romney’s answer came fast and free, like a train off its rails.
“Acquisitions. Asset appropriation. Antiquities. Analysis and procurement.”
Lorna nudged him in the ribs. Her grin sharpened.
“Procurement. Gotcha. I’m glad he found someone for that. He’s been looking for a long time.”
Romney tried correcting his mistake, but found Lorna’s finger on his lips. He tasted something metallic.
“Top-level stuff. Hush-hush.”
She leaned back in her seat, folded her hands behind her head, and closed her eyes.
“I don’t care what they say. I like you.”
Romney watched her to ensure she was actually asleep. Then he scooted to the far side of his chair and pressed against the window. The glass was cool on his forehead. The scenery was losing its green to powder white. He blinked.
She crouched against the rocky surface, her makeshift boots regaining purchase on their footholds. Each ragged breath plumed from her hood, chopped by her chattering teeth. With a sudden burst, she leapt to the next flat spot, then volleyed onto the ledge above in one smooth motion. She pulled herself up, then collapsed on the cold stone, sucking in the frigid air. Her arms and legs were burning under her skin. Even the sweat burned cold on her forehead. She could only pause before the biting chill returned. There was more to climb.
Andrea pushed herself up and looked to the precipice looming above. She had abandoned her staff at the halfway mark, which seemed eons ago. But she knew that if she peeked over the ledge, she could see its dark shape sticking out where she had planted it. She found the next handhold in the rock above and gripped it. Then she lifted herself to the next.
There was drinking water here, somewhere in these mountains. Andrea had seen it in her dreams: a long and beautiful mirror of still water, crystal-blue, crisp and fresh. The lake was here in the mountains. She knew when she reached the peak she would see it. Andrea’s hands ached with cold and fatigue and even now the peak seemed so far away. But she couldn’t quit. She wouldn’t. Her people depended on her.
When Romney opened his eyes again, he saw a snowy peak wander past his window. The cabin was colder than he remembered. The gaining hum of the engines said they were prepared for their rush to Andarametra.
He rifled through his carry-on and found a wool turtleneck, which he slipped on over his dress shirt, then he smoothed it down until it was neat. Cora was bundled in her coat, still typing away at her laptop. Tykeso was fast asleep once again, the hood of his jacket covering his face. Lorna had sprawled out on her chair, her face motionless and calm. The subtle rise and fall of her leath
er jacket was the only sign of life. Romney turned his attention back to the peaks. They were grand and majestic, all that snowy peaks should be. He blinked.
Andrea was lying in the snow, her body full of pain and cold and frustration. Her arms and legs ached and yowled, and ended in the nebulous prickling of hands and feet. She had tried to plant her hands into the cold snow and push herself up, but her arms had nothing left. She had nothing left but the snow and the pain. And the sorrow of failure.
This was an outcrop of snowy rock on the way to the third peak, and she knew there would be no water at the end, because each summit had only presented the looming giant of another. There was no great mirror, no water, no hope. Andrea’s people stared from the great distance to the north, their faces gaunt and eyes full of thirst and hunger. She was too far away now. She could not save them.
Andrea cried out at the wind. It was a murmur lost in the icy gale.
But the goddess heard her.
Romney awoke from his daydream to a warmer cabin. He looked out his window to see the last of the gray and white mountains fade into the golden luster of the Andaran desert. The high whine of the engines meant they were now in full throttle, ready for the approach to Andarametra. Romney didn’t know that the grand city in the desert, the capital of Andar, was still an hour away. Cora had to explain this from the seat in front of him.
“Okay, this is Terra Antigua below us,” she said, pointing out her window, “and that highway coming out there is Highway 2. The Two heads due south, cuts west a bit, then splits into the Nine and Ten way off over there. The Ten continues south all the way to Andarametra. And if you follow the Ten to those tiny buildings out there in the far distance, you reach Llamarada.”
Romney scanned the distance and saw the tiny shapes of Llamarada. He did not see what he had been expecting to see when they first talked about traveling to Andar.
“Where are the pyramids?”
“Those are south of Andarametra. And there are some along the west coast near Marina. You will get to see them when we look for the crown. Specifically, to the Pirámide Lucana.”