by Martha Wells
Watching the others fail had made Moon more confident. “I can tell the Magister where he can find more Raksuran treasure.”
“Raksuran? What is—” Bialin’s gaze sharpened and suddenly Moon had all his attention. He leaned back in his chair, trying to look uninterested. “What is that?”
Bialin had already lost the chance to play coy. His first reaction had been telling. Moon said, “They live in the forest Reaches on the eastern coast. He already has that wooden pot with the onyx lid. It’s a Raksuran queen’s funerary urn.”
Bialin leaned forward, giving up his skeptical pose. “How do you know this?”
“I’ve been to the forest.”
“Can you prove it?”
Moon unbuckled his belt, and laid it and the sheathed knife on the table.
Bialin leaned over it, frowning. Then he snapped his fingers at his subordinate. The man handed him a heavy glass lens, and Bialin held it to his eye to study the leather more closely. He traced the pattern of lines, then drew the knife partway and fingered the carving on the hilt. Moon pulled his sleeve up and held his arm out, holding the red-gold consort’s wristband almost under Bialin’s nose. Bialin just blinked and switched his scrutiny to it.
Finally he sat up, lowering the lens. “Yes.” He nodded to himself and smiled faintly. “I think the Magister will be very interested.”
Moon followed Bialin and his attendants and guards up the short flight of stairs and through the double doors, into the private recesses of the tower. When the heavy doors closed behind him and the guards turned the lock, Moon took a deep breath. He was committed now.
They didn’t go far, down a high-ceilinged corridor and then into a large room. The decoration was all heavy, the alabaster carving full of staring faces, reflecting cold light from the vapor-lamps. The ceiling was just as heavily carved as the walls, with inset squares and circles, the edges made to look like bunched fabric. Moon scanned just enough to note there was nothing lurking in the corners, and focused on the man seated at the table in the center.
Like Bialin, Ardan was one of the blue-skinned groundlings, but he was younger than Moon had expected. His features were even and handsome, and there were faint lines of concentration at the corners of his eyes. He wore a silky gray robe shot with silver, simple compared to how some of the other wealthy locals dressed. He was reading a roll of white paper spread out on the ivory-inset surface of the table, and didn’t glance up at them.
Bialin stepped around the table, leaned over and whispered to him. Finally Ardan looked up. His gaze was sharp but faintly skeptical, as if Bialin had erred in the past and his expectations were not high. In a voice so dry it was dusty, he said, “Let me see these objects.”
Bialin gestured impatiently. He looked nervous, and it was probably his head on the block if Ardan wasn’t pleased. Moon could sympathize; his nerves were jumping, but Ardan didn’t seem to know he was in the room with a shifter. He put the knife and belt down on the table, hesitated for a moment, then slipped off the wristband and set it next to them.
Ardan leaned forward, took the glass lens Bialin held ready for him, and began to examine the objects. The rough skin just below the edge of his pearly skull started to furrow with interest.
The vapor-lights hanging overhead misted in the cool damp air, and Moon waited, tracking the bead of sweat working its way down his back. With the sea kingdom woman lying stuffed in his grand hall like an animal, Moon had half-expected Ardan to look like a monster. He didn’t. He just looked like a clever man.
He’s not a monster because he doesn’t see that woman as a person, Moon thought. If he had known Moon was a Raksura, he wouldn’t see him as a person, either, just another potential collector’s item. Moon was suddenly glad he had bothered with the boots.
Ardan examined the knife, belt, and wristband for a long silent moment. Then he looked up and studied Moon, his hooded eyes thoughtful. “What are you called?”
“Niran.” Giving a fake name might be overcautious. In both Kedaic and Altanic, Moon’s name was just a random sound, meaningless. But Moon looked into Ardan’s eyes again and decided he couldn’t be too careful.
He gestured to the collection on the table. “You’re selling these things?” “No, I’m selling the information.” He would hand over the knife and the wristband if he had to, but he didn’t think a real trader would be eager to part with them either. “You’re not interested in trinkets.”
Ardan conceded that with a faint smile. “No, I’m not.” He was now clearly intrigued. “How did you know that container was a… queen’s funerary urn?”
Moon had absolutely no idea how Stone had identified it as a queen’s urn, but then it didn’t matter if Ardan thought he was lying for effect. “It was like the others we found. The scholar I was with said that’s what they were. His name was Delin-Evran-lindel, from the Golden Isles in the Yellow Sea.”
“You found other urns?”
“In an abandoned Raksuran—” Moon reminded himself not to be too exact with the terminology. “Hive.”
Ardan nodded. “And where was this abandoned hive?”
“Near the edge of the Reaches.” And Moon began to describe a journey on a flying boat to the old Indigo Cloud colony, the one that had been built into the groundling ruin straddling the river valley, but with the location transposed to the lakes they had passed before entering the forest.
As Ardan’s expression grew even more intent, Moon populated this version of the colony with scattered bones and other grisly remains, to explain why these Raksura had left all their belongings behind. Finally Ardan lifted a hand. “Stop. I wish someone else to hear this.” He called one of the guards over and spoke to him briefly. Moon caught the words, “Bring Negal.”
Bringing someone else in to listen was possibly a trick to catch Moon in a lie, to see if he changed his story with repetition, or if the details sounded memorized. He wasn’t worried; the details were all true, just arranged in different ways from how they had actually happened.
As they waited, Ardan set the knife aside, saying, “You’ll get this back when you leave here.” He handed the belt and wristband to Bialin, who handed them to his subordinate, who handed them back to Moon. Moon buckled on the belt, then slipped the band back onto his wrist, pulling his sleeve down over it. He hoped this was a good sign.
After a short time, another groundling was led into the room. He was from a different race than those common to the leviathan, with light brown skin, curly gray hair, and a trim gray beard. He wore dark pants and a shirt of a knit material in a coarse weave, a short jacket, and heavy low boots. Clothes meant for colder weather, and bearing a close resemblance to the kind of clothing left behind on the metal ship.
We were right, Moon thought. His skin prickled, something that happened when prey was in sight. He folded his arms, hoping he looked bored and impatient.
The man’s eyes were dark and wary. From the tension in his body he didn’t appear eager to be here. Ardan said briskly, “Negal, sit down. This man is called Niran. He’s an explorer who has been to the fringe of the eastern forest.”
Negal’s expression relaxed slightly. Whatever he had been afraid to hear, that wasn’t it. He took a seat on a stool, saying with some irony, “Ah, how interesting.” He spoke Kedaic too, but with a different accent than the others.
At a nod from Ardan, Moon described the old colony again, throwing in a few additional details.
Negal sat forward, listening with growing interest. When Moon paused for breath, he said, “Were there carvings of both types of Raksura, those with wings and those without? Was there anything to indicate what the relationship between them was?”
“I saw some carvings of wingless Raksura.” Moon didn’t think a trader would be much interested in what Raksuran daily life was like. “I didn’t pay attention. I was more interested in the jewels and metal.”
Negal leaned back, clearly displeased by that answer. Ardan eyed Negal with an
air of satisfaction. He seemed about to end the interview, and Moon took his chance. Trying to keep his tone even, he said, “There were these things, like big seeds.” He held up his hands, shaping something the right size. “Three of them. They were wood, or shell, with a rough surface. The scholar I was with said they could be valuable, but not to him.”
Negal glanced at Ardan, as if expecting a reaction. Ardan only looked thoughtful, and said, “Did you take them?”
“No.” Moon hoped that Ardan had no extra-keen senses and couldn’t hear his pulse pounding. “The others wanted to leave them there. I couldn’t see a use for them, so I didn’t argue.”
Ardan nodded, still thoughtful. “Thank you for bringing me this information. You’ll be paid well, but we’ll have to speak of all this further. You will stay the night here.”
Moon didn’t want to appear relieved. He said, “I have friends waiting for me outside.”
“Surely they knew it would take you some time to convince me to pay for your tale.” Ardan smiled, and it even reached his eyes. “Let them wait.”
Bialin and two guards took Moon up a large winding stair. The walls were covered with carved figures, mostly male groundlings dressed in elaborate robes, staring down with grim expressions.
They passed landings with big double doors, all tightly closed. Finally they stopped and Bialin took out a ring of large keys, unlocked the doors, and stepped back for the guard to push them open.
They walked into an anteroom with yet more closed doors, with an arch opening into a hallway.
“You’ll sleep here.” Bialin gestured briskly and the guard opened a door. “You will not be allowed to leave this level. The Magister will send for you when he wishes to speak to you again.”
Moon stepped into the room. The guard shut the door behind him and he listened for a bolt to click. It didn’t. So Ardan allowed his guests at least limited freedom of movement. That was a relief.
The room didn’t look like a cell, either, except for the general oppressive air of the heavy carving. There was a bed with dark blankets against the far wall, and a woven rug to warm the gray slate floor. In a curtained alcove there was even a metal water basin with a tap, and a wooden cabinet that probably held a chamber pot. There were also clips that held the furniture fixed to the stone floor, like the broken ones in the abandoned tower. A vapor-light in a chased metal holder hung from the high ceiling. There was no window, no bolt on the inside of the door, but there was a narrow opening at the top. It might be meant for ventilation, but anyone standing in the hall would be able to hear what the occupants were doing.
Moon stood still, listening to Bialin and the guards move away, then he tasted the air. It wasn’t stale, though not terribly fresh, and clouded with the scent of the local perfumes and of unfamiliar groundlings.
When the anteroom sounded empty, he opened the door and stepped out. The heavy double doors to the stairwell were closed. Moon moved close enough to hear the breathing and faint restless movement of at least two guards stationed on the other side. He turned down the hallway, toward the sound of voices.
The doorways he passed all had the gap at the top, and he didn’t hear any movement within, but there were low voices somewhere ahead. Then the hall curved and an archway opened into a larger room.
Like the rest of the tower, it was grim, high-ceilinged, and cold, but it looked a little more like a place people actually lived in. The vapor-lights were suspended over cushioned couches. There was a circular hearth in the center, with a slate-sheathed chimney that stretched up into the high ceiling. Negal, two other men, and a woman sat on a couch and a couple of stools, having an anxious, whispered conversation. They all looked to be from the same race of groundlings as Negal, and all dressed in the same type of clothes, pants, shirts, and jackets, thick soft material or knits.
It took them a moment to notice Moon, standing silently in the doorway. When they did, one man started in alarm and fell off his stool. The others stared at Moon. Moon stared back.
Negal recovered first, saying in Kedaic, “This is Niran, the explorer I was telling you about.”
The man still on the couch dug a small object of glass and wire out of his jacket pocket. They were spectacles, lenses meant to go over the eyes; Moon had seen them used in Kish. The man put them on and stared at Moon some more. He had stringy dark hair and a belligerent expression.
Negal cleared his throat. “This is Esom, our deviser, and Orlis, his assistant.” Orlis was the one who had fallen off the stool. He was younger, with thinner features, a more diffident expression. “And Karsis Vale, our physician.” She had long curly hair tied back under a dark cap. Her features were sharp, and her sober clothes didn’t quite fit, making her look gawky and awkward. She also wore spectacles like Esom, which made Moon think there was a resemblance. The Kedaic word for physician meant the same thing as the Altanic healer, but Moon had no idea what a deviser was.
“He won’t let you leave, you know,” Karsis said, tense and a little angry, either at Ardan or Moon or both.
“He will if he wants to find the ruin,” Moon said, moving to the center hearth and sitting down on the stone rim. He didn’t have to fake an air of unconcern. Escaping was something he would worry about after he found the seed. He would probably worry really hard about it at that point, but not just at the moment.
“That’s what we thought,” Esom said with bitter emphasis.
There was another archway in the far wall, open to a corridor, but it looked like it just circled around toward the main foyer. The hearth was more promising. The stone-lined bowl in the center was set up to burn some sort of oil, though it was unlit now. He leaned back and looked up the chimney. That’s a possibility. “Is that your metal ship, down in the harbor?” If these weren’t the thieves, he would let River call himself First Consort.
“Yes,” Negal answered, his voice sharp with interest. “It’s still there?”
Moon said, “It was yesterday,” and they all turned to each other, talking in their own language again, agitated but keeping their voices low. Moon sat back and looked them over. They weren’t quite what he had been expecting, and he couldn’t decide why. “Did Ardan hire you to go to the eastern coast and loot the Reaches?”
They all stared again, and Esom actually seemed offended. “We didn’t loot anything,” he said tightly, “And we weren’t hired by Ardan, we’re his prisoners. He’s killed five members of our crew.”
That was no more and probably much less than they deserved. Moon glanced at Negal, and said carefully, “Ardan seemed interested in those wooden seed things. You found some?”
Negal hesitated, his lips pursed, as if trying to decide whether to answer. But Orlis nodded glumly and said, “We found one. Ardan wanted it—” Esom hit him in the shoulder. “Why are you talking to him?”
Orlis winced away and gave him an irritated glare. “Why not?” he said, with more life in his voice. “What does it matter to us? We’re still stuck here.”
Karsis stirred, saying thoughtfully, “Maybe if Ardan knows where to find more of the things, he’ll send us after them.”
Moon looked down, scuffed at the gray tile with his worn fish-skin boot. So close. It wouldn’t be in these rooms, where Ardan kept his guests/prisoners. He could ask where it was, but that would just make him look like exactly what he was, a thief who had tricked his way in here to steal from Ardan’s collection. He thought he had already shown too much interest in it. He didn’t want these people trading him to Ardan for their freedom. Better to keep them talking about themselves. “Why is he holding you prisoner? What did you do to him?”
Orlis started. Karsis stared at Moon, lips thin with annoyance. Esom took a breath for an angry answer, but Negal stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Negal said wearily, “We did nothing to him. Apparently he finds us… interesting company.”
So Ardan had collected them, as well. Moon didn’t feel terribly sympathetic. They weren’t dead and st
uffed, and if not for them he would be back at Indigo Cloud Court in a bower with Jade, making clutches. Trying to keep the irony out of his voice, he said, “What makes you so interesting?”
Negal watched him for a moment, as if trying to decide if Moon wanted a serious answer or not. Finally he said, “We come from a land far to the west. It lies atop a tall plateau, isolated by boiling seas, impassable cliffs, rocky expanses with steam vents and chasms. We had legends of other lands, other peoples, but they were only legends. No one believed it was possible to leave our plateau. Or that if we did leave, we would find nothing but an endless lifeless sea.” He smiled ruefully. “We thought the boundaries of our little existence formed the entire world.”
Esom slumped, anger giving way to resignation. He muttered, “The plateau is not that small. It’s four thousand pathres across, easily.”
Negal continued, “Our Philosophical Society had long been exploring different methods of leaving the plateau as an intellectual exercise. Until we discovered one that actually seemed to have a chance of success. We built prototypes, experimented, and finally developed the Klodifore, the metal ship you saw in the harbor. Our crew of volunteers sailed away on what we thought would be a voyage of great discovery.”
Karsis touched his hand. “It has been that.” Defensively, she added to Moon, “We traveled for six months with no real trouble, visiting the different civilizations along the coast, learning this language so we could communicate. Then we ran into this island.”
Esom said, “Literally. We were plotting a course back across the sea toward home, and the leviathan swam into sight. So we decided to stop and see what kind of people lived on it.” He sounded so bitterly ashamed of the decision, it was likely he was the one who had pressed for it.
All right, so their story was more interesting than Moon had thought. “Then why did you go to the Reaches with Ardan?”
Orlis said bleakly, “He tricked us. He courted us, showed us things in his collections, talked about the trip he was planning to study the strange creatures who lived in the forest Reaches.” He shrugged. “He said it was a long way, and that as a magister he could only spend so much time away from the leviathan or the city would be in danger. Our ship was the only one that could make the journey in a short time.”