by G. Howell
Calm lake water slapped against the bow as the steersman followed the channel and current eddies north out into the lake and then turned toward the western shore and the city there. By the time we approached the harbor the westering sun was low over the roofs of Open Fields, reflecting in a molten path across the dark water. Engine sounds changed, dropping as the steersman throttled back to become a low idling throb, water gurgling around the hull as the ship glided smoothly through moored vessels toward the outstretched arms of the harbor wall.
The stone and granite breakwaters arched out into the lake. Fortified guardhouses squatted at each end, flanking the harbor mouth, covered ports in the thick walls doubtless concealing canon. On the towers I could see Rris figures moving around a framework with a large bowl-shaped construct on top. Sparks flashed, then blossomed as the beacons were lit and flames - mere specters in the evening light - leapt up.
“About time those were replaced,” Chaeitch idly remarked as we passed. Heads appeared at the crenellations to watch us.
Within the embrace of the walls lay the harbor proper, sheltering a lot more moored vessels. Ships and boats of all shapes and sizes were tied to wharves and docks and just anchored out in the harbor. I could see fishers with drying nets strung out on booms and racks, fat traders offloading barrels and casks onto smaller tugs, a pair of chunky barges laden with what looked like chunks of rock. As we approached the docks we entered a forest of masts rising up around us, a canopy of lines, rigging, spars and sails silhouetted against the sunset. The beat of the engines subsided. The trickle of smoke from the twin stacks died down to the merest wisp even as the engines picked up for a second: water churned as the screws reversed, then shut down. There wasn’t a bump as the Ironheart glided to a halt alongside the wharf and ropes were thrown back and forth for shore crew to haul us in the rest of the way.
We had most of that pier to ourselves. The berths directly adjacent were empty and the other ships on the pier were sleek and elegant sailing vessels; a far cry from the dumpy and use-stained shallow water traders and fishers and haulers that filled the rest of the harbor. Possibly royal yachts. A VIP berth.
Of course we were expected and the reception committee was already there. Either they’d done a damn good job estimating our time, or they’d been waiting a while, or more likely they had a good messenger network that’d alerted them. Guards in green and gold livery and armor were posted along the length of the wharf, their polished steel breastplates gleaming in the evening light. Off in the background, near the gatehouse separating the private dock, group of carriages and their attendants stood waiting. More Rris were waiting at the dockside while the gangplank was run out. There were more soldiers in that group and I could see Shattered Water livery. The others were Rris in civilian garb. Expensive clothes.
“That’s the Ambassador,” Rraerch whispered to me, nodding her muzzle toward an individual in that latter group. “Some embassy staff and guards. Those others will be from Cover My Tail government. Just looking after you.”
That many guards? Was there something going on that I didn’t know about? More likely they were erring on the side of caution. Marasitha ignored them as he bustled down the gangway and over to the group waiting for us. I moved to follow but Chaeitch laid a finger on my arm. Wait.
I did. There was a brief exchange onshore and then Marasitha glanced our way. “Hai,” Chaeitch said. “Come on.”
I slung my duffel and followed them down the gangway, the wood bending much more under my feet than it had with the Rris. I saw soldiers stiffening, hands flexing on weapons and tails lashing. I didn’t like that. Nervous Rris make me nervous, and these were armed. Their armor was ceremonial, polished and engraved and flaring orange gold in the final light, but the weapons they carried were sill lethal.
I tried to move slowly and carefully.
The higher ranking Rris knew what to expect. I saw some heads going back but they held their ground as I approached.
“Aesh Smither, ah Ties,” the Rris Chaeitch had tagged as the Ambassador, a male with the tongue-twisting name Maetoi ah Tr’hrichetfer, greeted us at the bottom of the gangplank. Waiting a few steps behind him was the bunch from the Cover-my-Tail government. Foremost in that was group an androgynous individual with creamy tawny fur, dressed in a light pleated kilt, pale peach bloused shirt and a thing like a cutdown poncho: a pair of finely tooled leather panels hanging over chest and back. Amber eyes looked me up and down.
“And this is... Mikah?” the Ambassador was asking. “That’s the way it is pronounced?”
“Yes, sir.” My name is Michael, but correcting them is pointless: Rris vocal apparatus has serious problems with the consonant ‘el’.
He had good control. He barely gave a flicker when I answered him, but there were stirrings amongst the others. “Very good,” the Ambassador said. “May I introduce Chriét ah Hesethari, Host for Her ladyship.”
The Rris in the odd-looking poncho stepped forward. He was a young-looking fellow, but I wasn’t certain what his age might be. I got the impression he was trying not to stare at me, to appear dignified and controlled and he was doing a pretty good job of it, it was his ears that gave his tension away. “Honored guests,” he ducked his head briefly. “Welcome to Open Fields. Ah Mikah, we are most gratified that you’re able to join us.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
“Your journey was clear?”
“Very pleasant.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. Two days from Shattered Water, that’s remarkable time. But you could doubtless do with rest and refreshment in more comfortable surroundings.”
The Ambassador looked at us and said, “Her Ladyship has offered lodgings at Eisher House, a most magnanimous gesture.”
“It’s no trouble whatsoever,” Chriét smiled. “It’s acceptable to you?”
“How can we refuse?” I shrugged.
“We would be honored,” Marasitha said.
There was that flicker again. I guessed Chriét had been briefed in detail on me and was trying to look nonchalant and take it in stride, but the reality is always a bit more real than the telling. “Thank you,” he ducked his head. “If you would care to follow me, there’s transportation waiting.”
As we headed toward the waiting carriages I looked around at the new Rris city. All that was visible were the docks, and those weren’t a great deal different from the ones in Shattered Water. The pier we were berthed at was in the VIP section, so it was isolated from the commoners’ berthings by walls, spiked railings and guardhouses. That evening there were probably more sentries than usual posted.
Dusk crawled across the world, from the ground up. Darkness in the lowlands, in the streets, and the shadows under trees grew and spread almost imperceptibly slowly. Delineators of dark inched up hillsides and along valleys while peaks and rooftops glowed rust in the dying light. The Rris were unperturbed: their nightsight was inhuman. That goes without saying, but what was nothing but vague hints of shadows to me were quite clear to them. Useful: Chihirae sometimes read books in what was near-pitch to me. Scary: when she touched me in the night without warning.
They did have uses for lights though. Rris night vision was superb, but apparently it was monochromatic. “All the color goes,” was what Chihirae’d told me when I asked her, looking down on her looking up with eyes like glowing holes in the twilight.
Navigation lights like the harbor beacons were lit, as were smaller lights on boats and on the docks, for safety’s sake. And in the town others lamps were flickering to life: Not the industrial glare of sodium, neon and argon smeared across the shoreline, but isolated pools of naked flame and oil and gas lamps.
So we walked along the docks as the shadows retook the world. Sentries in their glittering ceremonial armor, their bulky muskets carried at port arms, watched from the sidelines as our little procession passe
d by them. The carriages waiting on the quayside were elegant affairs, as fitted royal transportation. Wooden panels weren’t painted, but rather carved by Rris craftsmen with a skill and intricacy that made most of the carving I’d seen back home look like whittled corncobs. Trim on the carriages - the gleaming light fittings and rails and door handles - that wasn’t chrome, but real silver. This time I handed my duffle to a porter who almost dropped it before tightening his grip and looking from me to the bag. I guess it was a bit weighty. Not too surprising.
Our carriage seated four comfortably. Rraerch nestled in beside me while Chaeitch and our erstwhile guide sat opposite. Marasitha and the Ambassador had taken the following carriage. If the liason had been irritated about being relegated to the second cab, he didn’t show it. Our guards from Shattered Water piled into other carriages and several mounted up on spare llamas brought along by embassy guards.
In the dim moonlight coming in through the carved privacy screens I could see Chriét watching me: his eyes wider than usual and his nostrils twitched. It wasn’t difficult to see that he was disturbed: at me, or perhaps at the fact that despite everything he’d been told about me, he was still nervous. I almost grinned and hastily converted it to a stifled smirk, hastily camouflaged by looking out the window as iron wheels rattled on cobbles and swung around out the gate.
I almost missed the trio of black-clad Rris standing back against a storefront. Just watching quietly while other spectators gave them plenty of room. I guess even Mediators get curious.
------v------
Open Fields was a well-planned city, intelligently laid out following a system based on those intrinsic Rris values. Broad avenues headed away from the lake district, toward the west and the fading glow over the horizon. North south roads intersected at intervals, some of them with distinct curves to their constructions. I knew that if I could see the city from the air some of those road would be forming concentric circles centered on plazas, like ripples in the gridwork of the city infrastructure. It was the same as the trees in the avenues and parks, the carvings on the coaches, the organic touches to the most austere buildings. As if something in the Rris psyche couldn’t stand being subject to pure right-angle geometry.
I guess my own found it restful as well. I did find the cities beautiful, in their own way. Quaint is probably too patronizing a term. They weren’t crowded; There was a surprising amount of open space and greenery that could have been considered wasteful in a human city; there was no traffic noise or hydrocarbon stink, but there were the pollution problems associated with half a million beings and animals in close proximity along with an antiquated sewer system. Doubtless milder than you’d have found in a human city of a comparable period, but nevertheless there. By their standards it was probably quite unpleasant - their sense of smell is a lot more acute than a humans, but it was tolerable.
We traveled westwards, along a broad, dark boulevard that cut arrow-straight through the city. The boughs of huge, old trees stretching and lacing overhead draped the avenue in shadows that the moon riding low in the sky behind us only emphasized. Through the leaves I could catch glimpses of stars coming out and glittering against the twilit sky. Occasionally there’d be a streetlight or a lamp glowing gently, illuminating a corner or a doorway or a sign, but there weren’t many. The locals who were out, and there seemed to be a fair number, went about their business in the gathering darkness.
“I understand you haven’t been outside Shattered Water,” Chriét was saying. Some moonlight was making it in through the windows: a couple of slivers that fell across Rris arms and torso, just enough to screw up my own night vision and leave their faces in absolute blackness.
“This is my first time outside of Land-of-Water,” I corrected. I had seen more of that land, from the village of Westwater to the town of Lying Scales and onwards to the capitol.
“Ai. I don’t doubt that you’ve been told a lot about Open Fields. Is there anything in particular that you’d like to see while you’re here?”
“I was told that aesh Resir’tsa’s museum collection is very impressive. As is the royal gallery.”
“It was mentioned you had an artistic interest,” Chriét said. It was difficult to interpret any sort of tone in Rris voices: I had enough trouble reading their moods when I could see their faces. “I’m sure we can find some time to accommodate you. If there is anything else you require or want, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”
“Thank you,” I said.
The carriage swayed into a right-hand turn, the moon shifting around to shine in my window. I judged we were travelling north-northwest. Thinking back to the maps of Open Fields, that would be about right.
“This is Limemine Hill street,” Chriét was saying. “Offers a wonderful view onto Sward Square. Ah, I was told that you have difficulty seeing in poor light, but I’m afraid they were not very specific. This is too dim for you?”
“The moon helps, but yes, it is.”
“Ah. A pity. Perhaps sometime in the morning then. Dawn across the lake is quite spectacular.”
“Is there going to be much time for sightseeing? I would imagine you’ve already got a very busy schedule worked out.”
Something pricked my leg: Rraerch’s way of telling me to behave.
------v------
There was a point about half an hour or so into our journey when the buildings started to thin out. The carriage plunged into a few seconds of blackness: a short, echoing tunnel that must have been an old gateway and beyond that there were fewer narrow streets, fewer tightly packed buildings. Beyond those the buildings thinned, gave way to small farms, stockyards, then forest. Through the coach windows I could see the black on velvet silhouettes of trees scratching against the night sky, the sound of their branches swaying in the wind like the sound of water over gravel and beneath that was the low creaking undertone of timbers flexing. The dark forest, the shadows beneath the canopy where wild things were. I shuddered. The scene reminded me of some of the worse dreams I had.
Through the branches I caught the first glimmerings of light: fireflies dancing in the distance. Then the trees were gone and the moonlight was flooding down on open fields, down on rolling hills of long grass washed moonlight gray rippling in the night breeze. A rolling panorama laid out under a sky painted with the wash of the milky way. Eisher House wasn’t a house, it was a Palace, and it blazed like a fallen star.
The huge building was constructed along the lines of a distorted capital H, with a broad central east-west transom and wings to the north and south. Lights must have been burning in every room. No electric lamps, of course, so every oil and gas lamp, torch, chandelier and candelabra must have been ablaze, spilling light from windows and doors. Burning oil torches lined the sides of the drive, laying a carpet of light leading across the moonlit fields toward the palace.
“Impressive,” I said. If we’d been in a car, the roadside lamps would have flashed through the windows. At the speed the carriage moved, the light merely panned through the carriage as we passed by, briefly illuminating Chriét’s features. He was smirking, I swear he was. Impressing the alien: he’d be considering that a good start.
The carriage drew to a halt right before the front steps. Footmen and stewards hustled forward to open the door, to put steps in place. Chriét disembarked first, and as he was stepping out the door, Rraerch put her hand on my leg again and squeezed; just a gentle prick of claws through my pants. I caught her look: a caution. I was about to step out into a place full of heavily armed guards who’d never seen anything like me before. She was right, I should be exceedingly careful.
So when it came my turn to disembark I did so slowly, with my hands in plain sight. There were guards out there, there were a lot of guards out there. I could see troopers in their polished armor ranked up the steps to the front door. They might have been disciplined, but I still saw m
ore than a few flinch and stare at me while ears laid back. They were carrying smoothbore muskets, weapons which might have been clumsy and unwieldy as far as firearms went, but they were certainly capable of putting a lump of lead right through an oak plank. Quite lethal if someone got trigger happy. No red carpet, of course.
Gravel crunched under my feet and under the wheels of the carriages drawing up behind us. The Ambassador and his entourage climbed out, all trying to look casual and refrain from staring too obviously. No photographs here either, so all they’d have had to go on would have been descriptions. I gathered they didn’t do me justice. Land of Water guards fell in behind us, ignoring the fact they were grossly outnumbered.
I debated going to collect my bag, then decided against it. Chaeitch had assured me it’d be quite secure. It was, after all, considered diplomatic baggage so if any luggage was mislaid there’d be hell to pay, but I still felt uneasy about letting it out of my sight. So I followed the other Rris up the stairs, past the ranks of armed guards.
The building was impressive, which was the point of it after all. The central part of the palace rose in front of us, the wings off to the side. In the moon and torchlight things were distorted, shadows were harsher and the proportions different. Polished granite blocks made up the three stories of the facade. Windows on all three floors were glazed, the second floor dominated by windows stretching from floor to ceiling. Those windows were separated by columns carved into details that were difficult to see in the light, but they seemed rococo in their detail and complexity. Not structural, but ornamental. High on the roofline, silhouetted against the sky were figures I at first through were more guards, but were probably statues. A single huge banner hung from a flagpole directly above the doors, the folds of cloth displaying parts of a pattern I recognized as the royal crest.