by Alma Boykin
The first story caught his eye and he frowned, tail tip patting the bench with increasing agitation as Cheerka read the file. Fire investigators had found a Maker’s body when they sifted through the remains of a plant-breeding laboratory in Cloudwash. Cheerka pulled up his database and added the death and arson to the list, although he did make a question mark beside the arson. Accidents still happened, even now. The charred body brought the total number of dead Makers up to almost a hundred from all over the planet, and Cheerka felt a ripple of fear shivering up his back. Good thing I got out of Central City, he repeated yet again.
The next story sent the reptile’s spines slamming up into a full threat/fear/fury display. Clan Zhi-king reported evacuating the last of the Clan members from the cities, a total of over a million souls. Half would remain on the Clan Reserve, while the rest continued north, onto the lineage’s new holdings. Cheerka slammed his tail down with full force as he read the clan head’s words. “Since the Makers remain unable to identify who carries deathtouch and who does not, only proven non-carriers are moving north, and the Clan has decided to continue requiring carriers to depart Clan lands.” Cheerka could almost hear the sanctimonious reptile’s voice as he read, “Of course we will accept them back as soon as they are proven clean. To do otherwise would be unmerciful, as well as going against the best interests of the Clan.” Public rumor had it that none of Zhi-king’s people suffered from deathtouch, and according to Lord Tarkeela the nobles thought that Zhi-king was just eliminating the most independent of his lineage in case something bad happened. Cheerka shunted the article aside into his “fewmet hole” file and turned to another bit of reporting.
The story-catcher wheezed a laugh at “news” that Four Claws wanted to sell his business. The rumor floated up every few years, usually during a quiet news period, and collapsed just as often. Cheerka doubted that even a consortium of Great Lords could scrape together enough funds to buy the criminal’s entire business empire. A person could deplore the trade in illegal intoxicants and in sex-workers, could bemoan the gambling and violence, and decry the peace-keepers’ inability to catch the brutal reptile, but no one ever accused Four Claws of bad management and a poor business sense. Cheerka wished that he was half as good at managing his funds as Four Claws seemed to be. The story-catcher added a snide editorial comment to the article, removed two names that he recognized, and added the story to his own distribution list.
After finding a few more general interest stories, including a breathlessly optimistic review of new textiles from Sidara and the fashions that could result, Cheerka sent out his news file. He’d managed to make a few contacts here at Sea Gate and a distant relative worked for the peacekeepers, giving Cheerka some of the leads that let him keep working. Tarkeela had offered him a stipend but Cheerka refused. The reptile needed to keep at least a little of his pride. His family had been one of the first to leave the Clans and he intended to stay free for as long as possible.
Cheerka checked the file’s transmission once again, just in case, then closed out, turned on the window shade, and set off to meet Tarkeela at the Sea Gate Café. The owner had expended her creativity on the menu rather than the name. Cheerka forgave her lack of word-skill every time he over-indulged in her roasted beach-walkers with black-globe sauce. The very thought made saliva pool in his muzzle and the burly reptile discretely wiped the corner of his mouth, just in case. His missing tooth sometimes caused a little leak. He smiled a little: it had been one magnificent bar fight and if the peacekeepers got Cheerka’s tooth as a souvenir, Cheerka had collected a few tail tips and dented an idiot from Clan Kirlin’s head in the melee. Ah, for the days when he was young, strong, and stupid enough to enjoy a good bar fight, Cheerka mused, barely dragging his attention back to the present in time to keep from walking into a light stand.
The light stands and other exceedingly out-of-date touches kept Sea Gate from looking like the industrial port that it was. Cheerka wondered at the city every time he walked around, amazed that anyone would be so desperate as to build on the side of a cliff. Well, he allowed again, looking out at the deep blue of the port and open ocean to the west of the harbor, not quite a cliff. The harbor dated back to only the Lone God knew when and had been used by True-dragons for hundreds of years before the Azdhagi moved in. The Azdhagi came late to the water, but adapted quickly, and built a town around the deep-water port. Cheerka had learned quickly that if he wanted rough news, he went to the docks. Technology made shipping safer and loading faster, but ports remained ports, be they for water ships or for space ships.
The wind blew strange smells in from the water, Cheerka noticed as he lumbered along. He’d known what the sea smelled like, but the pong of the fish-dump still made his nostrils clamp shut. The locals swore by the fermented fish paste, sun-dried and sold in small blocks for home use in every store and market in Sea Gate. Cheerka swore at it, although he grudgingly admitted that in very small amounts it added a nice depth and tang to sauces. Maybe if it didn’t smell so much like dead Azdhagi, he grumbled yet again, wondering for the hundredth time why they couldn’t cover the fish-dump and fermentation pits. Cheerka savored the bright sunlight, enjoyed the mild breezes, and found the lean coastal females quite pleasing to the eyes. But the fish dump he could have done without.
Cheerka puffed a little by the time he reached the café. It sat a kliq and a half from his office apartment, closer to the center of the city and a hundred meters uphill. Well, at least I can roll myself home if I eat too much again. The Sea Gate Café attracted a working crowd, which explained why Lord Tarkeela preferred it to more fashionable places. Cheerka did not mind. He’d dined at a few of the most expensive eateries in Central City and New Southdown, and spent as much time worrying about snagging the textiles on the tables or spilling the ornate bowls and platters as he did enjoying the food. Cheerka stopped by the long door and glanced at the day’s specials projected on the wall. “Well tail tips and talons,” he puffed quietly. The list began “Sorry, no beach-walkers today. Noon Special: rough-scale in cheerlak sauce; fried poultry with water-grain crust and spike-tongue fruit; cress soup. Fish of the day: finback.”
“I recommend anything finback. The run has been excellent this season,” a lazy voice suggested. Cheerka turned and began bowing but Tarkeela waved him off. “Not here. I’m just a hungry reptile, not a Great Lord.” Quiet contempt dripped off the final words.
The tan-and-brown story-catcher opened the door and the two sauntered in, taking a table on the edge of the basking patio. Tarkeela ordered fire-grilled finback with pickled nut-root, while Cheerka finally decided on stewed finback and blueroot. Both males asked for the two-beer special, which featured a dark, almost fruity brew followed by a lighter, sharp-tasting prickle-stalk ale. “Have you tried any of the kurstem beers, yet?” Tarkeela asked after the first thoughtful sip of the dark beer.
“No, my lord. Is it worth trying?”
The grey-brown waved his free forefoot side-to-side. “Not right now. They are more wet-season brews. Kurstem has a little heat in it, like goldgrain but sharper.”
Their food arrived promptly and the two reptiles took their time. Cheerka thought that the finback reminded him of shootee but with a lighter flavor. It didn’t overpower the blueroot and the cook had used a light forefoot with the spices, letting the fish and tuber carry the stew. Halfway through his large slab of smoky-dark finback, Tarkeela pointed at the plate with his clean forefoot and observed, “Nutroots grow wild at Mountains’ Edge. So will Azdhagi, if I have my way.”
Cheerka tipped his head to the side, puzzled. Tarkeela sliced a strip of fish with his talons, spread some of the pickle on it and rolled the meat before popping it into his mouth. “My plan, despite the best efforts of my more stuck-in-the-sand cousins, is for Mountains’ Edge to run like Three Trees does now. His Imperial Majesty’s generous grant sits in the back of beyond, well north of the capitol, and covers more territory up and down than east and west.”
The
noble wiped his talons and pulled a data-projector from the carry pocket in his robe. Cheerka moved their beer flasks, clearing a space for the small device. Tarkeela turned it on and summoned a map of his new holdings. “This is the Zhangki River. The holdings are here, on the western side, bordering the Wildlands. The former owner built a damn sturdy fortress house here,” and he circled a small building, “right over a hot spring. Given that it snows over three meters every year, I think the Lone God himself must have inspired the decision.” Cheerka shivered at the thought. He’d spent one long, cold winter on Teelkan during his military service and that had been one winter too many.
Tarkeela nodded. “There are hot springs and pools all over the place as you get into the mountains. The bad news is that this is the northern edge of the volcanoes. This one is called Burnt Mountain because it coughs up stuff that starts forest fires on a regular basis. I’ve talked with the closest House, House Moytu, and they confirmed what the Royal Geologic Survey says about the mountains there.”
“That sounds terrible!” Cheerka blurted. “Why would anyone want to live there?”
The noble’s eyes narrowed to horizontal slits and he very carefully, slowly, cut more of his finback, impaling the pieces on his talon and dipping them into the pickle, then eating them equally slowly. “Because no one else wants it, Cheerka. Because it is poor farmland with amazingly good hunting, fantastic access to the True-dragon mines, and the Zhangki provides waterpower, cooling, fishing, and transport.” He shifted forward, muzzle-tip almost touching Cheerka’s. “Because anyone there has to take care of themselves, meaning that none of the so-called great lords will bother looking twice at a self-run town, even if it is an open settlement and not a Clan preserve.”
“Ah.” The mist cleared in Cheerka’s mind, revealing Tarkeela’s trail. “Is the area approved for industry?”
The noble sat back and took a big swallow of beer. “Yes. Not heavy industrial, but that’s not what Tarkee Metals specializes in any way. I’ve been talking with some of House Moytu’s engineers about their work and we’ve found some very promising spoor to track.”
The two finished their fish and the female waiting on them whisked the empty platters away, returning with two dishes of frozen fruit and seaweed. Cheerka had never encountered the “sea ice” before moving to Sea Gate, where he discovered that it served as the final course if one had a “real” meal. You licked the blended ice, cleaning the tongue and taste buds after the meal. “When do you anticipate opening the settlement, my lord?” Cheerka picked his words carefully.
The noble’s tail tip swished back and forth as he worked on the ice. “Probably three double moons. Unless you know how to build with wood as well as stone and composites, or can construct the power plants?” Cheerka’s negation brought a smile. “Not fond of roughing it?”
“No, my lord! I had more than enough of that in colonial service, even without people and plants shooting at me.”
“You were on Teelkan?” Cheerka made an affirmative gesture and Tarkeela continued, “It’s not that bad. No one will be shooting at you, although something ate a surveyor two sixts ago. Do not plan on sleeping out at night by yourself,” he cautioned. “By three moons all the housing should be ready and all supplies in storage, but the snows will not have started. That gives the first wave a little time to settle in.”
Three double-moons sounded reasonable to Cheerka. He finished his ice, remembering not to lick the last bit out of the dish. The locals swore that if you did that, the fish spirits would punish you for being greedy. Cheerka wondered if they’d picked up the foolishness from the True-dragons who’d lived in the area before moving to the Numberless Islands. The server returned with a discrete debit pad and both males left their weak-side third pad impressions. Tarkeela knew that Cheerka preferred to starve on his own and didn’t press the other reptile to accept game from the noble’s hunt.
Tarkeela cleaned his talons one last time before heaving himself off the bench, reluctance plain to everyone around them. “Off to lock talons with the regional council.” As they passed through the main eating room, their server “accidently” brushed against Cheerka, slipping a message card into the open recorder pouch on his carry harness, then flicking him with her tail. He pretended not to notice, but carefully closed the pouch flap once he got outside. His social life had been a little quiet recently. Nah, she probably wants to introduce me to a new temple or sell me flood insurance, the story-catcher warned himself. But a male could always hope. With pleasant thoughts in his mind and a good meal in his stomach, Cheerka sauntered off to bask at his office/apartment.
Tarkeela summoned him to a videoconference that night, before Cheerka had a chance to call Rrilee and see if she had in mind what he hoped that she had in mind. “I’m tired and I’m angry so I’ll track straight to the prey,” the noble growled. “Kirlin is already evacuating his people north. He’s set up the first settlement and is getting crops in the ground and livestock out of quarantine as fast as he can. Li-kss, Peitak and Blee are also moving people north.”
Cheerka’s spines rose a little. “Do they know something the rest of us do not, my lord, or are they planning something?”
“I think they are hedging their bets and diversifying their lands.” The noble ran his talons over his muzzle. “The oligarchs at Zhangki City probably scared them.” The two reptiles shared toothy smiles at the thought. “Nightlast, the new city on the west coast of Likhala, is already over 200,000 people, the Capitol/Palace the same, and Sunkiss is almost as big. Those are both almost entirely out-Clan settlements.”
“Can’t have the out-Clan hordes taking over,” Cheerka mimicked Kirlin’s languid tones.
“Damn, you have him perfectly,” Tarkeela sounded impressed. Serious again, he continued, “Don’t be surprised if you hear a boom and see some dramatic sunsets in the near future. That volcano in the Numberless Islands is probably going to explode soon.” Cheerka made a note of the information. “And female juniors are starting to die.”
Cheerka froze, not even blinking as he repeated, “Female juniors are starting to die.”
Tarkeela slowly swirled his forefoot and tail. “The physicians call it bone-crush. I won’t go into details, but the males with deathtouch are lucky compared to the females with bone-crush. Neetai’s sister’s junior died of it last sixt, and there have been forty cases reported so far. It strikes late, in the sixth or seventh year.”
Cheerka retained enough presence of mind to mute the computer before spewing pure venom. “May the Lone God hunt them until their legs roll off. May the damned, drowned, half-aborted fur-covered, itch-laden pustules of corruption spend their afterlife being raped with lava and flame…” Tarkeela waited until the story-catcher’s mouth stopped moving before gesturing for him to turn the microphone back on.
“Whatever you just said is probably close to what some of us were thinking, story-catcher. However, I ask for the sake of not starting more riots and murders that you not broadcast that news yet.” Tarkeela turned his head enough to glance over his shoulder at something before returning to the video screen. “For once I actually agree with Kirlin. He wants to evacuate the best-known Makers to Central City’s research complex, where we can protect them. Not even plant specialists are going to be safe when this news begins to spread.”
All of Cheerka’s years as a story-catcher screamed to him to leap onto the largest prey of his life. His survival instincts fought back and won, but not by much. “I shall keep quiet for now, Lord Tarkeela,” he promised. “But if I see it on another news feed, I will report it.”
“I can’t ask more than that,” the lean noble agreed. “Tarkeela out.”
As Cheerka fought his desire to smash everything in his apartment in hopes of venting his anger, Roshee the priest sat on a meditation bench outside of his “new” temple and contemplated the moons. He’d moved to the new temple reluctantly, not wanting to leave his familiar residence of so many years, but Tareshah and the others in
sisted. Some reptiles had taken great offense at Roshee’s questioning the chief forensics expert about the deathtouch fatalities and blamed him for the females’ reaction to Tsae’s prevarication and unwillingness to reveal the truth. He felt his pulse accelerating with anger and the priest inhaled deeply then exhaled, releasing his anger and tension. Hunters allowed nothing to distract them from the stalk, and Roshee needed all his senses unclouded as he strove to catch a hint of the Great Prey.
The striped reptile sought a vision to guide him. The Faith-keepers’ pack grew, but the size brought new concerns and risked muddling their own trail if they milled in place or sought the true track without great care and discernment. Roshee spent more and more time in meditation, seeking the Lone God and the track He wanted His followers to find. A glimpse, the faintest hint, had come to Roshee a few days before, and now he sought confirmation and more detail. The warm night air stirred around him, stroking his flanks with a mate or packsib’s careful touch. And an image formed, shifting and fading into existence just beyond the edge of the basking porch.
As Roshee watched, losing himself in the vision, he beheld a shining, star-colored Azdhag. The spirit gestured, guiding the seeker’s attention back to the greater vision, and Roshee watched as dawn broke over a lush world. Reptiles of all kinds walked under the warm sun, Azdhagi and shootee, talkak and gantak, and birds, and even tree-fuzzies and the furry field pests of the north. Each carried within them a spark of life and energy given by the Lone God. The creatures lived, mated, and died, returning the energy to the world around them. A few rose from the green plains and hills, joining the shimmering Hunter in his favored Pack when they died. Roshee’s heart surged with joy and blessing, thanking the Lone God for the gift of the vision and the assurance of the God’s promise.