The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  “What do you mean he got the best of me?” Lizneth asked.

  “It happens all the time. I see folks like you come out of that shop with that same look on their faces. The Blitznag you met in there is actually the son of Blitznag. It was his papa’s place first. He inherited it when his old kehaieh died. I’d be surprised if he’s sold a thing since, the way he seems to treat his customers. He’s been running the place for a couple years now. He’s come up on the wrong side of some choice characters in that time. Not everyone’s as passive as you are—hence the scars.” He wagged a finger at his head. “But mostly I just see ikzhehn like you coming out of there, looking like someone’s thrown their pride on the floor and stomped all over it.”

  “I just didn’t expect him to be so… mean.”

  “Nor should you. And neither do most,” said the shopkeep. His condolences were starting to make Lizneth feel better. “That’s how he is. Who knows what might be twisting his tail. I stopped going over to say hello the day he accused me of spying on him so I could set my prices lower than his. Truth is, my little stand has been booming since he came into the picture. I haven’t had to change the way I bargain at all to outsell him. These days I tend to leave him alone. What’d you have in mind to buy in there, anyway?”

  “There was a cloak I really liked,” Lizneth confessed. “Blue linen. Deep, like the rime caves near my home.”

  “Give me just one moment,” he said, and disappeared behind a near set of shelves. In two blinks he was back, and he let the cloth in his grip unfold. “Like this one?”

  “Yes,” she said, and smiled. It was very much like the one she’d picked out. Exactly like it, in fact.

  “There’s an old seamstress who sells us these cloaks. She comes around every now and again. You’ll find two or three in any shop on the claybridge. They’re well-made, but nothing too rare. I’ll let this one go for a pittance, since I like you. And because I feel bad that Blitznag gave you such a tough time. So what’ve you got in trade that gave him such a fit?”

  Lizneth hesitated. What if offering mulligraws was some kind of local insult she wasn’t aware of? What if the sight of them made this nice old buck turn her out the same way Blitznag had? It seemed life in the metropolis was more worrisome than she’d anticipated.

  “Come now, show me what you’ve got,” he said, and Lizneth still saw the same kindness in his eyes.

  She dug a hand into her pocket. “These.”

  The shopkeep laughed.

  It was loud and crowing, and it made her feel small and foolish again. At least he wasn’t so mean about it. She shoved the mulligraws back into her chinos, spilling some in the process. Having gotten an idea of their apparent value in these parts, she didn’t bother to pick them up. Her bottom lip quivered against her longteeth.

  “Wait,” the shopkeep said between sputters. He ran to her and touched her arm. “Stop. I wasn’t laughing at you, I promise.”

  “Go ahead and laugh. I’m just a farm girl. I don’t have anything valuable to offer.” Lizneth stood in place and let the crowd stream past, brushing her like a river weed.

  “It’s not that,” the shopkeep yelled, because he had to yell to be heard over the crush. “I laughed because it goes to show how hard-headed Blitznag is. How narrow he must be if such an innocent gesture sets him off. Come, speak with me a little longer. Come back.”

  A part of her still didn’t believe him, but she followed him anyway, making her way out past the edge of the tide and into the gentler eddies by the store front. She still felt insignificant, embarrassed. The metropolis isn’t my place, she realized. I was a fool to come here.

  “I didn’t mean to laugh at you,” said the shopkeep, pushing the cloak toward her. “I want to trade this to you.”

  “I’m not a drifter. I don’t need your handouts.”

  “I know you don’t. This isn’t a handout. It’s a trade. Give me half your mulligraws and we’ll call it even.”

  “All the mulligraws I have aren’t worth a patch of fabric from this cloak.”

  He favored her with a warm smile. “You’ll owe me a favor then. Next time I see you. When I go home to my family tonight, we’ll put your mulligraws in the cauldron and they’ll flavor our dinner. My whole brood will thank you for it. We don’t ever get them that fresh around here.”

  “I don’t live in Bolck-Azock,” Lizneth said. “I’ll never be able to do a favor for you if you don’t see me again.”

  “I’ve never run my business to make enemies. Ikzhehn repeat their dealings with me because they know I’ll treat them fairly. So whether or not I see you again, parikua, I would rather you leave my shop a friend. Don’t worry about whether you’ll return. The kindness behind a favor is worth more than the favor itself.”

  Lizneth exhaled the stubborn breath she’d been holding. “You really weren’t laughing at me?”

  “I promise, no.” He handed her the cloak.

  In return, she dropped a fistful of mulligraws into his cupped hands.

  “My name’s Nathak. I call my shop the Claybridge Emporium. If you ever need a friend around here, you’ve got one. On days when I’m not around—which are few and far between—my wife Shirz or one of my two eldest daughters will be. Consider us all your friends, and if you ever come back, be sure to visit.”

  The fabric was supple and strong between Lizneth’s fingers, and it gave a pleasing zwhirr when she slid her claws over it. She spun the cloak about her neck, letting it conceal the bulk of her milk-white fur in its deep protective folds. Wearing it made her feel lighter than a ghost and softer than a whisper.

  “So, you’re headed home then?” Nathak asked.

  “Soon,” she said, an adventurous smile creeping up from behind her longteeth. “Now that I’m here, I might as well see the Omnekh.”

  “Ah, the sea is a fine sight, so long as you don’t mind the smell. Cross the claybridge that way and you’ll be headed in the right direction.”

  Lizneth nodded and turned to leave.

  “One more thing,” Nathak said. “A word of caution. Keep to the heights if you want the best views. The nethertowns down by the water’s edge are no place for a young doe like you to be found alone.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Lizneth said. But I want to see the water up close.

  She grasped her new cloak, feeling the fabric between her fingers again, and she couldn’t help but smile. This was turning out to be a good trip after all. She gave Nathak a shallow curtsy, then turned and lost herself once more in the crowd.

  CHAPTER 8

  Electing

  “The council will come to order.” Raith’s voice boomed down the hall, overpowering the chattering councilors and bringing them to silence. The room was alive with energy; not the kind of energy that coursed through the lightbeams on the walls, but the energy of progress—of hope.

  Today, Decylum’s council would decide on the fate of its people. Their edict, whatever it was, would be followed to the letter until they took another vote to change it. That was how things worked in Decylum.

  Councilors paced the hall, most too nervous to sit. Raith raised both hands and lowered his palms toward the floor, bidding them to do so anyway. “Do we have anyone who wishes to give the opening remarks this morning?”

  More than half the councilors raised their hands. Raith chose Daylan Albrecht, then sat and folded his arms over his massive chest to hear what the man had to say.

  Daylan was a mirthful fellow with thick brown hair that waved from a loose center part, an able-looking build which he wrapped in tight green synthtex, and a dormant mischievous look about him that flashed to the fore whenever he smiled. Raith found him endearing and cringeworthy all at once; it was evident in the crease of a smile that kept wanting to creep up the sides of his mouth that Daylan had as much difficulty taking himself seriously as everyone else did. His delivery was never eloquent or poetic, but then, he was the youngest councilor by a solid five years.

  “Yes, thank yo
u. All I wanted to say, was that after yesterday’s meeting, I was at home with my wife and kids last night, and I was thinking how it’s been crowded around here lately. Yeah, that might be true, but we’re all here together, we’re healthy, and we’re safe, and I know when I leave our hab unit I don’t have to worry about something happening to them. My family, I mean. This is a good place, where we live, and why would we just want to waste it and think we’re too good for it, and try to find someplace better when it’s just right for us? Here, I mean. We have so much room to grow, and if all it takes is some digging and building new houses for people and gathering materials, then that’s what I think we should do. We shouldn’t just up and leave just because maybe we think we deserve something better. We can make this better. Our home, I mean. Decylum.”

  “I speak,” shouted Kraw Joseph, as much to encourage the younger man as to agree with him.

  If Daylan had meant to continue, Kraw’s interjection must have put it out of his mind, because he rolled his bottom lip, nodded politely, and retook his seat.

  “Well said, Daylan.” Raith lifted his brow in search of the next contributor.

  Cord Faleir was a veteran, having served on the council for the third-longest behind only Kraw Joseph and Hastle Beige. He’d been a logical choice for Head when Kraw abdicated, but the council had elected Raith instead. At the time, Raith only had a year of service under his belt, and he believed Cord resented him for that. This wasn’t something Cord was apt to admit, of course—just a feeling Raith had. Even when he’d spoken with Cord openly in hopes of putting the issue behind them, the other councilor had denied any grudge. But the animosity with which he had treated Raith since said otherwise.

  An angular, emaciated man with impeccable posture, Cord Faleir was shrewd and biting, with a slender nose, a puff of soft brown hair, and a pale face that had scrunched itself into a perpetual sneer. He might be close to handsome if not for that sneer, Raith thought, choosing him to speak next.

  “We do ourselves an injustice by putting such constraints on our thinking,” Cord said, meeting each of his listeners’ eyes as he flowed across the room in a collared sentyle longcoat of deep violet. He carried himself like a diplomat, resting his blackened hands on his silver doublevest, skeletal fingers pressed together. His black synthetic slacks clung to his scrawny lamppost legs like grocery bags. Every now and then he punctuated his words with a gesture. “Mr. Albrecht is… correct,” he said, tossing Daylan a glance, “in that we owe ourselves the safety, health, and prosperity befitting those of our pedigree. Most of us in this room have the giftings of superior men, as do many of our spouses and children, those we live and share our homes with. Our kind is a race that will live on after all those above us are dead. We are the inheritors of the Aionach. As such, it is our deserved privilege—our birthright—to thrive here, with the inclusion of anyplace that may be inhabited by those lesser than ourselves.”

  Raith snorted. He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees, readying himself to overrule Cord if this tirade got out of hand. Cord’s remarks about blackhand supremacy were reminding Raith of his dear old Uncle Vigden. Always going on about how the surfacers didn’t deserve to live. By the time Uncle Vigden had gone above and met his death, he had convinced himself it was his duty to rid the Aionach of every surfacer alive.

  “What if there is such a place?” Cord was saying now. His pitch was growing tight and shrill as he worked himself into one of his frenzies. “A place of greater opportunity; of greater resource and natural abundance? Of… more physical space? Would we not be foolish to ignore such a possibility? And would we be so wrong to merely look for it? What if there are other strongholds like the Arcadian Catacombs that time and legend have forgotten? Why should we be the ones suffering in this canker of a hole while the gleaming halls of paradise languish under the footsteps of some lesser race? What if there are other strongholds lying empty somewhere?”

  The other Councilors were looking around at one another, trying to gauge the sentiment in the room.

  “I speak, hmm, with you,” said Loren Horner, raising two fingers.

  Cord blinked twice, nodding at the bespectacled councilor in recognition. “I urge you all to consider your future. The futures of your families. Dwell in the present no longer, my friends. A superior home awaits us, if only we are willing to have patience, and a little faith. Thank you.”

  A brief round of applause followed Cord to his seat.

  Raith called on Wardel Slake, Loren Horner’s nephew. Slake was a sandy blond fellow who shared his uncle’s rotund build, though he smuggled his chins behind a thick beard. Slake was known for driving his arguments home with all the subtlety of a mallet on a spike. He was blunt and direct; even worse, he was good at it.

  “I also feel that to abandon hope would be a travesty,” said Wardel. “I don’t know how it is that for all these long years, we, the mightiest of men, have cowered here below while the dregs run wild above our heads. Their feet trample the dust, and we’re frightened of the sound of their footsteps. What cowards we are.” Slake paused to cast a disgusted, condescending gaze over the council. “Lesser men squander what wealth the land still holds; they trifle at their good fortune, riding it happily to their deaths. Yet we propose to satisfy ourselves by picking up their scraps. ‘We’ll gild our halls in the refuse they’ve left behind!’ we cry. ‘It’s good enough for us!’ What insanity we’ve allowed ourselves to believe. It’s as if we’ve grown so accepting of our lot that we settle for taking the simple path. We’ve given up on the possibility that anything better exists. Or, as in Mr. Albrecht’s case, we don’t believe we deserve it.”

  “I speak with you,” said Laagon Dent, gesturing.

  The room was beginning to stir with the beat of a quickening rhythm. Raith could feel the momentum of the argument starting to build.

  “You’d like to say something more, wouldn’t you, Laagon,” said Wardel Slake, pointing him out.

  “It’s as you say,” Laagon said, standing eagerly. The formal precedent was to yield the floor to the Head Councilor between each speaker, but Raith let it go. I have to choose my battles today, he told himself.

  “Cord said it before,” said Laagon. “It’s the simple path. The easy route. The patience we need to have, and the courage we all need to show in times like these. That’s what it comes down to—an easy solution versus a difficult one. It would be so easy to stay. To be satisfied with scraps, like Wardel said. Picking out junk from the city and making it into new hab units. Nobody is denying that Decylum has been exactly what we’ve needed for all these years. But I feel like we’re leaving so much out by not exploring. Sure, we have our fables and our stories about the way things used to be on the surface. How many of them are still true? The hunters only know what they see. Only what they hear from the few surfacers they cross paths with. The rest is hearsay and rumors. Before we put all this effort into staging an all-out war on the city… because we all know that’s what’s going to happen if we march out there and start dismantling their buildings. We’re going to upset someone, mark my words. And I don’t think any of us likes the idea of going to war, let alone leading an angry adversary back to Decylum and putting our families at risk. So before we go digging around where we have no business digging, why don’t we see what’s out there, further than our hunters have gone? It’s been so many long years since any of us have gone further from home than the hunters do. Present company excluded, Hastle. So that’s why I am backing the plan to scout first, exercise a little patience, and then see what we’re dealing with.”

  “It isn’t patience some of us need,” said Hastle Beige, “it’s common sense.”

  The council hall erupted.

  It took Raith a few minutes to restore order again before they could continue. “Hastle, do you have something relevant to say? Something that adds to the discussion?”

  Hastle gave him a wounded look, then nodded and came to his feet. “I wouldn’t ask any of you to take
note of the color of my skin unless it mattered, nor would I wish you to see any more of it than you had to.” He lifted the hem of his synthtex tunic as if to expose himself. Some of the councilors were not amused. “It’s been years since I’ve been out in the daylight for longer than a few minutes, and I still look like this. That’s not because I fill my wash basin with mud at night. The light-star has marked me permanently. You’d be surprised how long they kept trying to build cities after the Heat started. Everything was breaking down, and back then they were still repairing the power plants over and over. I guess they thought the flare was temporary. That it would end. The pulses would hit the surface and everything would get fried and they’d take us all off our regular jobs and send us to fix them again. I worked for a company called Glaive Industries, from the time I got my first construction job all the way up until I was a full-fledged engineer. That whole time, they kept building, even though their systems kept breaking down. Stuff is melting and dways are getting hospitalized, and every day is hotter than the last. A lot of the older cities that already had huge numbers of citizens were deteriorating, or had already failed. Those Glaive dways didn’t care. ‘Just get it built,’ they said. ‘Put the buildings up and shove more people into them.’ They didn’t care. Bunch of inhuman monsters.”

  Hastle’s volume had waned until he was mumbling. He sighed and blinked away his daydream stare. “Anyway. What I’m getting at, is that the world leaves a stain on you. Rounding up our bravest and pointing them toward the door is not the easy route. Easy for us, maybe; not for them. The only reason any of us think that’s easy is because we’re not the ones going. Last time I was above, the temperature outside would’ve made a hundred degrees feel like an icebox. The truth is that neither option we’ve discussed is easy. Those of you who have never lived up there, or who haven’t been alive long enough to know what it was like before the Heat—Kraw and myself are the only members of the council who are that old, I believe—it’s abysmal. Raith was talking about this yesterday; you have no idea what that kind of oppressive heat does to a man. The way it drains you, squeezes the life out of you. If we go up together, we’ll have plenty of water. Food. Supplies. Portable shelter. Everything we need to make it there and back. And most importantly, we’ll have each other if anything goes wrong. That’s the way to survive in the wasteland. Send every hunter out by himself, or even in pairs, and you’re just asking Infernal to drive them mad, if they don’t die first. Let’s go gather the raw materials we need from Belmond. That’s how we’re going to improve our home. It’s not short-sightedness or cowardice that keeps us in Decylum. It’s wisdom. Wisdom to know when we’ve got it good, and when it isn’t worth wasting that goodness for the sake of some entitlement complex. We have a home. It’s here. Let’s make our home better instead of taking someone else’s. That’s all, councilor.” Hastle sat down.