by Jay Lake
Imago smiled. "What else am I to do with you? General of a vanished army, sister of a hero of the late unpleasantness, mighty sand mage. If I don't help you, I'm liable to be made over into a camel blanket. And I've had sufficient transformation to last me the rest of my days."
"Surely you'd be a fine, hand-knotted rug," she said with a laugh.
"A right honorable one at that, no doubt."
Saltfingers found them soon enough. He was soaking wet, but most of the mud was gone. The dwarf was as strange and ugly as ever. "Hello, your worship," he said, touching a finger to his forehead. "Twice I sees you in two days. My stock must be rising up on the hill."
"It has always been high." Imago nodded politely. "How were the Old Twins last night?"
"Clogged," the dunny diver announced cheerfully. "Piotr Sharpshoes and Big Denis had to go for a swim to manage the clearing out, poor them. Did the job, but they tell me the smell was a thing of itself. A few days of steaming herbs and decent rest and they'll be right back at it."
Imago felt vaguely queasy at the description. He'd spent enough time down in the sewers to have a personal appreciation for what went on there. "Give them my thanks, and the gratitude of anyone who lives near Imperatrix Park. Meanwhile, I have a great favor to ask."
Saltfingers gave Kalliope a long, slow look. "You'll be wanting something for the foreign sand lady, then?"
"Yes. She seeks her brother, him that you've seen trace of beneath the stones."
"So you think you are one of us," Saltfingers said speculatively. "You're a creature of light and air, sand lady. Down there's no place for a woman. Even less a place for a desert rat."
Kalliope met the dunny diver's look with a cool appraisal of her own. "I'm also responsible for Jason. Thrice over. Once as his sister, twice as his killer, and the third time because it was I who helped Bijaz to raise him again."
"You quality gets up to strange doings, but I reckon that's none of my concern."
"Probably not," she said. "Still, I have nothing to hide."
"The tunnels hide everything as it is. They don't need no help."
Imago cleared his throat. "Since you both are getting along so famously, perhaps I can leave you to it? I've a need to assess the damages from that little rally last night. I want to know if we lost anyone or anything important."
"We'll make our way when we're ready," Kalliope told him.
"Blessings on you, your worship," Saltfingers added.
Imago resisted the urge to bow, and instead simply walked away.
He was surprised to find Enero waiting in his office. "You've been leaving for days, now," Imago said as he took to his chair. "Not that I wish you ill, but are you planning to have done with it anytime soon? I can't miss you until you go away, you know."
"To be sure," Enero said. "A man's mind is to always be changing."
"Like the weather, I suppose."
Enero slapped a leather book onto Imago's desk. "Notes. Maps. Codes. Who can be trusted. I am thinking this is to be a bad time for you."
"Worse than what?" Imago asked. "We've had armies at the gates, monsters in the streets, gods in the sewers, and a revenant madman in the Limerock Palace. Is someone planning to set fire to the entire city?"
"It is being a stranger thing, subtler than that. The Northern Expedition is to likely be stirring up more than they are having bargained for."
"That wouldn't surprise me," said Imago. "A not unreasonable speculation. What is your source?"
"Ulliaa."
He tried to parse that, decided it was a name. "Who?"
"The Northman who was to be staying behind when the mountebank was to be fleeing south. Last night he was coming to Orlando, of my freeriders, with a message for me."
"He ratted himself out?"
"No. They are being in disagreement. Ashkoliiz is to have one purpose, that bear to have another. The Northmen are fearing what might be to come with this fracture."
"What precisely did this message say?"
Enero tugged a folded piece of parchment from the book. A note was written on it in a strange hand.
She bethrais ore purpos for glori. We feir Iistaa tchanjing also. She will waik what we did not seik. Gaard your threis.
After puzzling for a while, Imago looked up at Enero. "You obviously read more into this than I can. I don't understand this last bit. 'Guard your threes.'"
"Here is what I am to be fearing," Enero said. "You are having succeeded in laying old power to rest. You are having balanced the Burgesses. If Ashkoliiz is to be waking some terror in the North, the City Imperishable will to be rising to defend itself. Our work of last winter is being undone then."
"Of course we'll defend ourselves." Imago almost sputtered. "We are already in a war to the south, if you haven't forgotten. I'll even be sure to guard the threes, if I can figure what in Dorgau's hells those are. And I'd love your help. But you've refused to let me pay you to stay on. Repeatedly."
"I am being for hire now." Enero leaned down to face Imago, hands planted wide. "Extending the contract of last autumn to a year. Same terms as before for my men, but being different for me. I am needing one copper orichalk in payment. I am also needing a reliable messenger to Bas Luccia."
"You can be buried in orichalks for all I care," Imago told him. "I'll even give you the keys to the mint if need be. But I can't get anyone through to Bas Luccia. I can't even get a cutter down the River Saltus."
"Tokhari caravans are already to be coming and going."
"They pass hundreds of miles to the east of Bas Luccia. They don't go near the coast. They can't compete with the shipping trade. I would have to pay a fortune—" He stopped. "There is no shipping trade now. It's under blockade. For all we know, it will stay that way for months, since we've no way to break it."
"You are to be thinking again, Lord Mayor," Enero said. "As am I. The Northmen are being made of frozen iron. Anything to frighten them is being like terror to me. Anything to break down your walls is being like worry to me."
"I'm glad you have your priorities straight," said Imago.
"I am to be writing messages. You are to be finding me a caravan."
"And an orichalk," the Lord Mayor reminded him.
"I am not objecting to it being delivered in a gold casket."
He smiled. "I'll see what I can arrange."
Enero nodded and left.
Imago breathed a heavy sigh of relief. He would have been down to almost no support at all, nothing to balance the bailiffs or supply his own force to keep the peace.
Or break it, if needed.
The afternoon brought him a succession of Tokhari caravan masters, two complaints from ships' captains trapped by the downstream closure of the river, news of a house fire near the Potter's Field, and a summons to appear before the fraud court of the Assemblage in answer for the misdeeds of his ward, one Bijaz the dwarf.
"It never ends," Imago growled, after being refused for the fourth time in his request for a caravan to Bas Luccia. "How am I to get this through?"
"It is not a matter of willingness," said the caravan master. This one's name was Quaals. "There are no trails, no serais." He lacked any Tokhari accent. But for his copper skin and swarthy cast and the almost exaggerated traditional Tokhari vest and flared trousers, he could have been a born City man.
Of course, with all the Tokhari living in this place, he could be a born City man.
"There must be roads. People live everywhere."
"Certainly." The Tokhari spread his hands, gesturing to emphasize his words as if signing to a fool. "Every farmer walks his pig to market. Every town has a track to the next town. A man on foot or ahorse might go anywhere he pleases, if he is patient. Four dozen camels and horses with a mounted escort? No.
"And there is more, your right honorableness. Some lands are empty. The east bank of the Saltus south of here is, so I am told. Beyond it lies trackless swamp and open prairie to the Yellow Mountains. Likewise long leagues of the route you pr
opose. I am to follow my usual trails, and double back after Cairn Pass or the Glass Monastery? Thus the distance is even greater, and no profit there to be had."
"Do you have any suggestions?" Imago asked, frustrated.
"I am crippled with regret in having failed you, Lord Mayor." The caravan master managed to look desolated. "Send trusted riders with me. I will show them the trails leading back west and south where we pass them. They can make their own choices. Bas Luccia is not some dog-infested pit, it is a great city by a great sea. But it faces the water, much as the City Imperishable faces the River Saltus, and takes as little care for its roads inland as you do."
"I will send a boy to you later," said Imago. "Please hold places for me until tomorrow."
"We leave at moonset two mornings hence," the master said. "For the Lord Mayor I will charge a most special, favorable rate in escorting and advising his riders."
"I've got a better idea," said Imago. "Charge me nothing, and I'll make sure you're at the top of the muster lists in the future."
More desolation. "A promise is a glorious investment, but a payment can be spent on feed and weapons today."
"And what would that payment be?"
"Forty gold obols for up to four riders. Payable on depositary draft to Azure Expedition and Trade at Dawes, Toombs, Mousely, Grubbs. I do not carry my funds where bandits can steal them." Quaals smiled ruefully. "At least not bandits of the mountain kind."
"This must be done," Imago said ungraciously. "Never mind waiting for my runner. I'll send Stockwell to the bank with your fee before the windows close. My riders will find you tomorrow."
"You will not regret this."
"Don't tell me what I will and won't regret," Imago muttered, but he rose to shake hands. "The City Imperishable is in your debt, sir."
"Not once the draft has cleared."
Bijaz
Slackwater Princess came upon the cliff cities near sunset with her whistle screaming and bells clanging. The river was narrower and faster here, so the paddles thrashed hard. Swallows circled in flocks so thick as to cloud the light. The air smelled of the sweet sap of scraggly evergreens for which Bijaz had no name, of the tingling scent of the river where it broke over rocks along the south bank and mixed tumbling with the air until the two became one.
Excited men lined the rail speculating on the adventure to come. They had to shout over the river's roar, the thrash of the paddles, the chatter of swirling swallows. Bijaz could see little but broad backs and supplies already shifted to be offloaded. His opinion varied from the prevailing sentiment on deck. It was perfectly clear to him that the safest, simplest part of the journey was just behind them. Everything from now on would be uphill, increasingly cold, and if successful, likely to culminate in the unpleasantly noumenal.
He figured he'd see the cliff cities soon enough. Right now Bijaz aimed to enjoy his last moments of relative luxury. He'd successfully avoided Ashkoliiz and her invitation to return to the upper decks, and so had partaken of neither cigars nor wine. The sour mash and roasted fish of the lower decks had been filling enough. Meanwhile, he'd noticed the men going up in fives or tens.
She was making the acquaintance of every one of her troops. He had no doubt Ashkoliiz would know each man's name and have an assessment of their character. He knew little of soldiers and generals, but the great syndics of Heliograph Hill did not invite their clerks and stevedores up for drinks. Could one woman lead so many men on charm and wit alone?
With a great clangor and a groan of distressed timber Slackwater Princess came to a shuddering halt. Sailors communicated in whistles over the noise of landing, lashing the boat tight. Even from his limited view, Bijaz could see that they had laid out more lines than normal, making the boat fast against whatever forces of the river might pluck her from the bank.
The vessel settled in place. Men poured down the gangplank. Some leapt overboard in their haste. The birds swooped low, darting under the ceiling of the main deck, alighting on the rail, circling Bijaz with whirring wings.
He realized then they were not swallows, but bats little larger than a man's hand. They shrieked and piped as they flew. Tiny monkey faces glared at him with glittering eyes the color of clouded citrons.
Bijaz stifled a shout and began to swat them away.
Some burst into flowers. The rest quickly veered off, leaving Bijaz in a shower of rose petals that no one but him seemed to notice.
He finally made his way to the rail. The docks here were substantial—stone jetties of riprap much like those at the City Imperishable. A few rotting piers protruded from the fast water, showing that there had been wharves in the River Saltus in older, better days.
The cloud of bats still circled Slackwater Princess, but they spiraled ever wider into the sky. Late afternoon's slanting light flowed golden bright across the faces of the roofless white buildings behind the docks. This port had been burned out. Facades were damaged. Curving columns broke off halfway up.
A hill rose steeply behind the buildings, stairs climbing to meet the cliff which carved the northern sky here. Bijaz followed their line upward. That slope was nothing more than a skirt for the vertical face, he realized. The buildings of this port were a veneer for what had been built above.
The cliff cities—he had never heard another name for them—were great, bulbous structures which clung to the wall of rock. Bubbles of brick and mud and stone strained a half-mile and more toward the heavens. The globes varied in size, but even the smallest could have contained Slackwater Princess.
Bijaz realized the larger ones were demiglobes, domes set vertically instead of horizontally. He wondered if those opened within the cliff face to complete the spheres beloved of the architects of this place.
Each globe had an entrance in the form of a flanged tube, rather like the flare at the top of a vase. Various of the tubes faced upward, outward, or down, though all were roughly at the waist of their respective globes. The monkey-faced bats issued from the globes in spiraling clouds.
This had been a city of some flying race. Perhaps the bats were degenerate descendants of the builders. Bijaz recognized the power and skill it had taken to raise this place.
It was one thing to call a flower into being within cupped hands, or even to raise the dead. It was quite another to build an entire city such as this.
The Northern Expedition assembled itself on the docks in the failing light of day. The stone waterfront ran a mile along the bend of the River Saltus. Flowing by the City Imperishable it was slow, sullen, louche. Here at the cliff cities, the young Saltus was narrow and fast, filled with bright promise and a manic momentum.
A cheap metaphor for life itself, Bijaz thought sourly.
He seemed to have been spared any particular assignments thus far. The only dwarf in the expedition, and presumably the only god as well, he could see why the others would work around him. It didn't seem to be in Ashkoliiz's character to leave a piece on her board unused, but lurking belowdecks he hadn't been in a position to know whom she might have been checking by his very presence.
He found his way to a half-ruined balcony overlooking the bustle and watched.
About a hundred men had shipped upriver with Ashkoliiz. Most had signed on in Port Defiance, seeking a way out of the troubled city. The rest had been swept in from the rally at Imperatrix Park. Bijaz knew forty or so riders were coming upriver, though he hadn't spotted them since Slackwater Princess had last called ashore. The cliffs there would have forced the horsemen to swing wide to the north. They had not caught up with the boat since.
That made for a hundred forty men, plus Ashkoliiz and her personal party, including Bijaz himself. He doubted any crew from Slackwater Princess would be joining them. Adventuresome as they might be, sailors would have no great love of walking empty miles.
A gross of mouths to feed, plus several dozen horses, required a considerable wealth of supplies. Bales, barrels, boxes, satchels, sacks, saddles, weapons, washtubs, wheels of cheese. Ashk
oliiz's five-score hirelings swarmed around the docks, directed from the upper deck by her with her electrick voice projector. Bijaz watched her three dark Northmen move among the work parties, touching an arm, pointing out the needed direction of supplies. A few of the sailors helped as well.
Then the ice bear lumbered down the gangplank. Men scattered in a controlled panic, reluctantly reforming out of the path of the bear.
That was why she'd called the men up to the upper decks in small groups, he realized. To introduce them to the ice bear, and show that it was tame—or civilized?—enough for them to work with.
The bear was unmistakably working. It moved from stack to stack, inspecting supplies and the effort being done to bring them ashore. Every few minutes it would stop, stand to its full height, and stare up at Ashkoliiz. In those moments, her attention would come to a precise focus as her voice boomed from the voice projector.