by Jay Lake
"No salvage," Bijaz added.
The southerner grunted, then headed for a closer look. Ashkoliiz turned on her heel and stalked a few yards along their backtrail. Amalii turned to Bijaz. "Where do you fare now?"
"Southward," Bijaz said. "Whatever lies beneath all of this is aimed at the City Imperishable. I presume you will turn east or west, so you can eventually make your way North again somewhere past that sea of ice?"
Amalii shook his head. "No. Our triad is broken. Our spirit-guide is lost. The woman has failed. We are no more. Skin-ghost, we say in the North. Hollow of purpose and empty of soul."
Bijaz noted that the Northmen had already set themselves to forgetting Ashkoliiz. "You're welcome to come with me," he said. "DeNardo is surely heading south as well."
"So we stay together," Ulliaa said. "Lead well, little god."
"You are not skin-ghosts to me," he told them.
"Every man judges himself."
With that cheerful thought in mind, Bijaz picked his way down the hill. What had the ice bear intended for this effort? Spirit-guide, killer. None of the five who had originally come out of the North had pursued the same purpose, that was clear.
Cities, forests, life and death. But why? Just because it was time?
No one suggested passing through the Paucius mines. Bijaz couldn't stand the thought of being enclosed within the stone when the wasps caught up with them.
Instead they set out to retrace the route which the supply train had taken over the Silver Ridges. They crossed the mountains via a high, winding pass. The flat-floored cleft was jumbled with rocks and enormous gravel bars.
The fifth day out from the ruins of the base camp, they reached the south end of the pass. The rolling tan prairie of the Saltus drainage stretched below them. At their feet the valley simply ended in a sheer cliff much higher than what they'd climbed so long before. Bijaz approached the rounded edge until he felt the drop pulling at him. For a moment he thought he might be able to fly, but he had no desire to share the air with those wasps.
They did not set a fire that night. Stars glittered cold and hard. Bijaz slept poorly, his throat aching from the chill. The edge continued to beckon him. It was almost a voice, telling him that he'd float forever.
He flexed his right fist to call back his piece of the noumenal sun. When his fingers glowed pink, Bijaz found his way once more to the wheat field.
The reaper man was along the ridge now, cutting rank after rank of the golden grass with wide swings of the scythe.
"Am I doing the right thing?" Bijaz asked, though they stood the length of a furrow apart.
He received no answer but the hiss of the blade.
Of course he had to go home, but to what end?
Bijaz had one more question. "Could I truly fly?"
The reaper turned. The gray hood opened on nothing but shadows. Still, he knew he was being examined.
Bijaz realized he was not quite touching soil. Startled, he looked up to see the nighttime expanse of the south. One foot was raised in the air, ready to step into a long, deep nothingness.
DeNardo squatted nearby. "When someone is to be going for a walk over the edge," he said, "I am always to be curious what they are believing they will find."
"Dreams." Bijaz backed slowly away, then tumbled onto his arse, fingers digging into the thin gravel. He had never been so grateful for solid ground.
"If I am to dream of flying, I am doing it from the safety of my bed." DeNardo stood, heading back for his cloak. "You must be going home, little man. As well me."
"I wish Enero was here," Bijaz said.
"As well me."
Standing near the edge at dawn, he could not imagine how the mounted column had gotten up here. "Are you sure they came this way?"
DeNardo waved him toward the western edge of the pass. "See? There is being a trail."
Bijaz looked. There certainly was being a trail, though he wouldn't have spotted it from any distance. A narrow track slipped past a bulge in the rock and dropped away.
"I am to be going now," DeNardo announced, and headed down.
With a twisting pain in his gut, Bijaz followed.
The cliff face was deeply channeled. He realized this was a very old, very big waterfall. If the entire high desert had once been an inland sea, this would have been the outlet.
Behind him the Northmen toiled at their descent, apparently unconcerned about the half-mile drop beside them. Past them, Ashkoliiz strolled. Only Bijaz seemed to be struggling. One slip and he would either discover flight or be dead. Crawling would only make the descent more difficult.
So he followed DeNardo. Horses had made their way up this path, after all.
Bijaz was surprised when his feet eventually struck level ground three paces in a row. He glanced at the sun. A bit after noon. So it had taken them a good six hours to descend.
The thought drew his gaze to the cliff face. The Northmen were two switchbacks above him. Ashkoliiz trailed behind them.
Something else moved much higher up.
"DeNardo," he said quietly, not wanting to turn lest he lose sight of whatever it was.
The Winter Boy was at his side in a moment.
"Watch up there." Bijaz pointed. "See that column of red rock? Stained with pale streaks? I just saw movement on the trail a bit to the right."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Northmen stop and look up. The four of them watched awhile, but there was nothing else except the occasional flash of Ashkoliiz's elbow.
"It is not being one of our men," DeNardo told him quietly. "And there is being nothing good for us up there otherwise. We are wanting to be on the water very soon."
The River Saltus was shallow here. Long-collapsed pilings showed in the current. Had people once brought metals down out of the mountains by mule? "No boat," Bijaz said.
"We are to be finding trees, making a raft."
"DeNardo, where are the trees?"
The two of them stared awhile, until Bijaz spotted stumps a mile downstream. They appeared shattered, surrounded by shards of wood and sprays of sawdust.
"The Eater of Forests," he whispered.
"It comes this way," said Ulliaa, now right behind him.
They scrambled to the water's edge. No one wished to wait on the trail for Ashkoliiz.
Onesiphorous
News had come in the past days of the Lord Mayor's death. Imago had been killed in the Great Hall of the Assemblage of Burgesses. He'd had a massive funeral in the Potter's Field. Or not. Perhaps the bailiffs had barred the proceedings. Or Imago's corpse had been dumped in the River Saltus.
No one was certain.
Onesiphorous sat on the deck of the assay boat which would be his flagship, Xanthippe D. She'd been out on the western loop of the mine run when Port Defiance fell. Her captain had spent two months lurking in lagoons until Beaulise had run across him and brought ship and crew back for the assault.
Onesiphorous propped his feet against the aft rail and stared at the knob-kneed trees. A pair of green-furred monkeys stared back, their eyes filled with mock wisdom.
"It doesn't matter if he's dead," Kalliope said, squatting next to Onesiphorous. "Everything he cared about remains true."
"Who will stand in his place as Lord Mayor?" Onesiphorous wished he had a pipe to draw on, something to do with his hands and his nerves. "The City hasn't been calm long enough to develop an orderly succession of power. Elections are ancient history. We can't keep restaging the Trial of Flowers."
Kalliope placed her hand on his arm. "Without Port Defiance and access to the Sunward Sea, you won't have enough of a city left to govern."
"What in the nine brass hells do you care, anyway? You walked away from the City Imperishable years past."
"I sold myself for some food and a safe place to sleep," she said coldly. "That I did something more than sweating spread-legged beneath a hairy rug merchant is a testament to Tokhari ways. I'm here because the fate of the City Imperishable is impor
tant. Your home isn't the ghost of an empire, it's the naked heart. What flows out of there affects everyone who lives within the distance an army can march.
"So get up off your miserable little arse and shout these people in line. You've raised an army. Use it. Or lose everything. Imago wouldn't want otherwise, would he?"
Onesiphorous met her eyes. "I apologize," he said slowly. "I stood for years in adversity with none to aid me. Even my own Slashed spent more time complaining or asking for favors than they did advancing my cause. Their cause. I should not punish you for that."
Kalliope snorted.
"I take it you still refuse to take command?" he asked.
"They will not listen to a woman and a foreigner."
"Then you will remain here with me on Xanthippe."
"You know how I feel about that," she said.
"And you know how unprepared I am. I can shout 'attack,' but after that I will be helpless against whatever comes next."
"We've been over this," she said. "Port Defiance is a widespread target. There are no walls to scale, no streams to dam. And there's no way to ride them down."
Tactics, tactics, it was always tactics. He fell back on strategy. "Then why are we bothering? We can't hope to prevail in a lengthy struggle."
"We don't require a lengthy struggle. Most of Port Defiance won't defend their city, not if the choice is between the corsairs or us."
"I'll have a banner made today," he said. "Something to fly from this ship. We'll need firepots to go around it. I don't believe she has electricks aboard."
"Imago never adopted a flag for himself," Kalliope reminded him quietly.
Jason left that afternoon, taking a dozen men with him. The volunteers were strong of arm, and apparently limited imagination, for they were forced to heave the Green Man like a log into a little sloop. The vessel sailed with a deck full of fishing nets for pretence.
Dusk fell. The new moon of Mai would be rising soon. Anyone not already assigned a place in the attack was told off to the reserves.
The rest of his jack-hazard fleet circled itself into sailing order. Steam barges, flat boats, sloops, dories, even the narrow little Angoumois boats. The smaller vessels were underpowered. The larger steamers were too heavy to be swift. They'd be making their way slowly across the incoming tide. The corsairs would see the attack coming as soon as they rounded Snag Point.
Onesiphorous fingered the shard of blue jade. The mystery of its finding had never left his mind. The thumbs were strangely interconnected. It was odd how little the miners seemed aware of the curious nature of their adopted homes.
Much like the City Imperishable, the world was filled with strange, half-remembered secrets.
Xanthippe D.'s boiler hissed up to operating pressure. She would be near the head of the attack line. He clambered up to the roof of the deckhouse, where a red-and-white sheet was stretched across a wooden frame.
"Boudin," Onesiphorous told the noisy night. "I come for you, and Big Sister, and most of all for Imago." A thought occurred to him. "Captain Pottle!"
The man poked his head out of the deckhouse, where he'd been working over the charts one last time. "Sir?"
"Do you have a gold obol? I am in need of a single coin. If we survive the night I'll repay you double."
"I'm more broke than the bride's father on wedding day," the captain said, "but I reckon I can find my reserve. We don't see the dawn, I shan't need it. If we do find daylight again, you're a likely investment."
Onesiphorous watched the phosphorescent ripple in the water where the Bay of Snakes met the Jade Bight. Xanthippe D. rocked as she passed the line. Then she was out in open water, flanked by four fast, narrow outrigger boats rowed by Angoumois.
Pottle climbed up on the roof with a wallet. "It's said to be bad luck to have dwarfs or women on the boat. But 'twas a woman dwarf that sent us back, so who knows from luck? Now, what would you be wanting with this gold obol?"
"I wish to pay the Sea King's fare."
The captain's voice dropped. "Where'd you hear that? I'll beat any man of mine bloody who's been talking up such—"
"Stop," said Onesiphorous. "I have friends beneath the shadows of Angoulême who hold faith in such things. I wish to honor their weird, and perhaps buy a bit of the future back for myself."
"Then you'll need two gold obols." The captain's tone was grudging. "One for each eye, to hold them closed so the dead man don't see the green ladder nor the black. Otherwise they won't never come back up." He paused. "You ever seen a man who's returned up with his fare paid?"
"Maybe." Onesiphorous thought of Clement, the boy who'd brought Kalliope and Jason from Sandy Banks.
"Don't know their own mothers, mostly."
That struck at Onesiphorous' conscience. "Still," he said stubbornly, "it's an honor I want to render."
"Here." The captain passed over four gold obols. "This'd pay my crew off for a full voyage. Two for you to throw down in memory of whoever, and two for yourself. Now that I know what it is you want, I won't have you repaying me. Even if we all live to feast like Burgesses, the story will be worth more to me."
"Thank you," said Onesiphorous.
The captain returned below. Onesiphorous watched Angoulême slide past his port rail. He wondered again about the stone traces beneath the swamp. Every city fell in its time. Perhaps if one dug far enough beneath the fields of any land one would find ancient palace floors and the gates of fallen fortresses.
The City Imperishable might have reached the end of its life. Cities were creatures of a sort, with bones of stone and people for muscles. They had many heartbeats—financial, agricultural, military, political—but hearts failed. Everyone lay down to rest eventually, even gods. Even the queen of Angoulême, in her time.
Faint lights danced within the eaves of her swamp. Onesiphorous raised a hand, waving across the darkness. That greeting done, he cast the captain's coins over the starboard rail into deep water.
Doubtless there was an invocation he should utter, but it seemed more honest to hope for a better day and grieve for his friend Imago.
Kalliope came up top. "Jason should have been in position by dusk. He'll wait for our attack before he approaches the black ships."
Onesiphorous stretched. "Are the firepots ready?"
"As best we can do." She sat so that their shoulders and elbows touched. "Now you wait. Others will have to pick up their courage, remember the butt end of their spear, and run screaming."
"I've done some screaming in my life. And a lot of waiting. But never for four hundred men on four dozen boats."
"Any commander sits through this." Onesiphorous swore he could hear her smile. "Usually you've trained them first, and burned a few villages for practice."
"I've never burned anything bigger than a log in a fire. Neither have most of these."
"Oh, there's more retired bandits in this bunch than you know," she told him. "Simple men with simple lives don't wind up working plantations on the Jade Coast. Most people here are fleeing something. Even your precious swampers—Anger Mice."
"Angoumois," he said, obscurely pleased that she'd at least made the effort.
"Even the Angoumois know their way around a knife and a net. Not like the fat, happy factors of Port Defiance."
"I don't really care whose flag flies there," he said. "Not anymore. But the Saltus needs to stay open, regardless of who collects the tariffs. And the dwarfs need to come home to raise their children."
"The City will go on without them."
"Maybe. But dwarfs will not go on without the City Imperishable." He guided her hand to his thigh. "Feel how short and twisted my legs are? Without the laws and customs of the City, in two generations this will be seen as the worst sort of cruelty. As depraved as any father who uses his sons on Saturday night and his daughters on Sunday morning before he goes to a temple to sweat out his virtue. Only the truly disturbed will make their children over, once we are no longer ordinary.
"I want my pe
ople to remain ordinary, to remain who they are."
"No one remains," she said. "What do you think has happened on the deserts since so many Tokhari have moved to Bas Gronegrim, Bas Luccia, Sel Biost, the City Imperishable? That migration began generations ago. The City's empire drew off men to fight wars. Instead of coming home, many sent for their wives and children.
"Now more of our people live in foreign cities than in our own honest sand. No one wants what was. I'm a sandwalker because not enough desert-born children seek out the apprenticeship anymore. They'd rather go to one of the cities and sit beside a trade factor to learn the counting.