“Where’s your Stilty, Rurgich?” Brolli said, baring his teeth in a strangely over-wide grin.
Rurgich turned and delivered a sound like a cough to Brolli, which also sounded like a word—perhaps a rude one—followed by more Kwendi words.
“Not so,” said Brolli. “Will Gredol learn if you do not? You show the example.”
“You know our Stilty good,” said Rurgich, in an accent so thick that Harric barely understood him. “We make talking time.”
“It shows.”
Their interaction was so strange, full of facial expressions involving teeth-baring and deliberate blinking, that Harric couldn’t be sure if Brolli’s last comment was meant to be ironic or an actual compliment.
“You have my lists?” said Brolli.
His companion held out a wooden tube, and Brolli stuffed it in a satchel at his waist. Together they swung hand to hand from the lowest branches until they got to a door at ground level of the drum. Above the door were other doors at intervals.
Rurgich flipped the door latch at the top of the door with one foot, opened the door with his feet, and swung through the doorway into a corridor similarly equipped with branches. Brolli paused by the door, where he reached out with a fingered foot and flipped a large sandglass that sat upon a table beside the door. Then he followed Rurgich into the hall and, with an agile foot, pulled the door shut behind him.
When their voices faded beyond the door, Fink collapsed to all fours, moaning. “What have you done? We have to get out of here, kid.”
“Get out?” Harric looked at the door Brolli had just passed through. It hadn’t even occurred to him they would hide in the room. “Fink, we have to follow Brolli. We need to see what his people are up to.” He took off his pack as he crossed to the door, and then began stripping his shirt. For the first time since his near-brush with death at the hands of the woman he loved, something other than pain stirred inside him. The gray veil through which he’d been experiencing the world since that day had been torn asunder, and now bright, colorful light shone through.
What he’d just done mattered. Where he was and what he could do here mattered.
“This is the moment I was trained for, Fink. You’re crazy if you think I’m staying here.”
Fink whined. “You can’t do it. You can’t hold yourself in the Unseen.”
“Then come with me. But now. Brolli looked like he was in a hurry.”
“You don’t understand. We’ve never been here before!”
“No kidding!”
“I mean my moon hasn’t been here—none of us. It’s too dangerous.”
Harric stooped beside the door, which was much too short for him, and motioned to Fink with a finger to his lips. Opening it slowly, he peered down the corridor beyond. Cool air washed in and over his bare chest. Brolli and Rurgich were gone. Even in the Unseen, Harric could see nothing moving but dust motes. Swallowing his frustration, he turned toward Fink. “What’s wrong with you, Fink? You’re trembling like a leaf in the wind. What do you mean, ‘too dangerous’?”
Fink hugged his knees to his chest and rocked himself back and forth. His hairless black head looked particularly hideous when he was frightened—a thousand-fanged rictus of fear amidst wrinkled black leather and white eyes bulging like boils. “We don’t have anything to do with Kwendi souls, see?” said Fink. “We’ve known about them because they use our Web sometimes, and we’ve spied on them and tried to get in here—all the moons have—but nobody’s got in, kid. Nobody! The Aerie is here.” He spoke this word like a talisman of fear. “They’re strong, kid. Terrible.”
“Who are the Aerie?”
The imp waddled across the floor and clapped his claws around Harric’s wrist like a snare. His triple chins waggled like turkey wattles. “Spirits. Strong spirits, but not of our moon. No one knows where they’re from. They’re like us, and like servants of the other moons, because they’re tryst servants and guardians of the Kwendi. But they don’t have a moon. They’re some kind of throwback from the Making, I guess. But they’re strong, kid. No one’s ever got in. We can’t get in.”
“What are you talking about? We’re already in. We came in the back door.”
Fink’s limbs quaked. “This is my end,” he muttered, wringing his hands. “Why’d I let you go through that gate? Brolli might spare you, but I’m doomed. I’ll be lunch for the Aerie. What a waste, too—no chance to enjoy this gorgeous belly.”
Harric extracted his wrist from Fink’s grip. He folded his shirt and took off his boots and socks, then crossed to where the witch-silver rods lay inert on the fur rug, and hid them behind a cabinet. He considered leaving his pants, too, but decided he might be cold in only his undershorts. The nexus he kept in the pouch around his neck.
“We’ve got to stay in this room, kid. If we wait here for Brolli, maybe the Aerie won’t notice us, and we can leave the way we came, on Brolli’s heels.”
Harric hesitated. Till now he’d never seen any sign of weakness in Fink, even in front of his sisters. But he’d seen people too scared to think straight. He’d been in that situation with Fink before, when their roles were reversed, and he’d relied on Fink to help him through it.
“You have to trust me, Fink.” He made a show of looking around the room. “None of the Aerie are here, right? Think of it for a second. They aren’t here because they don’t know we’re here. They watch the outside, but we’re on the inside.”
Fink cringed as if Harric were pushing him toward the door. “Okay… But…” He groaned. “Kid. Don’t do this to me.”
“Fink, this is my art. Spying is what I was trained for, what I was born for. And this is our golden opportunity.”
“Why do you care, kid? Who do you owe it to? No one!”
“I owe it to my queen, Fink. Because the Kwendi might be the real enemy, and if they are, then I need to find out and warn her.”
“No one knows you’re here. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”
“Oh, yes I do.” And that was the bare truth of it, Harric realized. He cobbing well did have something to prove. Caris didn’t accept his ways or approve of his techniques. Willard didn’t approve. But Harric would make them acknowledge the results—results their swords could never have achieved—and they’d have to admit his way was every bit as vital to the Queen’s survival. This was his best chance to prove himself.
“Plus, I have nothing to lose,” said Harric. “If I die here, Caris is free, right?”
“Kid, that isn’t funny.”
“But she would be free.”
Scowling, Fink nodded.
Harric grinned. “I haven’t felt this great in a long time, Fink. I have a very good feeling about this.”
Cracking the door again, Harric peered into the corridor in time to see a Kwendi swing past an intersection at the other end. His heart began to beat hard in his chest. It didn’t look like Brolli, but maybe this Kwendi would lead him to Brolli.
“You coming, Fink?” he whispered over his shoulder.
From behind him came no sound of talons on wood. He glanced back to see Fink hugging his knees and muttering on the white fur rug.
Harric shoved his hair out of his eyes. “So, let me get this straight, Fink. All three of the moons have been trying to get in here for ages, and now that you find yourself in, you’re going to hide like a puppy in a thunderstorm. I thought you wanted to impress your moon. How are you going to explain hiding in a corner to your sisters?”
Fink’s tongue flicked across his teeth. “Kid, I have to tell you something.” His voice came out hoarse and strained. “The Aerie could destroy me. Destroy me. Finished, killed, dead, gone. I’m not a true immortal, kid. I’m demi-mortal, which means I’m only immortal as long as nobody tears me to pieces.” His voice quavered. He worried his giant nose absently with one clawed hand. “This isn’t for me. This is for the major spirits.”
Harric snorted. “Yeah, and I shouldn’t be here either. I should let major players
like Willard or my mother take care of it. Well, I say cob that. I have to go. But I think you’re going to hate yourself later. Think this is an hourglass?” He nodded to the sandglass by the door. “Looks like maybe an hour-and-a-half-glass. I’ll try to be back in an hour. If I’m not… Go back without me.”
Fink just stared, face twisting as Harric put his empty pack on his back and stepped into the corridor. As he closed the door behind him, the weight of the Unseen fell on his consciousness like a load of sandbags. He paused as the wave of headachy discomfort passed over him. If he left his mother’s pack behind, it would lessen the strain, but he fancied he might need it to carry evidence or…things worth studying.
Staring down the strange corridor, he couldn’t help but smile. He felt right at home, but not because of the architecture. The architecture was truly weird, with crazily high ceilings lined with trellises of branches like those inside the room.
He felt at home because he was sneaking. And he was good at it.
The corridor ran for about ten paces to a four-way intersection. When he looked back at the door through which he’d come, he saw another door two fathoms above it, accessed by the trellis.
Did Kwendi ever use the floor?
Another throb of pain washed over his brain. The strain of holding himself in the Unseen was still too much for him, and at this rate, he wouldn’t get very far before he passed out. He considered creeping along in the Seen and only entering the Unseen when he saw a Kwendi, but he could tell by the scarcity and weakness of the lamps in the place that at best the corridors were lit dimly in the Seen, so any Kwendi in the halls would notice him long before he noticed them.
The lower door opened suddenly and Fink scrambled through it and into the corridor. The imp’s shoulders relaxed as if he were relieved to see Harric still standing there, and Harric beckoned him over. Fink waddled toward him, belly swaying side to side.
“You’re a very bad influence,” Fink whispered. “My mother would hate you. Here.” He tossed Harric’s wadded socks at his feet. “Put these on. You know you want to.”
Harric gave a soft laugh through his nose. With a silent apology to Mother Ganner—who had knitted them, and who would fall in a fit to see him use them so—he gratefully put them on. “Glad you changed your mind. Follow me.”
“Wait.” Fink held out a hand. “I take the nexus. If you yank on a Web Strand in here, the Aerie and everyone else will know it. In fact, there’s one reaching for it right now.”
Harric hesitated. “If I give this to you, you’re not going to waddle back into that room and sit on it like a brooding chicken, are you? You’re coming with me.”
Fink grimaced. “I should do that, but I won’t.”
Harric took off the pouch from around his neck and dropped it in the imp’s waiting hand, and the burden of the Unseen lifted immediately. His back was already slick with perspiration from his short time supporting himself in the Unseen.
“Thanks, Fink. Come on.”
His senses on hyper-alert, Harric crept to the intersection with Fink lurking behind. At the intersection, he found a squat black mushroom lamp attached to the paneling. It cast a feeble circle of light from under its cap. One or two more shone in the distance in each direction.
“They like it dark,” Harric whispered.
Peering behind the mushroom cap, he found a handful of glowing witch-silver globes the size of grapes. These he pocketed, leaving the lamp dark, to make it easier to identify the corridor that led to Brolli’s room. Then he turned left at the intersection and set off at a jog after the Kwendi he’d seen. He passed numerous doors and counted eight intersections without a sign of any other living thing. A glance behind him revealed Fink had fallen far behind, and when Harric stopped, the imp caught his eye and beckoned frantically.
Harric ran back and stopped before the imp, his breath coming strangely hard. The Kwendi city must be at a higher altitude. Fink gasped and clutched at his plump chest like he might have a heart attack.
“Carry me.” Fink reached up with both hands like an exhausted and hideous child.
“Gods leave it, Fink, you look like you weight five stone.” But Harric wanted to move at a pace faster than a waddle, so he turned and motioned for Fink to climb up, and in a few moments, the imp clung to Harric’s shoulders.
Harric staggered back into a jog. “Make that ten stone.”
“That’s power—you feel,” Fink said between breaths. “And—we’re going to need it.”
“A fire can’t throw a great light without burning something.”
This is what the Arkendians say when they wish to justify war.
And yet what is the use of a great light if it burns you to make it?”
—From Among the Stilties, by Second Ambassador Chombi
49
A Failed Tryst
Harric glanced down each intersection they passed, hoping to notice movement or to hear sounds of Brolli or the Kwendi he’d glimpsed from the room. Seeing no sign of life in any of them, he hurried on, the limbs of the trellises flashing by above him as if he passed through some highly ordered orchard. When he’d crossed a total of eight intersections, the corridor opened abruptly onto a tiled square as wide as a stone’s throw and open to the night sky.
A high and continuous trellis blanketed the entire square like the scaffolding for some broad and invisible building. Like the trellis in Brolli’s map room, wooden platforms adorned various levels of the trellis, though here they supported no cloth partitions or pavilions. The trellis spilled over the edges of the square to climb the drum-shaped buildings just as ivy climbs trees.
A smile lifted one side of Harric’s mouth. “They climb everywhere.”
“Not here, they don’t,” Fink said. “Place is dead. Let’s get out of here.”
“Calm down. If it’s dead, it can’t hurt you.”
But Fink was right. None of the usual signs of habitation presented themselves. The chimneys were cold. The windows were shuttered or dark. And the trellises were rotting and many fallen. The only sound or motion in the square was the splash and echo of a lonely central fountain and a steady sigh of wind through the trellis.
“What a shame,” Fink said. “No Kwendi here. Guess we have to go back to that big room and wait for him to open the gate home.”
“Nice try.”
Harric began circling buildings to the right side of the square. “This way. It looks like there aren’t any buildings on the far side, and maybe it opens onto a valley or something. I’d like to get a look at where we are.”
As they passed the buildings, Harric examined them. Unlike drum towers in Arkendia, which rarely had windows bigger than an arrow slit, Kwendi drums supported numerous balconies, platforms, generous windows, and elevated doorways. Surely through one of these he should glimpse a Kwendi too old for the fields or a mother with children. Yet the place seemed cold and empty. Unlived in.
An uneasy feeling coiled in Harric’s gut.
An inspiration to open a door and look inside died when he realized that none of the houses near him had front doors. At least, they didn’t have ground-level front doors. Scanning the nearest building, he found what was probably the main entrance—a fancy porch and heavy double doors—some three fathoms up. He exhaled a puff of exasperation. He was not going to climb three fathoms of rotting trellis to a door that might be locked.
“This place is a graveyard,” Fink said. “If they were here, we’d see their soul strands. I’m telling you, this place is a ghost town.”
Harric said nothing. His own soul strands rose like a bonfire of spiritual light into the glorious Web of the Unseen. Where were the Kwendi’s strands? Even if all Kwendi strands went to some terrestrial source, wouldn’t they be visible as they made their way to ground? Hurrying to the open end of the square, he hoped a more expansive view of the area would reveal some sign of Brolli, or at least some Kwendi he could follow to a more populated area.
When he stepped past the la
st building, he found himself looking into a small valley no wider than a bowshot and shaped like a steep bowl. Dozens and dozens of Kwendi buildings ringed the inside of the bowl from bottom to top. And all of them stood as apparently cold and empty as the ones they’d passed in the square.
Harric stared in awe. “Where is everyone?”
The drum-houses were arranged in concentric terraces one atop the other from the bottom of the valley to the top. Harric and Fink stood upon the second to the top terrace, with only one other above, and four below. Each of the ringing terraces had been cut into the side of the valley like rows of benches in the Iberg stadium in Samis.
Whatever they’d call it—township, village?—it was beautiful. And it was totally dead.
A shiver rippled up Harric’s spine. Was this an entirely abandoned city? Ballads were sung of such places, burned by war and left behind as ruins. But these buildings weren’t ruined. Their roofs and walls appeared sound. Yes, the paint peeled from doors and shutters, weeds clung to cracks, and the trellises sagged or rotted in places, but they weren’t ruins. They seemed simply abandoned.
“Believe me now, kid?” Fink’s talons gripped Harric’s shoulder straps tighter. “We’re in a tomb.”
Then a barking laugh echoed somewhere in the distance to the right, and Harric turned in time to catch a glimmer of light—maybe of soul strands?—some twenty houses down the ring of the terrace.
“There, see that?” he whispered.
“I didn’t see anything.”
“That was a soul strand. Why don’t their strands go to the moon?”
Fink clung tighter to the pack, drawing the straps so tight that they pinched Harric’s shoulders. “It’s the Aerie, I bet. Bet the Aerie eat their strands.”
Harric glanced over his shoulder at the imp, whose eyes stared wide and white as goose eggs. “Can I trust anything you say right now, or are you just so scared you see Aerie in everything?”
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