“Are you sure we’re not dreaming this?” she asks plaintively.
“Sure, I’m sure,” replies N’Doch, with the intensity of one trying hard to convince himself. “What’s your problem, anyway?”
“Look at this place!”
“What’s the last city you were ever in?”
“I’ve seen pictures. Lots of them. Cities have people, but this place is empty. There’s no one here!”
“We don’t know that yet.” He stands with his arms akimbo, gazing ahead down a wide street that vanishes into the distance without a crook or bend. His dark, mobile silhouette rests uneasily against the pale background of faceless buildings and streets, as if cut out with scissors and pasted on. “Wonder where the damn bird went.”
Rather than striking out across the open square, N’Doch chooses the long way, around its perimeter. The pavement is as smooth and white as polished tile. The facades of the buildings are peculiarly blank, with tall arched niches wrapping curls of thin shadow around opaque windows and doors. Rather as an Impressionist might paint them, Paia notes. No detail, just the effects of light. But a painter’s surfaces would never be so flat and lifeless. It’s like there’s an entire dimension missing from everything she sees.
“If there are people here,” she asks, “how do they get in and out of these buildings?”
“What d’you mean, if? Who ever heard of a city with no people?”
“There’s lots of them. Most of them, in my time.”
N’Doch shakes his head impatiently. “Concealed entrances, probably. For security reasons.”
As he says this, there’s a shivering in the ground. A buildup of static in the air raises the hair on Paia’s arms. N’Doch has moved off toward the nearest doorway for a closer look.
“You feel that?” she calls.
He steps up on a sidewalk she hadn’t noticed before and peers into the archway. “Feel what?”
The sensation passes. Paia hurries to catch up with him. “You didn’t feel that little . . . quivering?”
“Nope. Not a thing.” He runs his palm across the blank space where the door should be. “You’d think maybe there’d be a sign or something. You know, like: dragon guides, ring here.”
Paia is relieved to see his humor resurfacing. Her laugh echoes thinly, as if the buildings have absorbed most of its wavelengths. N’Doch moves on to the next entryway, which is flanked by a pair of white columns, but offers the same lack of access.
“I’d feel better if there was someone around,” Paia ventures.
“Ha. Be careful what you wish for. Who says that someone would want us around?”
“But wouldn’t you prefer an enemy we know about to one we can’t even see?”
“I’d prefer no enemies at all. Enemies do things like blow you to pieces and murder your ma.”
“Oh, N’Doch. . . .” Paia slips her hand around the crook of his elbow. His tensed muscles are more honest about his state of mind than his face is. She squeezes him gently. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
She’s glad he can finally admit it aloud. They walk arm in arm to the end of the block, where a side street enters the square. But N’Doch disengages himself uneasily when they reach the curb. He looks out across the broad expanse of open pavement. “Y’know, the folks who made this city didn’t have much of an imagination. Those buildings on that side are exactly the same as these here.”
Paia allows his escape to safer subject matter. “And the other two sides match each other, too. An advanced appreciation of symmetry, perhaps?”
“Symmetry is boring.”
“Always?” She glances up at him, risking a smile. “You’d look very odd without matching arms and legs. Or eyes.”
N’Doch snorts. “Maybe. But I knew a guy once with one brown eye and one blue one. Made a shitload of money on it, ’cause people thought he was a big magic man.” His grin is sour, but Paia is happy to see it. “Point is,” he continues, “I wouldn’t want to meet the people that live here. They’d be the people who gotta do things a certain way. I wouldn’t likely fit into their mold. Maybe if we got off the main drag a bit . . .”
He turns to peer hopefully down the little side street. The ground shivers again, a tremor like a tiny earthquake. Paia’s vision blurs momentarily. Either that, or something odd is happening to the surfaces of the buildings. And then, it’s as if nothing had occurred.
“There! Did you feel that?”
“Was that it before? I thought it was me phasing out for a nanosec.”
“No, it . . . look! Ask, and ye shall receive!”
On the corner of the building across the side street, a little above head-height, is a sign—the first they’ve seen, the first detail of any sort. Paia’s eyes fall upon it hungrily. It’s a bright sky-blue rectangle with a neat white border and white block lettering. Familiar looking, but she can’t quite place it.
“’As the crow flies . . .’” N’Doch reads with a puckered brow. “Huh. I guess it could have been a crow.”
“What’s a crow?”
“A bird. Like the one that got us into this mess in the first place.”
“Ah.” Paia stares at the sign, trying to tease out further meaning. Of course! It reminds her of a monitor screen. Amazing, she muses, the significance letters can assume when they’re the only ones around. There are very few signs in the Citadel, and no books at all, save the antiques in her father’s library. There’s no one to publish them anymore. The God requires literacy for the Temple priesthood, but only to enable them to carry out the day-to-day administration and to keep track of the tithing and finances. She wonders how many of the children in the villages that pay duty to the Temple are being taught to read and write. Why bother, if there’s nothing for them to read? On the other hand, how will there ever be anything to read again, if no one is taught how to write?
Paia realizes that N’Doch is staring at her.
“You gonna read that sign right off the wall, girl?”
“I was thinking about books.”
“Books? I’ve read one or two.” He shakes his head. “You’re weird. C’mon. This way. This little street looks promising.”
At first, Paia is not sure she agrees, and she’s glad when he chooses a cautious pace and sticks to the middle of the pavement. The street is narrow, and shaded rather abruptly into dimness by the tall buildings on either side—all the horizontal confinement of a cave without the vertical comfort of a roof. But, in the distance, several vague projecting shapes promise a change in the monotony of the facades. They gain specificity as the distance shortens, and are finally resolved into objects familiar to Paia only through pictures. In colors and stripes, they hang out over the sidewalk, which is less well-maintained on this back street than out in the main square. Long cracks spiderweb the concrete, and the curbstones are worn and broken.
N’Doch points. “See those awnings? Must be a little business district.”
Awnings. That’s what they’re called. Paia thinks they look very cheerful, especially after a long trudge through a dull gray city. Urged along faster, she can soon see little tables under the nearest one, covered with red-checkered cloths. The black metal chairs have rounded, filigreed backs. Paia feels a sudden urge to sit down.
But N’Doch’s eager pace has slackened. Abruptly he stops, in the middle of the street. “Oh, boy.”
“What is it?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“I might, if you give me a chance.”
“I know this place.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know it. I’ve been there. Bunch of times, when I was a boy.”
Paia has met many strange notions in her life, but for some reason, this one gives her a chill. “Oh, N’Doch, it just looks like some place you’ve been.”
“No. It is.” He jabs a finger at the scrawl of lettering on the green-and-white striped canopy. “See what it says? La Rive Gauche. That’s what the pl
ace was called. It was Papa Dja’s favorite hangout when he was still living in town. Okay. I’ll reconsider the possibility that I’m dreaming . . .!”
“We’re dreaming.”
“We can’t both be . . .”
There’s movement among the tables. A large brown animal rises from the shadows and stands at attention, looking their way. Paia encounters her second extinct creature in less than a day. It’s a dog, and the sight invokes a sharp twinge of nostalgia. Her father had tried to breed dogs in the early days of the Collapse, but feeding them became too difficult when the humans around them were starving. The feudal system of tribute-in-kind that keeps the Temple denizens so healthy and well fed wasn’t put in place until the dragon arrived. This dog does not look well fed at all. Even at a distance, Paia can see that its raggedy coat is patched with the matted darkness of dried blood. But it looks alert and capable of being threatening. Paia doesn’t know if she should be afraid of it or not.
“It’s one of the mutts!” N’Doch waves at the dog, then whistles. “Damn! It’s one of Papa Dja’s old mutts!” He whistles again, but the dog stays right where it is, dancing from paw to paw and panting foolishly. “Okay, boy, wait there and we’ll come to you.” N’Doch breaks into a trot.
And is flung to the ground by a sudden shifting of the pavement. Paia stumbles as the street jerks sideways, left, then right, and left again, as if meaning to keep her tumbling. Scrambling to her feet, she hears a crackling and roaring, rolling down the canyon of buildings behind them. Grit swirls in the air, blinding her. Where did it come from? The streets are spotless. N’Doch is yelling over the roar. He grabs her under her arms, yanking her to her feet. The grit is sharper now, biting at her skin like a swarm of insects. The gusts tear at her hair and clothing.
“Inside!” N’Doch screams in her ear. “We’ve got to get inside!”
They race toward the café, the street bucking beneath them, the wind like a giant’s vicious sidearm punch. The crackling is behind them, approaching, nearing, deafening.
“Faster!” N’Doch bellows. “It’s after us!”
Paia can’t think about what “it” is. She can only run, as fast as she can, a frantic mouse scurrying for the baseboard. They gain the shadow of the canopy. The scalloped edges of the awning snap in the wind like the repeating crack of pistol shots. Empty coffee cups and butter plates are sliding, crashing to the pavement. The dog has vanished. N’Doch hauls Paia through the shifting maze of tables and chairs toward the door, shattered glass crunching beneath their feet. Paia fights off a flying tablecloth that’s wrapped itself around her face and breathes a little prayer of thanks, because there is a door here and it’s opening, just in time to receive them as they stagger blindly through. It slams abruptly shut behind them.
The silence is almost as deafening as the roaring had been outside. The floor is steady and level. The air is still. Paia inhales the long-forgotten dark scent of coffee and the earthy sweetness of fresh bread. The dimly lit room is full of dogs, scattered about on the black-and-white tiles. Several of them thump their tails in greeting.
“There you are! Took your own sweet time as usual.”
An old man is standing behind them, silhouetted against the wall of windows fronting the café. His hand is on the doorknob. Paia cannot see his face. On the other side of the glass, tables and chairs are skidding and colliding in space like elementary particles.
N’Doch whirls. “Papa Dja!” He starts toward the man, then stops. “Damn, you’re a sight for sore eyes!”
“Glad you made it in one piece.”
Paia wonders if a penchant for understatement could be hereditary.
“A close thing, too,” N’Doch exclaims. “You oughta stand clear of all that glass.”
“We’re safe in here. It can’t come in.”
“It?”
The old man glances behind him as a wind-borne chair crashes twice against the door, like a giant’s knock. He lifts both arms in a gesture of resignation. “There is great evil abroad in this city, my boy.” He moves away from the door as if exhausted, and lowers himself into a chair by the window. A tiny white cup and saucer rest on the marbletopped table beside it.
“Man, it was . . .”
“I know. I don’t go out.”
N’Doch drops to a crouch beside the chair and grasps his grandfather’s knees, giving them a little shake. “Damn, when I got there and saw . . . I was sure you were . . .!”
The old man pats his grandson’s hands awkwardly, and then the head that drops to press itself against him. “So was I, for a while there.”
He is slight but elegant of manner, what Paia’s father would have called an old-world gentleman. His hair has grayed in tight curls like a woolly skullcap pulled back from his high forehead. He’s wearing white, a floor-length tunic with full sleeves and gold embroidery around the open neck. Paia takes to him immediately, especially when he offers her a warm and intelligent smile, and his dark, slender hand in greeting.
“Who’s this, now? You’re showing off with a different woman every time I see you.”
“Not my woman, Papa.” N’Doch sits back on his heels with a damp and weary grin, one hand still resting on the old man’s knee. “This is Paia. She’s a dragon guide, too. Paia, this is my grandfather Djawara. Pay no attention to anything he says.”
N’Doch’s grandfather peers at Paia without a trace of myopia. “Hmmm. The Fire-breather’s, is it?”
“Yes, sir.” Paia doesn’t ask how he knows. She can see that this family likes to spring their knowledge on you sideways, to see if you’ll startle. She hasn’t called anyone “sir” since her father’s diplomatic colleagues stopped coming to the Citadel, but the old gesture of respect comes back automatically with this man. She returns his handshake firmly. “We’re so glad to find you alive!”
Djawara raises an eyebrow at his crouching grandson. “Nice girl. Beautiful, too. Why isn’t she yours?”
N’Doch shoots a glance at Paia. “’Cause somebody else got there first.”
“And you’re honoring that? Good lad. Your manners have improved.”
“Funny. I’d have said I was losing my touch.” N’Doch’s hands are working patterns on Djawara’s bony knees, soft musical rhythms of distress. “Papa. Papa. I got some bad news to tell you. Real bad. Fâtime’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“She’s . . . um, she’s dead, Papa.”
Djawara’s smile drains away like the color going out of a sunset. His chin lifts. He turns his face away to gaze through the dusty window. Outside, the windstorm has passed, leaving behind a rubble of broken furniture. “How?”
“Shot. Murdered.”
“Murdered? Why? What for? For the house? For that ancient black-and-white TV? She had nothing worth killing her for!”
Paia pulls a chair over beside Djawara. She sits down and takes his hand. His skin is darker than hers, but just as soft.
N’Doch stands, walks in an aimless little circle, then goes to the door and leans his forehead against the glass. “Not a thief, Papa. It was too clean . . . like a hit. I think it was Baraga.”
“It was the dragon,” Paia says. “It was Fire. He’s the one to blame.”
“Who came after you, Papa? Your house is a pancake.”
Djawara nods. “My lovely, loyal house. Men, for sure. There was a lot of shooting. Maybe the dragon as well. It all happened so fast. But I saved the dogs, or I should say, they saved me. Dragged me into the trees, and poof! Here I am. I always knew there was something lurking beneath those boughs. Just couldn’t ever find it before.”
“There was a bird,” Paia murmurs.
“Oh, yes. He’s around somewhere. They all are.”
“But, Papa, why are we here in the Rive? No, strike that. Why is the Rive here?”
Djawara shrugs. “You don’t know?”
“Not a clue.”
“I thought maybe the dragons might . . . where are they, anyway?”
“On the w
ay, I hope. We sort of got started without them.” N’Doch turns away from the door to regard the café in all its richness of detail: the cracked plaster walls hung with faded posters advertising travel to cities that Paia knows were under water long ago; the dark polished oak bar with its glimmering mirrors behind shelves stocked with bottles and glassware; the towering espresso machine in the corner, surrounded by stacks of white china. He spreads his arms wide. “But why are we here? Is it . . . an illusion?”
“I worried about that,” Djawara concedes. “I wandered for what seemed like days in this faceless city and suddenly, there it was, with a fresh cup of espresso sitting right there on the table, and the old horse trough full of water for the dogs.”
“Suddenly? You mean, like it hadn’t been there before?”
“Well, I don’t know that, do I? Every street in this city looks alike. But when I spotted that old familiar awning, I’d just been thinking of how restorative a good shot of espresso would be. I walked in and everything, the whole room, was like the Rive, but not quite. Like a sort of sketch. Except for the steaming cup of espresso. That was so real, I burned my tongue.” Djawara pauses to moisten his lips as if testing for lingering tenderness. “That was several days ago, and I haven’t been hungry or thirsty since. And the place gets more like the Rive every day. If it’s an illusion, I doubt it could feed me so convincingly. The dogs are so pampered, they’re getting positively lazy.” He sighs, leans forward and sips at his cup. “Sometimes I think tea would be nice for a change, and there it is. If it’s an illusion, it’s not your ordinary kind.”
N’Doch walks to the bar, pats it, then leans against it and looks back at Paia. “This couldn’t all be Fire’s doing?”
She considers this nervously. But La Rive Gauche just does not seem to be Fire’s sort of place. It’s too pleasant and understated, too . . . democratic, and she says so.
“But,” counters N’Doch, “the weather can be a real bitch.”
“That was no simple windstorm,” Djawara says. “There are monsters roaming the streets, make no mistake about it. I don’t go out. Neither do the dogs. Not since we lost three of them. That’s why I sent the bird. For some reason, they can get through.”
The Book of Air: Volume Four of the Dragon Quartet Page 12