Solatium (Emanations, an urban fantasy series Book 2)

by Becca Mills

  At the end of the tunnel was an iron gate. An impatient looking guard was holding it open for me. I ran through, tugging Copper along behind, and found myself on a bustling city street. It looked like I’d gone back in time to a medieval town. The buildings were mostly wooden and were crammed close together. They seemed to max out at two or three stories.

  I looked for Williams and found him off to the right. The wake Bertha created was rapidly closing behind her. I clambered back onto Copper and pointed him at Bertha’s tail. The street was crowded with all sorts of traffic, from pedestrians and bicycles to carriages and palanquins. But Copper had no problem. He couldn’t part traffic through sheer size, the way Bertha did, but his laid-back ears and snapping teeth worked like a charm.

  Once we caught up to Williams, I gave Copper his head — my hands were shaking too much to do anything else — and rode along in a haze.

  I’m here to help Lord Cordus save humanity. The solatium thing is just a cover story.

  I clung to the thought, but it wasn’t accompanied by the usual flush of warm feeling. It seemed hollow, inadequate.

  I grabbed some mane and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to push the whole thing out of my head. I was panicking. That wasn’t going to help me figure out what was really happening, and it certainly wasn’t going to get me out of the S-Em safely.

  Slowly, a modicum of calm returned. It was pretty damn tenuous, but it was something.

  Here and now. Focus on the here and now.

  I took a deep breath and looked around at the people on the street. Many seemed to be of African ancestry, but I also saw quite a few who looked Native American, like Chasca. They seemed pretty ordinary. None had that otherworldly inhumanness of the powers.

  The only striking thing about them was the diversity of their clothing. I saw people wearing formal outfits ranging from frock coats and cravats to doublets and breeches to elaborate bodices and long skirts to 1920s flapper dresses. Others were clothed more informally: many wore rough, homemade things, but I also saw a guy in Levis. Two teenage girls chatting on a porch were wearing micro-minis and Doc Martens. A group of men walked by wearing nothing but loincloths.

  It was like I’d wandered into a historical re-enactors’ convention, or maybe the backlot of a movie studio that was filming ten different period pictures at once.

  After a few blocks, Williams turned left at a cross-street and then left again, down an alley. He stopped in front of what appeared to be a stable.

  A boy came out, and Williams asked to board the horses and baggage.

  The boy eyed the packhorses’ loads. “Eight per horse per night,” he said in a brisk tone.

  “Four,” Williams growled.

  The boy looked up at him, suddenly uncertain. Then he stuck out his chest and squeaked, “Five and a half.”

  The kid had more chutzpah than Chasca’s functionaries.

  Williams nodded. The boy stepped forward and took hold of Bertha’s bridle as Williams dismounted. Two younger kids came out of the stables. One reached for Copper’s bridle and nearly got bitten for his trouble.

  Williams was removing Bertha’s saddlebags.

  Not knowing what else to do, I got off and did the same. Now I understood why Mr. Gates had me put my essentials in them — apparently all the other stuff would be in storage.

  Williams slung his saddlebags over his shoulder and, holding his shotgun in one hand and his rifle in the other, headed back up the street. I grabbed my bags and hurried to catch up.

  We retraced our steps to the last intersection and turned left. Williams was just as effective at opening a path through the traffic as Bertha had been — people stepped well to the side to avoid him. It was a bit like following Moses across the floor of the Red Sea.

  I looked down at my feet.

  The cobblestone street was damp. The spaces between the stones were filled with something like tar. I could feel it when I walked — slick and slightly springy.

  The town seemed designed to handle rainfall. The streets were domed. A continuous trickle of water ran in the gutters, and the farther we got from the main drag, the heavier that trickle became. The town was built on a slope; the water was being channeled down the hill.

  As if on cue, thunder rumbled overhead, and a light rain began to fall.

  We turned right onto a quieter street. I could hear the rain pattering on the roofs of the buildings around us. After a few more turns, we stopped in front of a small inn and tavern on a narrow street. A wooden placard on the door said “The Garden Gate” in Baasha and English. There was also writing in a third language I didn’t recognize. A flower-covered iron gate had been painted beneath the words.

  It looked like a nice place. Its wooden walls were painted bright white, and someone had taken the time to put up window boxes with red flowers.

  I wondered what terrible surprises awaited me inside. Off-hand mention of my forthcoming execution, maybe?

  Williams opened the door, and I followed him into a dark, low-ceilinged bar that reminded me for a moment of The Blue Schooner. But the resemblance was superficial. The stone floor and exposed beams made the place more English pub than supper club. Off to the right, a staircase led upstairs. If I leaned a bit to the left, I could see back into the kitchen.

  The staff seemed to be preparing for lunch. A boy was sweeping while an older man set tables. Behind the bar, a teenage girl and a woman were lining up rows of clay mugs.

  I let the door swing shut behind me, and the man setting tables glanced up. His hands kept working for a few seconds as he took us in, then stilled.

  “They’re here,” he said.

  The other people in the room looked up. A second later, a stout woman emerged from the kitchen, rubbing her hands on a towel.

  “Kite,” the man said to the boy, “you finish up in here while we get this sorted out. Cata, bring us something to drink.”

  His English had the sound of the American South. Strange. I’d expected Seconds to have accents like Yellin’s, if they spoke English at all.

  “This way, please,” said the woman who’d been setting mugs behind the bar. She also sounded American, though not southern.

  The woman led us through the kitchen to what looked like private living quarters — a comfortable sitting room with a large table at one end. A flight of stairs led up from the corner. Maybe the staff lived here.

  The adults who’d been in the dining room followed us in. The woman called up the stairs, and after a minute, two men and another woman — this one elderly — came down.

  All the members of the inn’s staff looked to be of African descent. Their clothing styles varied quite a bit. The girl, Cata, looked like any American teen — low-rise jeans, crop top, heeled sandals. The woman she’d been working with was also wearing jeans and a t-shirt. In contrast, Kite, the boy, looked more old-fashioned in trousers and suspenders over a button-up shirt. So did the old man and the other women. The guys from upstairs were polar opposites: one was wearing ratty old cargo pants and an undershirt. The other had on linen slacks and a silky shirt that hugged his shape.

  We all sat down at the table, and an awkward few minutes passed in silence.

  Well, it felt awkward to me, anyway. Everyone else seemed satisfied to wait.

  The man to my right — fatigues guy — pulled something out of his pocket and began taking it apart. I studied the object uncomprehendingly for several seconds, then realized it was a grenade.

  Williams must’ve noticed it too because his right index finger twitched — he’d put up a barrier. The man with the grenade grinned down at his work, clearly amused at our nervousness.

  Eventually, the girl from behind the bar came in with mugs of beer.

  After we’d all been served, the old man solemnly lifted his drink. He didn’t say anything, but people around the table nodded as though he had and drank.

  I followed suit.

  Good thing Andy and Theo had been plying me with microbrews for the last few mo
nths, or the mouthful of thick, bitter stuff might not have gone down without incident.

  The old man set down his mug. “Mr. Gates has asked us to help you in any way you need. Any way at all.”

  Williams watched the old man silently. Statements of fact apparently required no response. From the way the man had glanced around the table when he spoke, he may have intended his words more as a reminder to his own people, anyway.

  “So. What assistance do you need?” the man said.

  “A guide, protection, information, contacts, supplies, maps. We’re going to Fur.”

  The old man’s eyes shifted to me for a moment.

  “Ancient Inland, then,” he said. “The drought there’s real bad. We’ve heard the caravans might stop ’til it lifts.”

  Williams frowned. “When?”

  “I can’t say. We’d better get you to the ligature as soon as possible.”

  He looked around the table. “Introduce yourselves and describe your abilities. Let him test your strength.”

  There was a long pause. No one wanted to go first.

  I shifted uncomfortably. I could see these people were only helping Williams because they felt they had to. I guess they worked for Mr. Gates, and Mr. Gates was in league with Cordus, at least to some degree.

  Finally the old man got the ball rolling himself, even though he seemed too elderly to go on a trip like this. “I’m Jobah. I’m a Nolander, gifted in water-working.” He reached across the table.

  Williams touched his hand to get a sense of his capacity.

  I stared the old man, fascinated. A Nolander? I guess that explained his accent, but since when did Nolanders live in the S-Em?

  Maybe these people didn’t work for Mr. Gates. Maybe they belonged to him, the way I belonged to Cordus.

  Belongings can be given away.

  I stuffed that thought down.

  The t-shirt-and-jeans woman from behind the bar spoke up. She said she was Joanna. Bizarrely, she identified herself as human.

  The woman who’d been working in the kitchen was a Second. Her name was Ida. She said she had a small gift for healing and could also absorb thoughts and recent memories when she touched an animal or a person. Williams gave her a flat do-not-try-it stare before testing her capacity. She gave him an I-do-not-willingly-swim-in-shit look in return.

  I decided I liked her.

  Maybe these people can help me, even if the solatium thing is true.

  Not that it’s true. It’s probably not.

  The two men who’d come from upstairs both identified themselves as Seconds. The nice dresser was Kevin. He was a tracker. The scruffy one was Terry — the grenade guy. He said he couldn’t work essence but had expertise in explosives and firearms.

  A Second who couldn’t work essence at all — you could’ve knocked me down with a feather. And the way he said it didn’t make it sound like he considered it a disability. It was like he’d said, “I’m not flexible, but I can bench press two-fifty.” Just a run-of-the-mill difference.

  He added that he’d gotten his ordnance training in the U.S. Army. I wondered if the government had any inkling their military had been infiltrated by non-humans.

  The woman who’d come downstairs with them looked to be in her seventies. Her name was Jimena, and she was a Nolander. She said she could make plants grow faster.

  “The girl and boy?” Williams said.

  Jobah frowned. “They’re too young for this sort of thing.”

  He got the trademark Williams stare in response. He caved.

  “Kite has a little tracking. He’s not strong — saw through at seven. Cata has low flight. It emerged a few months ago.”

  Jobah called the two kids in, and Williams tested them.

  I tried not to feel envious of Cata. Back when I was first learning about Nolanders, Graham Ryzik told me flight was a rare gift. I’d dreamed of being able to fly.

  Williams sat back, apparently thinking through the options. Then he selected Kevin, Ida, and Terry.

  Ida made perfect sense. A healer we could trust would be invaluable. But the choice of Kevin was sobering. It suggested Williams wanted someone who could chase me down if I tried to make a break for it. Chasing is what trackers did.

  Maybe there’s another reason. Think about it later.

  As for Terry, who had no essence-working at all, I couldn’t come up with any reason why he’d be preferable to Cata. I mean, she could fly.

  As though reading my thoughts, the girl said, “Why not me? I’m strong. I want to go.”

  Jobah sighed. “Child —”

  “I’m not a child anymore. I want to go.”

  I guess kids will be kids, in whatever world.

  Everyone looked at Williams.

  “No,” he said.

  Cata looked stunned. Then she burst into tears and went racing upstairs. After a second, we heard a door slam.

  “Thank you for not taking her,” Ida said.

  She reached up and fingered a silver locket around her neck. I studied her more closely and realized she and Cata looked a bit alike. Ida was probably the girl’s mother.

  Williams didn’t respond. I very much doubted he’d based his decision on some protective impulse.

  Jobah stood. “Kite can show you where to put your bags. Then we’d best start getting ready. We’ll need horses, supplies, weapons …” His voice trailed off as he thought. “I know someone who’s just come up from the plains. I’ll go see what he can tell us about the road.”

  “I’ll come,” Williams said, rising.

  Jobah hesitated. “Actually, there’s someone else you might want to see. Mizu Bard. Goes by ‘Mizzy.’ She’s one of us. Might be useful.”

  Williams frowned. “What does she do?”

  “Influence emotions with her voice. It works on people and animals.”

  Williams looked interested. I could see why. Someone like that could scare away bad guys with a word.

  “She going to show up here?”

  Jobah shook his head. “She’s got a show on. She’ll be sleeping at the theater all week.”

  It took me a moment to process what he meant.

  “Wait. She’s an actress?”

  Everyone looked at me like I was weird for being surprised.

  “Yep,” Terry said, setting his grenade down firmly enough to make me twitch. “And I’m a farrier. We have to earn our livings, eh?”

  I nodded to hide my confusion. Cordus never would’ve let one of his people have a career. So far as I knew, no power would — service to a power was a career.

  Bill Gates seemed to be an aberration.

  Jobah explained where we could find Mizzy, and I followed Williams back out into the rain.

  On stage, a pale black-haired woman turned, her face momentarily hopeful.

  “We need not fear discovery,” she said in Baasha. “There are none powerful enough to punish us.”

  Then her hope seemed to evaporate. She sobbed and went back to dry-washing her hands.

  I glanced up at Williams, wanting to ask what we were seeing, but he was staring down at his feet, apparently uninterested.

  We were leaning against the shadowy rear wall of a bare-bones theater. It was basically just a long room filled with benches. The stage was a simple platform at the far end with a curtain at the back through which the actors could enter and exit. The place was sweltering and musty and none too clean, and the audience was made up of exactly five people — including us.

  The action on stage continued. I tried to follow along with what the actors were saying, but my vocabulary wasn’t really big enough.

  Before too much longer, the play concluded, and the very sweaty actors made their bows to a smattering of handclaps. Then they retired, and the other three audience members left. A worker came in and straightened the benches.

  We stood against the back wall, still and quiet. Williams probably had us shielded.

  When the place had the silence of emptiness, he pushed off from
the wall and headed through the curtains behind the stage. I followed along.

  We found ourselves in a large space crowded with props and costumes. Williams threaded his way among objects and racks of clothing toward the far end of the building. The back wall was lined with doors — dressing rooms, perhaps. Light shone from beneath several of them.

  Williams didn’t knock on any of them. Instead, he stopped about ten feet back and said “Mizu Bard” in a loud voice.

  The woman I’d seen on stage opened one of the doors, peering through the darkness until her eyes landed on us. She looked scared.

  “Jobah sent us,” Williams said.

  The woman studied us. “Are you the ones Mr. Gates told us about?”

  Williams gave a quick nod.

  The woman smiled brightly. “Well, come on in.” She stepped back, making room for us to enter. “I’m sorry about the mess. Just sit anywhere.”

  There was only one chair, and it was pulled up in front of a vanity full of make-up. I pushed a pile of hats to one side and sat down on the bed. Williams just stood.

  The woman settled down in front of the vanity’s dingy mirror.

  Now that we were in the light, I could see the long, black hair she’d sported on stage had been a wig. Her real hair was shoulder length and platinum blond. As we watched, she ran her fingers through it and shook her head.

  “Nolander?” Williams said.

  She winked at him in the mirror. “Guilty as charged, big guy. You can call me Mizzy.”

  She dipped a cloth into some cream and began removing her make-up. “So, what kind of help do you folks need?”

  “Going to Fur.”

  The woman’s hand stilled. Then she rolled her eyes and laughed. “Well I can’t possibly go. We’ve got two more shows to put up before the end of the year.”

  She got the Williams stare in response.

  Her eyes flicked from him to me. “I don’t really leave Free. But I can tell you what you might run into along the way. I know a lot about the way between here and there.”

  Williams didn’t say anything. He was studying the woman intently.