Don't tell anyone but, truth be told, the Big Ninety isn't that dangerous. It begins somewhere East of the territories, cutting West like a lazy river between the mountains. For me, the open road begins and ends at Syringa, the trade town to the East. From there, I guide caravans west across the open plains and through the lofty western mountains before descending towards Lovat itself. There's something open and free about that big road that gets into my blood. Makes a roader crave its expanses. If you have the itch, it's easy work. The Lovat Municipalities and the Syringa Nation do a decent job at keeping companies moving between the two cities: armed militias mean raiders and thieves aren't generally a problem. The route's fairly straightforward as well. Sure, there's some knowledge needed in crossing the Grovedare Span, and there can be some confusion when you get to the mountain passes, but it's not like crossing the continent or trying to get behind the walls of Victory. Still, I graciously accepted their thanks, took their payment, and shook their hands, playing the part of a dutiful caravan master.
That duty finished, Wensem and I crossed the courtyard of the caravansara melting into the crowd as we made our way to the second story office of Wilem, Black & Bright, Import and Export.
The office was small and cluttered with papers and crates bearing the brand and documents explaining where the various objects were due to be shipped. It was located in an external corner of the building. I tried to see the fabled Lovat skyline, but the layers of dirt that clung to the office's windows like moss prevented me from even seeing the time of day. I guessed they hadn't been cleaned in a hundred years.
"I can't pay you," explained the cargomaster, a surly kresh. His fleshy, V-shaped mouth chewed on a musty cigar. "We don't keep cash at this office. Not allowed. We're strictly for receiving and shipping. I'll sign a proof of delivery and services rendered, but you'll need to go to the main office to receive payment."
Wensem frowned and rolled his eyes. He was as eager as I to get paid and get into the city. I was just excited to be back in civilization, but Wensem had a more noble purpose: to see his newborn son.
"I was really hoping I wouldn't be required to run all over the city just to get paid for services rendered," I explained, trying to sound professional. I probably failed.
The kresh looked at me unabashed through clouds of pungent blue smoke. "Welcome to Wilem, Black & Bright. We like our protocol."
"Clearly."
He gave a bitter smile and scratched out a proof of delivery on official-looking stationery with a boney claw. "You'll find the main office in Pergola Square. Know the Hotel Arcadia?"
"I do," I mumbled. It was partially true. The hotel was too elevated for my kind: seventh level, extending up through the eighth and ninth until its upper floors touched the sun itself.
"They like their protocol as well. Roaders aren't allowed in, but show this to the doorman and he'll let you in. He won't like it, and he'll sneer down his nose at you, but he'll let you in."
"Thanks," I said, taking the slip of paper and tucking it into a chest pocket.
"Might want a shower first," the kresh added as we left, letting the old door swing shut behind me. We said brief goodbyes to the rest of our party. I settled accounts with the men and women of our company: Hannah Clay, my go-to scout whom I would undoubtedly see again on our next caravan; Eli Pascal, one of our occasional caravan guards; and a few others, doling out three weeks' wages from my billfold to each of them.
The trip had to have been excruciatingly boring for them, spending most of their days languishing along the road as the caravan fought against the slow pace of the cargowain. I gave each a healthy bonus which cleaned me out of most of my money. I told some to keep in touch because I was planning on leading another caravan out of the city in a month's time. A good crew can be hard to come by.
"Let's get paid," I said to Wensem, feeling a slight wave of déjà vu that rolled over into annoyance. "I'm nearly broke. Remind me to have a stern talking with August. I appreciate the numbers behind this job but all this running around is a bit ridiculous."
Wensem nodded in agreement, repeating the kresh's line about Wilem, Black & Bright liking their protocol. I gave him a sarcastic smile.
* * *
The caravansara sat on an island close to the mainland. In ages past it undoubtedly had been a place of residence and business, but as the waters had risen after the Aligning most of those were swallowed up by the sea. In this era it was significantly smaller, serving only as a port of call. Twin floating bridges lead away from the island, through a tunnel, and into the mighty city of Lovat beyond.
We began to cross one of the massive floating bridges. Bits of old buildings half-submerged and rotted stuck up from around the edges, eventually fading into the murk as we passed over deeper water.
We moved among the thinning crowd heading into the city. Motor-coaches and fourgons passed us, belching the black smoke that followed the rich around like a noxious perfume as they made their way to more elevated levels. Fuel was hard to come by, and as a result, expensive; only the ultra-elevated burned it over trivial matters like personal transportation.
The silhouettes of Lovat now dominated the skyline. Nine levels stretching skyward. Five hundred meters high at its apex. Each level housing buildings of various sizes sagged on the backs of buildings below. Thousands of sodium lamps twinkled in their recesses.
Lovat was the oldest and largest city on the coast, and it showed its age by the haphazard mess it had become. Roads rose and dipped, elevators and staircases criss-crossed, and floors would end and then begin across the city leaving large empty spaces between levels.
The lower levels of Lovat were darker, shadowed by the more elevated levels. As residents were fond of saying, "Sunlight doesn't shine in the depths." Smoke from fires and cooking stoves hung around the city like a permanent fog. You could see the sunlight from the seventh, eighth, and ninth levels, but rarely did it penetrate the murk. Down here, life was lived beneath sodium and neon."
* * *
The bridge deposited Wensem and I on the eastern side of the Fourth Level warren known as Frink Park. Frink Park sat one level above the only dry land in central Lovat: an island known as Broadway, named after the central street that ran its length.
The streets of the warren were lined with modest apartment blocks, small restaurants, commercial vegetable gardens, bars, a gym, and a few pool halls. The residents had taken to draping colorful lines of flags from the roofs, which gave the neighborhood a festive feel. It was a quaint, quiet warren, safe enough but not totally free from the street gangs or pitchfork dealers operating out of broken telephone booths.
"Have you decided on a name?" I asked Wensem as we made our way along Cherry Street toward Pergola Square. We passed by a group of teenage maero playing squares on the corner and took care not to disturb them.
"Considered my father's name," said the maero in his soft tone, stepping around one of the teens. Wensem was big and strong, but his voice had a surprisingly soft quality—almost delicate. It always took people by surprise.
We were moving away from the residential buildings and into the more commercial area of Broadway Island. I looked up and couldn't see a single hole into the upper levels. No sunlight penetrated this deep. Just the soot-blackened cement of the buildings above and the slowly spinning fans of air circulators.
"Ibble dal Ibble?" I asked as Cherry Street came to an end and James Street began.
Around us the streets were lit with the yellow glow of sodium lamps, occasionally broken by the vulgar bloom of neon. The bright colors hawked all manner of goods and services: food, tailoring, liquor, weapons, loans, entertainment, barbering, and cheap sex.
The air was heavy with exhaust, grease, and sweat; odors came and went as quick as a breath. Hawkers filled the streets with their carts shouting at passersby in crude calls like angry crows. Nearby street musicians strummed on out-of-tune guitars and shabby beggars pleaded for a spare lira, dirty hands extended to hurrying p
edestrians.
Wensem chuckled and shook his head at my mistake. "Ibble dal Wensem. In maero culture our father's name becomes our follow name—er—last name as you humans put it. Dal means 'son of.'"
I sighed and I wondered if I was blushing. "Ah, yeah sorry," I mumbled.
My embarrassment was forgotten as the smell of spiced meat filled my nose. Food. Real food.
"Hold up," I said, and stepped up to the cart. A handsome dimanian with two red horns growing from his cheeks smiled at me.
"What will it be?" he asked, waving his hands over the grill before him.
"Chicken skewer," I said, handing him half a lira.
He nodded and removed one of the hot skewers of meat from the grill, wrapping the lower portion with a wax-coated paper before handing it to me. In the yellow lights it glazed, sticky with some mystery sauce. My stomach rumbled.
Knowing dimanian cooking the meat would be on the spicier side. Possibly paprika and chilies, often a thickened curry. The scent wafting from the meat made my mouth water.
I generally try to hire a decent chuck but the fellow we parted with back at the caravansara had been terrible. The food he prepared was bland and overcooked. Ingredients on the Big Ninety are sparse even with a dedicated chuckwain; no matter how well we stock, half our trip always ends up consisting of dry hardtack.
I bit into the chicken, letting the juice run down my chin. It was utter delight. The meat was fresh and perfectly grilled. The heat from the spices (chili, I was right) burned my mouth. I regretted not buying a second skewer.
"It's a wonder you're not enormous," said Wensem as we continued to walk.
"What makes you say that?" I asked through a mouthful of chicken.
"You're eating. All the time. I'm shocked you didn't buy a bowl of noodles at the caravansara. I saw you eyeing those vendors."
"I hardly eat on the trail. Besides, I didn't want noodles; I really want pierogi," I said. It was true. Eat too much and it makes you slow, and it's never good to be slowed down out on the Big Ninety.
"That," he pointed to my half-devoured skewer, "isn't pierogi."
I ignored him. "Anyway, the vendors at the caravansara aren't very good. You buy there, you risk a sour stomach. You know that."
Wensem chuckled in agreement as he walked beside me.
We continued to make our way toward the Arcadia Hotel. The city grew taller around us, the ceiling above us rose, and we could see a few spaces through which the upper levels were illuminated.
Pedestrian traffic increased as we moved closer toward the center of the city. A used-suit salesman stood on a small crate near one corner and shouted at passersby in a rough, thickly accented language I couldn't understand. Just down the street another hawked broken radios from a folding table.
Lovat buzzed with life, and I was glad to be home.
* * *
A gruff-looking doorman in a sharp black suit stood next to the gilded doors of the Arcadia Hotel. The first floor of the Arcadia rested at Level Seven and rose upwards beyond Level Nine. It was one of the tallest buildings in the city: sixty stories and elevated well above the lowest levels of Lovat.
"We have business here," I said, hastily wiping my greasy hands on my trousers. It wasn't my finest moment.
The doorman wrinkled his nose and, without a word, took a step back from us.
"Look," I said, pulling the proof of services rendered from my pocket and handing it to the doorman, "We have business with Wilem, Black & Bright. We'll go on up, conduct our affairs, and then bugger off."
The doorman studied the note for a long moment before handing it back and stiffly opening the door. Wensem and I walked inside.
* * *
The interior of the Arcadia Hotel was overwhelming. Chandeliers of crystal and glass hung from a baroque ceiling of cream and burgundy. The walls were papered with hand-painted linen. Ornate tables squatted around the room holding up enormous bouquets of fresh flowers. Waist-coated bellmen moved trollies of luggage around the main floor through doors and into elevators.
The luxury washed over me, caught me in its tide. For a moment I felt adrift.
My father was a wheelwright, and I had grown up a wheelwright's son in the small town of Merritt on the outskirts of Lovat. We didn't have much: a small bedroom I shared with my brother, a narrow single bed. Our house smelled of my mother's plum bread and my father's favorite tobacco. His workshop had been equally small and was filled with the scent of wood being cut and soaked before it was bent into wheels. A decent life.
I met all types in my father's shop: Reunified Road Priests, beggars, traveling salesmen, wanderers, mercenaries, and of course roaders and caravaneers. Living along the Big Ninety is what lead me to caravaneering. Now I couldn't imagine not sleeping under the stars or being without that bustle.
The dense bustle of Lovat. The smells of its market, the flavors of King Station, the sounds of a couple fighting in an apartment above. Food carts and dim sum, antique dealers and used clothing. The Arcadia Hotel, with its eight-course dinners, cloth napkins, diamonds, and custom-tailored anything, was not my Lovat.
We approached the front desk. The clerk behind was a young girl with golden hair and a face caked with makeup. She smiled at me, her eyes betraying the greeting. I felt out of place. Under her gaze I could feel the road dust plastered to my shirt, the mud that stained the cuffs of my pants, the brambles that lodged themselves in my hair.
"Can I help you?" she asked with a strange pressed tone.
"Wilem, Black & Bright?" I requested.
"Ah," she began, the smile wavering. Her hands played over a brass autodex with faded yellowing cards. "Wilem, Black & Bright, yes. They're on the fifty-first floor. West side of the building. I'll ring them and ah...tell them you're both on your way."
"I'd appreciate that," I said with my own, fixed smile. Damn this protocol.
"The elevators are around the corner," she explained. "Here is a token."
"Token?" I asked, taking the odd-shaped plastic disk.
"Yes, you'll need it to operate the elevator. Keeps the homeless from wandering the halls."
I nodded and we left, making our way to the elevators, eager to find Wilem, Black & Bright.
* * *
The ancient lift's doors clattered open at the fifty-first floor. We were far above Level Nine's streets. Bright sunlight flooded through windows at either end of the hallway. I could see other towers that stretched away from the jumbled mess below reaching for the sky. Squinting after the low light of the sublevels, I shielded my eyes as we walked toward the west side of the hotel.
"I don't like this place," said Wensem coolly.
"Me neither. Let's find the offices and get out of here."
We found the offices easily enough. Near the end of the hall, an elegant frosted frosted glass door with hand-painted letters led to a smartly decorated waiting room. Square leather furniture ran along a wood-paneled wall and detailed etchings depicting scenes from some distant past hung in extravagant frames. A receptionist sat behind an antique desk, the value of which could probably feed a brood of anur for their entire lifespan.
"Can I help you gentlemen?" asked the dauger from behind the desk. Her mask was reflective, with a sheen of cobalt that matched the eyes that moved behind the slits. It was impressive, elevated, and had the intriguing effect she desired.
"Yeah. I'm here to get paid for a delivery."
"Ah, the caravan master. I got the telegraph an hour ago. Bell Caravans, was it?"
I nodded.
"Mister Black will be quite pleased."
She tilted her head to one side, a motion I took as a smile despite not being able to see her mouth. I returned the expression.
"Just doing our job. Sorry it took longer than we had expected, that crate was heavy and with the summer thaw at the pass, things were slow going."
"Well, the estimate was a month," she said. "And you beat it by a whole week. Better than we could have hoped for and better than y
our competitors' bids."
"Well, I suppose I did say a month, didn't I?"
She ignored me. "Here, let me fetch the coinbox."
The dauger disappeared behind a door, leaving Wensem and me standing awkwardly in the middle of the reception area. A man in a dark red jacket walked in and took a position behind us, forming a short line.
I had the dull realization that I had probably tracked dusty footprints across the lush carpet, but decided it was better if I didn't look down and check.
The dauger receptionist returned in the flustered breeze of the perpetually busy, a gray metal box in her hands. She glanced at the newcomer and said she'd be with him in a few moments. He took a seat in one of the waiting chairs.
"Ah, here we are. Three thousand, correct? Are Lovat liras acceptable?"
"Three thousand is correct and, yes, ma'am, liras are fine," I said, smiling politely. I watched as she laid out the bills, counting them twice.
A window occupied the wall behind her desk. As she counted, I watched the rich of Lovat play on their Level Nine terraces, the midsummer sun baking down on them. Laughter, wine, and cuts of meat sizzling on outdoor grills.
In the distance massive cargo ships and ferries pulled in and out from terminals, heading out into the world towards the distant island city of Empress and parts unknown. Cargo cranes littered the skies like pigeons, raising more towers and cramming as much life as possible into this small corner of the world. It was a lovely view, an expensive view.
The receptionist spoke, snapping me away from my skyline reverie, saying: "Mister Black has authorized a five hundred lira bonus. He wants to thank you for your hard work and prompt delivery. He's sorry he cannot thank you personally, but he's a very busy man."
The Stars Were Right Page 2