The Book of Fire Page 30

  “Dey’s healt’y-lookin, alrite.” Punk shrugged and slung his gun over his thin shoulder. “Weah yu bin, Stokes? We wuz worried boutchu.”

  “Lookin’ fer trade, wachu tink? Tellyu, Albin’s a ghost town! We dun picked it dry. ’bout ta come home near empty. Li’l stuff, y’know? Den I find dees uns.” Stoksie showed all his bad teeth in a victory grin.

  “Dju frisk ’em?” Brenda demanded, her final display of disapproval.

  Their guide nodded, though he hadn’t. “Cupla blades. Nuttin’ much.”

  “Frum Urop wit a cupla blades ’n des still walkin’?” Brenda’s eyes raked their bodies and their packs for signs of hidden weapons.

  “Tellyu one ting . . .” Stoksie jerked his chin faintly in Baron Köthen’s direction. “Da reel whitefella? Fas’. Real fas’. Watch ’im.”

  Erde sensed this was merely a sop. True as it was, Stoksie wasn’t worried about Köthen. But Pitbull Brenda’s honor was satisfied, now that she had an assignment: keep an eye on the grim-faced soldier. Clever Stoksie. At last the expedition moved forward, deeper into the shade, delayed only if one cared to observe the surreptitious dance between Köthen and Brenda as they skirmished over who would bring up the rear. Erde was unamazed when Köthen won.

  A larger but less threatening delegation awaited them at the mouth of the clearing. This group was more cheerfully suspicious. They crowded around—men, women and a few wide-eyed small children—greeting Stoksie gladly, demanding reasons for his delay, staring openly at the strangers while helpfully relieving them of their extra burdens. Mostly small and dark-skinned like Stoksie and the girls, they didn’t look like they could put up much of a fight. But they had no problem verbalizing their curiosity. Erde was glad when Stoksie demanded silence and said the questions had to wait until the visitors were refreshed and settled. Immediately, the crowd pulled back, and a child was urged out from among them. A blue ceramic pitcher was put in his thin little hands. He presented it to Stoksie, who tipped a few drops of water onto his fingers, then touched them to his forehead. Erde heard a few indistinct but reverent murmurs from the crowd. Next Stoksie poured out a little on the ground, then he grinned, tilted the pitcher to his mouth and took a long, long drink. The crowd cheered, and the pitcher was offered in turn to each visitor until it came back to the child’s hands empty. The water was sweet and cold. Erde would gladly have drunk more of it, but the child beamed and ran off with the jug, giggling.

  “Gud, na! Blin’ Rachel Crew say welcome!” Stoksie gathered up his guests and led them on into the clearing. The chattering crowd fell right in behind.

  The once-road opened on an expanse of space and bustle and noise, bare dirt with patches of grass and a few trees, tall enough to provide a bit of real shade for the busy maze of structures spread out beneath them: a motley assortment of tents and lean-tos and high-wheeled wagons with oft-patched canopies, and conical shapes of canvas and lower-slung carts built up with windows and chimneys like tiny rolling huts. The leftover nooks and crannies were crammed with livestock pens and awninged market booths. Even the odors were lively. A thin goat wandered forlornly and, everywhere, chickens clucked and scratched in the dust. A pair of lop-eared hounds ran up to greet Stoksie effusively, until he had had enough of their eager tongues and paws, and sent them bounding off again.

  Over the din of people and animals, the sigh of the water was gentle and welcome music. But past the unkempt line of tent poles and rough-built roof peaks rose the most astonishing structure Erde had ever laid eyes on. Stoksie stopped them out in the open where they could take a good long look.

  It was a building seeming to vanish right into the precipitous rock face looming behind it. It was both tall and yet vastly horizontal: layers of stone terraces coiling around the central green like the apse of a cathedral and rising one after the other, four, five, six, seven stories, each curved plane set off from the one below it, either forward or back, like the natural contours of the layered rock she had just climbed through. But for the sturdy central staircase, Erde could not always tell where the hand of man laid off and that of nature began again. It was like a palace built with the help of magic.

  “Fuckin’ A!” breathed N’Doch beside her.

  “This is some great lord’s castle, surely,” said Baron Köthen, joining them at last.

  “Some rich guy’s paradise, more like,” N’Doch replied. “It’s Blind Rachel’s now, whoever she is.”

  “I expect we shall meet that good lady soon enough.”

  Repeating rectangles of glass glittered along each level, broken here and there by some duller material. Intricately carved wooden railings alternated with thick rails of natural stone, or in some places, no railing at all. As she collected her senses enough to really study, Erde began to notice the many details of the damage: the rotted newel posts, the sagging lines of the extended terraces, the shattered glass. But the whole, viewed generously as through a veil, was still magnificent.

  “Nise, huh?” Stoksie prompted.

  “Real nice,” N’Doch agreed, for all of them.

  “Gwan up ’n findyu room, na. Putcher stuff in, nobuddy bodda, gotcha? I tell ’em. Den I shoyu roun’.”

  Stoksie shepherded them through the lingering curious and around the circular roadway. The crowd called out eager invitations to dinner, more than could ever be honored, then dispersed and went on about their business. At the center of the giant curving edifice, a double set of stairs climbed side by side like lovers to the second level, then turned away from each other to continue their journeys to the third. On the fourth, they met again, and so they continued their meeting and parting until they ran out of levels to climb. Grinning proudly, Stoksie gave his guests another moment at the bottom of the stair to gaze upward with the appropriate awe. Then he led them up the first flight, pointing out the weak spots and rotted treads, and then to the left, along the second level balcony. They passed neatly spaced paneled doors alternating with broad stretches of window, most of which were still intact. Erde had seen this miracle of glassmaking when she was in N’Doch’s home time, but those magical sheets of glistening transparency had all been shielded by metal gratings.

  Stoksie saw her slow to touch her fingers to the surface and skim them smoothly along without bump or obstacle for two, three, even four paces. “Good stuff, dat. Latest, ’fore dey stopped.”

  “Stopped?” asked N’Doch.

  “Makin’ it. Y’know?”

  N’Doch nodded. “Yeah. Guess I do.”

  Erde absorbed the translation one step behind. “They stopped making glass?” N’Doch passed the query along.

  Stoksie’s shrug was more emphatic than usual. “Probby som’weah dey still do. Not roun’ heah. No call fer’t na.”

  “He means nobody wants any.”

  Erde chewed her lip. “But glass is very precious. At least it is . . . was . . . in my time.”

  “And real cheap and necessary, in mine.”

  Behind them, Köthen glided his own spread fingertips along the glass. “The Future,” he murmured.

  “Not my future,” N’Doch retorted. “Well . . . least, not the one I was looking forward to.”

  Stoksie waved them onward. “Be dak soon. Messtime. Don’ wanna missit, na.” He took them past door after door, all of them closed up tight, and past window after window. Erde attempted the occasional covert glance inside these mysterious and threatening spaces, but her view was usually blocked by fabric hanging just inside the glass, or by boards fastened up where the glass was missing. Where there was a crack in a broken door to peer through, or a space between the hangings, she saw heaps of clothing or a bit of crockery, but beyond that, only darkness. She could not help but worry about what the darkness might conceal.

  Far along the curve of the terrace, almost to the end, Stoksie stopped in front of a door constructed from mismatched planks. Each had long ago been painted a different color, now faded together into a mere suggestion of variety of hue. “Dis’ll do ya, ha?”


  A greenish rectangle of metal, obviously a more recent addition, fastened the door, pinned to a corroded loop in the jamb by what Erde recognized as a crude and diminutive sort of lock. A thin sliver of metal protruded from its bottom end. Stoksie took hold of this and struggled with it for a while, then finally twisted it clear and popped the lock open. He handed the sliver to N’Doch.

  “S’all yers. Getchu settled. Back mebbe ten, yucool?”

  “Mecool.” As Stoksie turned back toward the stairs, N’Doch called out, “Hey, man . . .”

  Stoksie turned.

  “Thanks, y’know? Dis real good trade.”

  A quick nod. “Gotcha.”

  Once N’Doch is inside, he knows the place for what it was. No rich man’s paradise after all. The room is an oblong box, low-ceilinged and dull as they come. Once upon a time it probably attempted some more fashionable shade than the ugly salmon it’s graying into. It’s completely empty, but he can see where the beds went, two matching queens, he’s sure, advertised on a big sign outside. A luxury sort of joint. He sees the closet indentations, missing their doors and hanger poles. An archway in the back leads through a dark dressing nook to a tiny square room he knows was the bathroom, even stripped like it is—surprise, surprise—of everything portable, sink, toilets, pipes, even the wall tiles. He reminds himself to ask Stoksie for directions to the privy.

  He comes back up front where Köthen and the girl are setting their stuff down reluctantly, like they’re not so sure the floor’s clean enough or something. They both look at him expectantly, like the pressure’s on for him to set some sort of “modern” frame of reference here. But he’s not sure he can oblige. He rubs his palms together. “So. You guys have any idea what a motel is? Nah, guess you wouldn’t. Anyhow, if they don’t turn on us sudden-like and try to murder us in our beds, I’d say we just got real lucky.”

  Köthen gazes around the tight, dim space. N’Doch can see he doesn’t trust it much. “Is this an unusual degree of hospitality?”

  “Where I come from, any hospitality is unusual, at least to strangers. ’Cept out in the bush.” N’Doch unstraps his pack and leans it against a wall. “Maybe it’s the same thing here as there. When there aren’t so many people around, strangers are useful, y’know? They got stories, they got news. And Stoksie seems to think we got good trade. Hope we don’t disappoint him. For a few days, at least, we’re the entertainment.”

  “A few days?”

  N’Doch grins at him slyly. “I bought us one. After that, Dolph my man, it kinda depends on just how entertaining we decide to be. Doncha think?”

  The girl says quietly, “Is this where we will sleep?”

  “I’ve slept in worse places.”

  “All of us together?”

  “Oh. I get it. Well, tell you what, girl—you can have the bathroom all to yourself.”

  Köthen is examining the lock on the door. “All of us, behind one door. That way, one can always watch while the others sleep. Unless, my lady witch, you can offer a few spells to protect us.”

  “No problem, man, the dragons’ll . . .”

  “My lord of Köthen!” the girl bursts out. “I beg you do not call me ‘witch.’ I am not one, nor never have been!”

  Köthen glances up. His hands are full of metal parts, as he studies how to switch the lock from outside to in. “Your pardon, my lady. If it distresses you so, I will desist.”

  “It does! Very much! I wonder that you haven’t noticed!”

  “Hey, girl,” N’Doch chides, but gently. He sees she’s got tears in her eyes. “Been a long day for all of us.”

  Köthen chuckles darkly, deftly reassembling the lock.

  “The longest in human memory. Began in 913 and ending God only knows when.”

  N’Doch thinks it’s too bad the girl doesn’t find this as funny as they do, but even he’s surprised when she spins away from their laughter, skims out the door past Köthen like a spooked rabbit, and tears off along the balcony. He can hear the clack of her footsteps, hurried and sharp. “Whoa!” he mutters, and follows her into the open. “Hey, girl! Erde! Come on back here!”

  She ignores him, clattering all the way around the curve of the building until she’s brought up short by the heavy wooden railing at the other end. She props her elbows on it and buries her face in her hands.

  “Aw, jeez . . .” N’Doch leans against the railing behind him and folds his arms. He’s starting to feel bad for the girl and there’s no time like the present to speak up about it. She’s strong and all, but she’s been through a lot lately, and the good baron could just be the final straw. “Listen, Dolph . . . I know you’re mad at her, and hey, I don’t blame you a bit. But you gotta go easier on her, man. Just a little.”

  Köthen straightens, dusting wood and metal splinters from his fingers. “Why? It would only encourage her.”

  “Well, umm . . . hunh.” N’Doch was ready for huff and attitude. This blunt honesty leaves him kind of without an argument. “Okay, I understand all that, but . . . hey, look, all I’m saying is, we’re all in this together.”

  “But I would not be, were it not for her meddling.”

  “Yeah, yeah, but . . .”

  “I speak but the truth to say she is a witch.”

  “How d’you figure that?”

  “Who else but a witch has converse with dragons?”

  “Huh. So where does that put me?”

  Köthen’s glance flicks hard at him and then away, but not quite quick enough. N’Doch has read the sudden doubt in his eyes, and a few of the baron’s assumptions are beginning to piss him off. He wants this dragon business understood for what it is, at least the way he sees it.

  “I’m not just here along for the ride, y’know. The blue dragon is mine. Yeah, that got your attention. Mine. I didn’t ask for it, but that’s how it is. So does that make me some kind of warlock? I can tell you, I ain’t one of them.”

  Köthen’s jaw settles stubbornly. He says nothing.

  “You wanna know what I think?”

  “You’ve shown little inclination to guard your tongue so far . . .”

  “Yeah, and you’re not as much of a jerk as I thought, ’cause you keep letting me talk. Must be you like the challenge.”

  They stare each other down for long cool seconds, and then Köthen rewards him with a sigh and a weary twist of his mouth that is almost a grin. “Presumptuous whelp. Go on. I’m listening.”

  “Really? Well, that’s progress now, ain’t it?”

  “Don’t . . .”

  “. . . I know. Don’t press my luck.” N’Doch lets out a breath. “Okay, here it is: you hope she’s a witch, if there even is such a thing, ’cause it’s easier to bust her ass for the mess you’re in than it is the dragons’. Am I right?” He starts to pace a little, like a little engine’s fired up inside him. It’s not only that he’s saying this personal sort of stuff to a man proven to be armed and dangerous. What’s most amazing is that he’s thinking it at all, like, of his own accord. “And that’s because you won’t accept that you’ve been part of this since long before you got yourself dragon-napped.”

  “This being . . .?” Köthen asks with a look of distaste.

  “This being some kind of, well, plan . . . that’s a lot bigger than all of us. I thought it was bullshit, too, just like you do.”

  “And now you don’t?”

  “Less than I did.” N’Doch notices he’s the one moving around abruptly, nervously, and Köthen who’s steady and still. “Listen, man, what you gotta see is we’re here and we’re stuck with it. Neither me nor the girl has any real power over this situation, ’cept what we can ask from the dragons.” He halts his pacing by pressing his back hard against the balcony railing, willing the little engine to stop its frantic revving. He’s not used to acting like somebody’s big brother. “Look, I can’t give you the technical explanation for all this weird shit, but I do know I ain’t no warlock and she ain’t no witch. So give it a rest, whadd
a ya say? Save your revenge for later, so we can all concentrate on keeping each other alive.”

  And then he can’t help himself. He just has to add, “And maybe later, it won’t look all that important anyway.”

  “You mean, when I’ve become properly committed to the quest?”

  “I didn’t say that, but hey, stranger things have happened. Like to me, for instance.”

  “You are welcome to your quest, friend N’Doch. I remain respectfully unconvinced.”

  N’Doch uncrosses his arms. Now this is progress. His actual name out of the man’s mouth, rather than “hey, you” or some epithet. “Okay. Whatever. Look on it as a kind of working vacation. But if you could just . . .”

  The baron lifts a warning finger. “Your point is taken. Enough.”

  “You got it, man.”

  Köthen looks away, as if something in the treetops has caught his interest. “One thing more. If I am to believe myself part of this ‘plan,’ as you call it, I have a question.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  Köthen turns back to him deadpan. “Where’s my dragon?”

  N’Doch’s thoughts shoot off in several directions, but he’s saved from having to settle on one of them when Stoksie comes limping briskly around the curve with the girl firmly in tow.

  “Doncha be lettin’ huh run roun’ lone, na.”

  “Why? Brenda’ll think she’s spying or something?” N’Doch slings one arm lightly around her shoulders. He wonders if the little man’s concern is for the girl’s safety or for his own reputation in the camp. He hopes it’s both.

  “Sumpin li’ dat. Giv’er a nexcuse, an’ she’ll make it hard fer yus.”

  “Gotcha. Thanks, man.”

  “No prob.” And like it really isn’t, Stoksie beckons the men to lean over the railing while he maps out the camp for them. A circling gesture marks the bustling tree-shaded area nestled within the sweep of the building. “All dat’s da Mall.”

  N’Doch chokes back a grin. “The mall, huh?”

  “Yeah. Sleep up heah, eat ’n do bizness down dea. Y’know?”