Echo City (14 page)

He stood longest next to the Northern Scope. It was the quietest of the four, the stillest, and there had been times when he thought it dead. But if he leaned over the roof parapet and looked at its eye, he could see the moisture there and the concentration as it looked past the spread of Crescent’s farmland at Dragar’s Canton.

Though ten miles distant, the pale curves of Dragar’s six silent domes were clearly visible. Nophel appreciated a mystery, but this one troubled him.

“So let’s see what’s to be seen,” he said, and the breeze stole his words away.

He always bade the Scopes farewell, though they never answered back. Deep down, the root of their humanity must still exist; the Baker bitch had seen to that. And he liked to think that, even if they did not hear or answer, they sensed that he cared for them.

He descended the winding staircase that led to the viewing room, fifty steps below the exposed roof. Halfway down, he tied his robe tight and lifted his hood, just in case one of the Marcellans or, gods help him, a Hanharan priest had found reason to pay him a visit. But the room was silent, other than the steady rumble of brewing five-bean and the crackle of the fire he’d set in the hearth. Warming already, mouth watering in anticipation of the brew, he glanced at the huge viewing mirror set in the center of the room. The four wide reading tubes hung down from a hole in the ceiling, and behind the viewing mirror stood the complex apparatus used to select tubes. The western tube was connected right now, and Nophel saw the glint of sun on the Tharin’s surface. It made the river appear almost alive.

Nophel poured a large mug of five-bean and sat before the viewing mirror. As always prior to seeing what
they
could see, he needed to see himself. He pulled a lever and the
western tube disconnected with a soft hiss, the living image on the mirror fading and then flickering to nothing.

Nophel lowered his hood and smiled at his image. The single pale eye, his other eye a blood-red ruin. The dark skin split and bubbled with fungal growths; they would need pricking and bathing again later. His teeth were good, bright and even, and that made his smile the most monstrous aspect of all.

“Nophel, king of all the city,” he muttered, laughing as he reconnected the western tube. Echo City’s last king had been quartered and sent to the far corners fifteen hundred years before, and Nophel’s utterance was an amusement only to himself.

For the next hour he controlled the Western Scope with a series of levers and dials. Rising within the reading tubes were the thin pipes that carried Nophel’s hydraulic commands, and from his seat he could spur the Scope to turn its head left and right, up and down, and to extend its neck, thereby turning the great lens of its eye and bringing distant things in close. He imagined the chopped creature grunting as he turned dials and pulled or pushed levers, and perhaps it still had the taste of chickpig in its mouth as it obeyed promptings it did not understand. The Marcellans viewed the Scopes as little more than machines; Nophel alone acknowledged their spark of life.

From the expansive farmland of Crescent Canton to the water refineries of Course, he focused in and out, enjoying the sense of flying across the city. Smoke rose from tall chimneys close to the western wall, steam drifted southward from the refineries, canals flowed, streets bustled, rathawks drifted and swooped. He could see straight along the river from here, and he tweaked a lever, commanding the Scope to close along the Tharin as far as it could. The image on the viewing mirror grew, quickly passing the city walls and reaching far out into the haze of the desert. The image paused, Nophel nudged the lever impatiently, and the Scope stretched farther. The view was now simply a mass of hazy air and pale desert landscape, but he sat staring at it for some time. The Marcellans said there was nothing beyond the city, yet here he was. He reveled
in this slight rebellion, realizing that it was foolish yet enjoying it nonetheless. If the Marcellans knew where he looked, he would be in trouble—yet nothing like that worried him. He sometimes believed that Dane Marcellan—the one who had taken it upon himself to look after Nophel—was even a little scared of him. One day that fear might serve him well, but for now he simply toyed with it.

Nophel worked for the Marcellans, but he lived for himself.

The image began to waver as the Scope grew tired, and he stroked the dial that gave it permission to draw back into itself. As it did so, its sight passed across the area to the north of Course where the Baker had practiced her monstrous arts until two decades before. Nophel smiled grimly and went about switching Scopes.

A hiss of escaping gas, the soft click of well-oiled gears, and he pumped the footrest that boosted pressure in the hydraulic systems. Draining his five-bean and going to pour more, Nophel felt the familiar thrill at what he would see next. Dragar’s Canton was always motionless, quiet, enigmatic, yet he could watch its stillness for hours.
They’re down there
, he would think,
or maybe not
, and both stark possibilities held him enraptured. The streets were full of rumors, of course, but there had been no verified sighting of a Dragarian for almost forty years.

When he returned to the viewing mirror and turned a dial, he dropped his mug of five-bean. He barely sensed the pain as the liquid scalded his foot.

Then he lifted his hood, closed his robe, and rushed from the room, heading down.

   There were several Scarlet Blades in the corridor outside the Marcellans’ rooms. They were lounging in wide leather seats, playing lob dice and laughing as one unfortunate lost more and more shillings. They glanced up at Nophel’s approach, and the laughter chilled.

“I need to see Dane Marcellan,” he said.

“Dane’s busy,” one of the tall female soldiers replied. Someone chuckled.

“Then I’ll fucking un-busy him!” Nophel roared. One Blade stood and drew his knife; another took a step back. Nophel shook, his surprise at how he’d raged at them smothered by the fear and excitement that had taken hold.

“Fine,” the woman said. “I’ll pick you a nice spot on the wall.” She kicked at the door handle behind her and shoved the door open with her boot. They all knew that Nophel would never hang on the wall. If and when the time came, he’d disappear quickly and quietly, and his body would float down into the Chasm with so many others.

I scare them
, he thought, and he glared at the soldiers as he passed by. A couple of them glowered back, but their eyes flickered away before his did. The others did not watch him through the door at all.

He entered the long, wide corridor that ran the length of the Marcellans’ living quarters, hurrying quickly past displays of rare artwork, sculptures, and religious artifacts from thousands of years of Hanharan dominance. As always, he spared a quick glance for the glass-enclosed finger bone—the priests and their more-devout followers believed fervently that it was the index finger from Hanharan’s left hand—then paused outside Dane’s door.

A moment of doubt gripped him.
Is it really Dane I need to tell?
But of all the Marcellans, Dane was the closest to a friend he had. And there really was no one else.

Heart thumping from exertion, eye wide as though it could retain the dread image of what he had seen, he thumped once on the door and then entered.

Dane was standing naked at a table in the far corner of the room, cooking slash and inhaling the fumes through a series of wet pipes. The flesh of his ample thighs and buttocks quivered as he breathed in, and Nophel heard the sighs of gentle pleasure. In the center of the room, reclining on the vast round bed, two naked women idly stroked each other. One of them glanced up, apparently unconcerned at being disturbed. And then she saw Nophel.

“Oh!” she gasped. She stared at his face, still shadowed by the hood, her brazen nakedness a sign of her sick fascination.
I’m not a person to her
, Nophel thought, and he felt the
familiar flush of shame that he had spent his entire life trying to push down.

Dane turned around, taking a moment to focus. “Nophel,” he said.

“We must talk,” Nophel said.

Dane pulled the pipe to his lips again and pursed them around its end—a delicate action for such a fat man. His rounded stomach hung so low that his genitals were almost hidden from view.

“Poor man,” the other naked woman said. She had slipped from the bed and stood, unashamed, scratching idly at her stomach with one hand while she looked at him.

“Leave us if you will, ladies,” Dane said.

“But, Dane,” the first woman began, “we were just getting—”

“It’s important,” Nophel said. He was looking at the women as he spoke, and he took several steps forward, knowing that the burning oil lamps would cast more light onto his face from this angle.

The standing woman stepped back, crossing both hands over her sex.

“Tomorrow,” Dane said. He turned his back on the women and breathed in more slash, waving Nophel over.

The women left without dressing, exiting through a door hidden in an expanse of books lining one wall. Nophel had never been in there, though he knew it led to a series of stairs and corridors—Dane’s own private route down into the vastness of Hanharan Heights. He felt a pang of jealousy that Dane would let two whores use this way yet not let him, but he shoved it aside. This was not about favors, or even trust. Both men wanted what was best for the city, and though their outlooks might differ, they came together about the bigger picture.

“It’s been a while,” Dane said. He turned and smiled. “You’re sure I can’t interest you in …?” He nodded at the door through which the women had vanished. “Rebec really is very good. She does things with her lips and a mouthful of dart root that’ll have you calling to Hanharan’s divine cock for mercy.”

Nophel shook his head. Dane’s blasphemy never surprised him. “They pity me,” he said.

“You interest them. They’d explore you.”

“A gateway opened in Dragar’s Canton.”

For a moment Dane’s smile remained as he blinked away the effects of slash, absorbing what Nophel had said. Then his face dropped and he became the politician Nophel knew so well.

“A gateway?”

“Or a door. Something. It was quick.” Nophel breathed deeply, inhaling the scents of cooked slash, wine, and sex. He indulged in none of them, and the odors stirred little within him.

Dane waddled to the bed and lifted his gown, swinging it around his shoulders with a surprising deftness. Fat he might be, and cursed with many vices, but Nophel had long suspected that Dane was stronger and fitter than he looked. Perhaps deception came naturally to such a man, or maybe he had simply taken advantage of circumstance.

“You’re certain of what you saw?” he asked.

Nophel nodded.

“The Northern Scope, it’s fit and well? Healthy?”

“There was no fault. It wasn’t a blur in the mirror or an inconsistency in the Scope’s vision. Quick, granted, but I’m sure. Part of a dome slid open. Something came out. The dome closed again.” He shut his eyes for a beat, remembering what he’d seen to ensure it tallied with his description. Something came out—that was the part that still confused him.

“What
came out?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hmm.” Dane regarded him for a moment, then came closer and touched his shoulder. “Sit with me.” He walked around the bed to an area of floor seats, the table in the center bearing several opened wine bottles and a scatter of glasses and goblets. There was also the remains of a meal. “You’re well?” he asked.

“I’m as fine as I can be,” Nophel said.

“Then we have a problem that needs investigating.”

“You’ll take it to the Council?”

“Of course.” Dane eased himself into a seat, the upholstery expanding and stretching to take his weight. Nophel sat opposite, uncomfortable as ever in such plush surroundings. He preferred his own rooms lower down in the vast sprawl of buildings that made up Hanharan Heights—book-lined, simple, with the smell of the past hanging in the air from old manuscripts and older maps. Nophel had once met Sprote Felder, the renowned explorer of the Echoes, and the two had talked for hours about things most Echoians would never even know. Nophel respected that man—perhaps envied him too—but he was as much an explorer as Felder. The only difference was, he explored history through his mind. And the history he sought was all to do with the Bakers—those damned women who had cursed him so.

“And what will they do?” he asked.

“They’ll want to talk to you. To ask exactly what you saw.” Dane sighed and poured himself a large glass of ruby wine. “Then they’ll debate the veracity of your account, argue once again over your control of the Scopes. Express their continuing mistrust at your heritage.”

“I
gave
them the Baker.”

“Some don’t see it that way, Nophel. You know that well enough.” He sipped at the wine, nodded, then clunked the glass down on the table. “They’ll argue and agree, then dispute and call for more meetings, and it’ll take them three days to get to where I’ve arrived in two heartbeats.”

“Where you’ve arrived …”

“Knowing that we can take no chances.” Dane shook his head, the metal bonds in his tightly tied hair tinkling together. “Dragar’s is given its privacy, and most have forgotten it’s even there. It’s a blank spot on the city, Nophel, but you know as well as I that we keep a good watch. That’s partly what they’re for.” He nodded vaguely at the ceiling. “And also part of the reason why you and I are such good friends.”

“Maybe it happens a lot,” Nophel said. “Maybe they’re always slipping in and out, and it’s just that I happened to see it today.”

“Do you believe that?”

Nophel thought about what he’d seen, trying to make it clear in his mind. “No,” he said softly.

“No. That’s why you need to go and investigate.”

“Me?” He was shocked, but pleased as well. Nophel knew he was a monster to most, but he had never denied the presence of his own ego. It was something to do with fitting in.

“You’re quiet,” Dane said. “You can move well. People …” He shrugged. “You know.”