The Dreaming Void (18 page)

There wasn't anything wrong with Jaful. She certainly had enjoyed herself in his bed most of the time. It was just that she couldn't think what they could say to each other over breakfast. It would have been awkward. This way she kept the memory agreeable. “More practice,” she told herself, and smiled wickedly.
And why not? This is real life again.

The building had a big lobby. When she walked out into the street, she blinked against the bright pink light; it was twelve minutes until she was supposed to start the morning shift at Niks. Her u-shadow told her she was in the Spalding district, which was halfway across the city, so she called a taxi down. It took about thirty seconds until the yellow and purple capsule was resting a couple of centimeters above the concrete, three meters in front of her. She watched in bemusement as the door opened. In all her life she'd never called a taxi herself; it had always been Laril who ordered them. After the separation, of course, she couldn't afford them.
Another blow for freedom.

As soon as she arrived at Niks, she rushed into the staff toilets.

Tandra gave her a leery look when she came out, tying her apron on. “You know, those look like the very same clothes you wore when you left yesterday.” She sniffed elaborately. “Yep, travel-clean again. Did something happen to your plumbing last night?”

“You know, I'm really going to miss you when I leave,” Araminta replied, trying not to laugh.

“What's his name? How long have you been dating?”

“Nobody. I'm not dating; you know that.”

“Oh, come on!”

“I need coffee.”

“Not much sleep, huh?”

“I was reviewing property files, that's all.”

Tandra gave her a malicious sneer. “Sweetie, I ain't never heard it called that before.”

After the breakfast shift was over, Araminta ran her usual review. This time it was different. This time her u-shadow contacted the agencies, which gave her virtual tours of the five most promising properties, using a full sense relay bot. On that basis, she made an appointment to visit one that afternoon.

As soon as she walked through the door, she knew it was right for her. The flat was the second floor of a converted three-story house in the Philburgh district. A mile and a half north of the dock and three blocks back from the river, with two bedrooms, it was perfect for someone working in the city center on a modest salary. There was even a balcony from which one could just see the Cairns if one leaned out over the railing.

She went through the official survey scan with the modern analysis programs recommended by half a dozen professional property development companies. It needed redecorating; the current vendor had lived there for thirty years and had not done much to it. The plumbing needed replacing; it would require new domestic units. But the structure was perfectly sound.

“I'll take it,” she told the agent.

An hour negotiating with the vendor gave her a price of fifty-eight thousand, more than she would have liked, but it did leave her with enough of a budget to give the place a decent refurbishment. There would not be much left over to live on, but if she completed the work within three or four months, she would not need a bank loan. It would be tough; looking around the living room, she could see the amount of work involved. That was when she experienced a little moment of doubt.
Come on,
she told herself.
You can do this. This is what you've waited for; this is what you've earned.

She took a breath and left the flat. She needed to get back to her place and grab a shower. Travel-clean could cope for only so long. Then she might get changed and go out again. There were a lot of bars in Colwyn City she had heard about and never visited.

Troblum double woke in two of the penthouse's bedrooms. His actual self lay on a bed made from a special foam that supported his large body comfortably, providing him with a decent night's sleep. It had been Catriona's room, decorated in excessively pink fabrics and ornaments; a lot of the surfaces were fluffy, a very girly girl's room that he was now used to. His parallel sensorium was coming from a twinning link to the solido of Howard Liang, a Starflyer agent who had been part of the disinformation mission. Howard was in the penthouse's main bedroom, sharing a huge circular bed with the three girls. It was another aspect of the solidos that Troblum had spent years refining; now, whenever he wanted sex, the four characters would launch themselves eagerly into a mini-orgy. The permutations their supple young bodies could combine into were almost endless, and they could keep going as long as Troblum wanted. He immersed himself for hours, his body drinking down the pleasure that Howard's carefully formatted neural pathways experienced, as much the puppet as the puppeteer. The four of them together was not, strictly speaking, a historical reality. At least he'd never found any evidence for it. But it wasn't impossible, which sort of legitimized the extrapolation.

The image and feeling of the beautiful naked bodies draped across him faded as his actual body reasserted itself, canceling the twinning with Howard. After the shower had squirted dermal freshener spores over him, he walked through into the vast lounge, bronze sunlight washing warmly across his tingling skin. His u-shadow reported that there was still no message from Admiral Kazimir, which he chose to interpret as good news. The delay at least meant it was still being considered. Knowing the navy bureaucracy, he suspected that the review committee still hadn't formally met. His theory was struggling against a lot of conventional beliefs. Briefly, he considered calling the Admiral to urge him along, but his personal protocol routines advised against it.

He wrapped one of his cloaks around himself, then took the lift down to the lobby. It was only a short walk down to the Caspe River, where his favorite café was situated on the edge of the quiet water. The building was made from white wood and sculpted to resemble a folgail, a bird even more sedate than a terrestrial swan. His usual table underneath a wing arch was free, and he sat himself down. He gave his order to the café network and waited while a servicebot brought him a freshly squeezed apple and gonberry juice. The chef, Rowury, spent several days every week in the café, cooking for his enthusiastic clientele of foodies. For a culture that prided itself on its egalitarian ethos, Highers could be real snobs about some traditions and crafts, and “proper” food was well up the list. There were several restaurants and cafés in Daroca set up as showcases for their gastronomic patrons.

Troblum had finished a dish of cereal and started on his tea when someone sat down in front of him. He looked up in annoyance. The café was full, but that was no excuse for rudeness. The rebuke never made it past his lips.

“Hope you don't mind,” Marius said as he settled in the chair, his black toga suit trailing thin wisps of darkness behind him as if he were time-lapsed. “I've heard good reports about this place.”

“Help yourself,” Troblum said grouchily. He knew he should not show too much resentment at Marius's appearance; after all, the faction representative had channeled the kind of EMA funds to Troblum's private projects that normally were available only to huge public enterprises. It was the demands placed on him in return that he found annoying. Not the challenges themselves—they were intriguing—but the fact that they always took so much time. “Oh, you already have.”

The servicebot delivered a second china cup for Marius. “How are you keeping, Troblum?”

“Fine. As you know.” His field functions detected a subtle shielding unfurling around the table, originating from Marius, not obvious but enough to prevent anyone from hearing or scanning what they were saying. He'd never liked the representative, and it was unusual to meet in person. An unarranged meeting was unheard of; it made Troblum worry about the reason.
Something they consider very important.

Marius sipped the tea. “Excellent. Assam?”

“Something like that.”

“Those left on Earth do take a lot of pride in maintaining their ancient heritages. I doubt they actually go out and pick the leaves themselves, though. What do you think?”

“I couldn't give a fuck.”

“There are a lot of things that elude you, aren't there, my friend?”

“What do you want?”

Marius fixed his green eyes on Troblum, the faintest shiver of distaste manifesting in his expression. “Of course, bluntness to the fore. Very well. The briefing you gave to the navy concerning the Dyson Pair.”

“What about it?”

“It's an interesting theory.”

“It's not a theory,” Troblum said in irritation. “That has to be the explanation for the origin of the Dark Fortress.”

“The what?”

“Dark Fortress. It's what the Dyson Alpha generator was originally called. I think it was Jean Douvoir who named it that first. He was on the original
Second Chance
exploration mission, you know. It was meant ironically, but after the war it fell out of fashion, especially with the firewall campaign. People just didn't—”

“Troblum.”

“Yeah?”

“I couldn't give a fuck.”

“I've got the unabridged logs from the
Second Chance
stored in my personal secure kube if you'd like to check.”

“No. But I believe your theory.”

“Oh for Ozz—”

“Listen,” Marius snapped. “Seriously, I believe you. It was excellently argued. Admiral Kazimir thought well enough of your presentation to order a full review, and he is not easily won over. They are taking you seriously.”

“Well, that's good, then. Isn't it?”

“In the greater scheme of things, I'm sure it is. However, you might like to consider where your comprehensive knowledge of the Dark Fortress came from.”

“Oh.” Now Troblum was really worried. “I never mentioned I was there.”

“I know that. The point is that we really don't want ANA: Governance to be aware of the detailed examination you and your team made of the Dark Fortress. Not right now. Understand?”

“Yes.” Troblum actually ducked his head, which was ridiculous, but he did feel contrite; maybe he should have realized that his presentation would draw a little too much attention to him. “Do you think the navy will review my background?”

“No. They have no reason to right now. You're just a physicist petitioning for EMA funds. It happens all the time. And that's the way we'd like it to remain.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“Good. So if the review committee advises the Admiral that no further action should be taken, we'd prefer you not to kick up a fuss.”

“But what if they favor a proper search?”

“We're confident they won't.”

Troblum sat back, trying to work out the politics. It was difficult for him to appreciate the motivation and psychology of other people. “But if you have that much influence on the navy, why worry?”

“We can't affect the navy directly, not with Kazimir as the safeguard. But your advisory review committee is mostly external. Some of them are sympathetic to us, as you are.”

“Right.” Troblum could feel despair starting to cloud his mind. “Will I be able to put it forward again after the Pilgrimage?”

“We'll see. Probably, yes.”

It was not exactly good news, but it was better than a flat refusal. “And my drive project?”

“That can continue providing you don't publicize what you're doing.” Marius smiled reassurance, but it didn't belong on his face. “We do appreciate your help, Troblum, and we want to keep our relationship mutually beneficial. It's just that events are entering a critical stage right now.”

“I know.”

“Thank you. I'll leave you alone to enjoy your food now.”

With suspicious timing, the servicebot arrived as Marius departed. Troblum stared at the plate it deposited in front of him, a tower of thick buttered pancakes layered with bacon, yokcheese, scrambled garfoul eggs, and black pudding, topped with strawberries. Maple syrup and afton sauce ran down the sides like a volcanic eruption. The edges of the plate were artistically garnished with miniature hash browns, baked vine salfuds, and roasted golden tomatoes.

For the first time in years, Troblum didn't feel remotely hungry.

Inigo's Second Dream

Edeard had been looking forward to the trip for months. Every year in late summer the village elders organized a caravan to trek over to Witham, the closest medium-size town in Rulan province, to trade. By tradition, all the senior apprentices went with it. This was part of their landcraft training, of which they had to have a basic knowledge before they could qualify as practitioners. They were taught how to hunt small animals, how to clear farmland ditches, which fruit to pick, how to handle a plow, and what berries and roots were poisonous, along with the basics of making camp in the wild.

Even the fact that Obron would be a traveling companion for three weeks had not lessened Edeard's enthusiasm. He finally was going to get out of Ashwell. Sure, he had been to all the local farms, but never farther than half a day's travel. The caravan meant he would see a lot more of Querencia: the mountains, people other than the villagers he'd lived among for fifteen years, forests. It was a chance to see how others did things, explore new ideas. There was so much waiting for him out there. He was convinced it was going to be fantastic.

The reality almost lived up to his expectations. Yes, Obron was a pain, but not too much. Ever since Edeard's success with the ge-cats, the constant hassle had not ended, but it certainly had eased off. They did not speak as friends, but on the journey out Obron had been almost civil. Edeard suspected that was partially because of Melzar, who was the caravan master and had made it very clear before they left that he would not tolerate any trouble.

“It might seem like this is some kind of holiday,” Melzar told the assembled apprentices in the village hall the night before they departed. “But remember, this is part of your formal education. I expect you to work hard and learn. If any of you cause me
any
problems, you will be sent back to Ashwell right away. If any of you slack off or do not reach what I consider a satisfactory level of landcraft, I will inform your Master and you will be dropped back a year from qualification. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the apprentices muttered grudgingly. There were a lot of smirks hidden from Melzar as they filed out.

They had taken five days to reach Witham. There were seventeen apprentices and eight adults in the caravan. Three big carts carried goods and food; over thirty farm beasts were driven along with them. Everyone rode ge-horses; for some apprentices, it was the first time they'd ever been up on the animals. Melzar quickly assigned Edeard to help tutor them. That allowed him to open up conversations with lads who had ignored him before; after all, he was the youngest senior apprentice in Ashwell. But out on the road they began to accept him as an equal rather than the freaky boy about whom Obron always complained. Melzar also entrusted him with controlling the ge-wolves they used to keep guard.

“You're better than all of us at guiding those brutes, lad,” he said as they made camp the first night. “Make sure they do their job properly. Keep three of them with us, and I want the other four patrolling around outside.”

“Yes, sir, I can do that.” It wasn't even a boast; those were simple orders.

Talk that night among the apprentices was of bandits and wild tribes, each of them doing their best to tell the most horrific stories. Alcie and Genril topped everyone with tales of the cannibal tribe that supposedly lived in the Talman Mountains. Edeard did not mention that his own parents had been killed while on a caravan, but everyone knew that, anyway. He was thrown a few glances to check how he was reacting. His nonchalance earned him quiet approval.

Then Melzar came over and told them all not to be so gruesome; bandits weren't half as bad as legend had it. “They're basically nomad families, nothing more. They're not organized into gangs. How could they be? If they were a real threat, we'd call the militia from the city and go after them. It's just a few bad 'uns that give the rest a lousy rep. No different from us.”

Edeard wasn't so sure. He suspected Melzar was just trying to reassure them. But the conversation moved on, quieting as they gossiped about their Guild Masters. Judging by their talk, Edeard was convinced he'd gotten a saint in Akeem. Obron even claimed that Geepalt would beat the carpentry apprentices if they messed up.

Witham might have been five times the size of Ashwell, but it had the same air of stagnation. It was set in rolling, heavily cultivated farmland, with a river running through the middle; unusually, it had two churches for the Lady. Edeard bit back any disappointment as they rode through the big gates. The buildings were stone or had thick timber frames supporting plaster paneling. Most of the windows were glass rather than the shutters used in Ashwell, and the streets were all stone cobble. He found out later that water was delivered into houses through buried clay pipes and that the drains worked.

They spent two days in the central market square, negotiating with merchants and locals and then stocking up with supplies, such as glass, that were not made in Ashwell. The apprentices had been allowed to bring examples of their work to sell or trade. Edeard was surprised when Obron brought out a beautifully carved box made from martoz wood polished to an ebony luster. Who would have thought an ass like that could create something so charming? Yet a merchant gave him four pounds for it.

For himself, Edeard had brought along six ge-spiders. Always the trickiest of the standard genera to sculpt, they were highly valued for the drosilk they spun. And these had only just hatched; they would live for another eight or nine months, and during that time they would spin enough silk to make several garments or armor jackets. Three ladies from the Weavers' Guild bid against one another for them. For the first time in his life Edeard's farsight could not discern how eager they were when they haggled with him; they covered their emotions with steely calm, the surface of their minds as smooth as a genistar egg. He hoped he was doing the same thing when he agreed to sell them for five pounds each. Surely they could sense his elation. It was more money than he'd seen in his life, let alone held in his hands. Somehow he did not manage to hang on to it for very long. The market was huge, with so many fabulous items, as well as clothes of a quality rarely found in Ashwell. He felt almost disloyal buying there, but he did need a decent full-length oilskin coat for the coming winter and found one with a quilted lining. Farther on there was a stall selling knee-high boots with sturdy silkresin soles that surely would last for years—a good investment, then. They also sold wide-brimmed leather hats. To keep the sun off in summer and the rain in winter, the leatherworker apprentice explained. She was a lovely girl and seemed genuinely eager for him to have the right hat. He dragged out the haggling as long as he dared.

His fellow apprentices laughed when he returned dressed in his new finery, but they had spent their own money, too. And few had been as practical as he.

That evening Melzar allowed them to visit the town's taverns unchaperoned, threatening horrifying punishments if anyone caused trouble. Edeard joined with Alcie, Genril, Janene, and Fahin. He spent the evening hoping to catch sight of the leatherworker apprentice, but by the time they reached the third tavern, the town's unfamiliar ales had rendered them incapable of anything other than drinking more ale and singing. The rest of the evening was forever beyond recollection.

When he woke up, slumped under one of the Ashwell carts, Edeard knew he was dying. He'd obviously been poisoned and then robbed. Too much of his remaining money was missing, he could barely stand, he couldn't eat, and he stank worse than the stables. It was also the first night he could not remember being troubled by his strange dreams. Then he found out it was a mass poisoning. All the apprentices were in the same state, and all the adults found it hilarious.

“Another lesson learned,” Melzar boomed. “Well done. You all should graduate in record time at this rate.”

“What a swine,” Fahin grunted as Melzar walked away. He was a tall boy, so thin that he looked skeletal. As a doctor's apprentice he'd managed to get one of the few pairs of glasses in Ashwell to help his poor vision. They were not quite right for him, magnifying his eyes to a disturbing degree for anyone standing in front of him. At some time during the night he had lost his jacket. Now he was shivering, and not entirely from the cold morning air. Edeard had never seen him looking so pale before.

Fahin was searching through the leather physick satchel that he always carried; it was full of packets of dried herbs, small phials, and rolled linen bandages. The satchel had made him the butt of many jokes in the taverns the previous night, yet he had refused to abandon it.

“Do you think they'll let us ride in the carts?” Janene asked mournfully as she looked at the adults, who were huddled together chortling. “I don't think I can take riding on a ge-horse this morning.”

“Not a chance,” Edeard said.

“How much money have you got left?” Fahin asked. “All of you.”

The apprentices began a reluctant search through their pockets. Fahin managed to gather two pounds in change and hurried off to the herbalist stall. When he came back, he started brewing tea, emptying in several packets of dried leaves and adding the contents of a phial from the satchel.

“What is that?” Alcie asked as he sniffed the kettle and stepped back, his eyes watering. Edeard could smell it, too: something like sweet tar.

“Growane, flon seed, duldul bird eyes, nanamint.” Fahin squeezed some limes into the boiling water and started stirring.

“That's disgusting!” Obron exclaimed.

“It'll cure us; I promise on the Lady.”

“Please tell us you rub it on,” Edeard said.

Fahin wiped the condensation from his glasses and poured himself a cup. “Gulp it down in one, that's best.” He swallowed. His cheeks bulged as he grimaced. Edeard thought he was going to spew it up.

The other apprentices gave the kettle a dubious look. Fahin poured the cup full again. Edeard could sense the doubt in their minds; he felt for Fahin, who was trying to do his best to help and be accepted. He put his hand out and took the cup. “One gulp?”

“Yes.” Fahin nodded.

“You're not going to—” Janene squealed.

Edeard tossed it back. A second later the taste registered, kind of what he imagined eating manure would be like. “Oh, Lady! That is … Urrgh.” His stomach muscles squeezed up, and he bent over, thinking he was going to be sick. A weird numbness was washing through him. He sat down as if to catch his breath after a winding blow.

“What's it like?” Genril asked.

Edeard was about to tell Fahin off something rotten. “Actually, I can't feel anything. Still got a headache, though.”

“That takes longer,” Fahin wheezed. “Give it fifteen minutes. The flon seed needs to get into your blood and circulate. And you need to drink about a pint of water to help.”

“So what was the lime for?”

“It helps mask the taste.”

Edeard started laughing.

“It actually works?” an incredulous Alcie asked.

Edeard gave him a shrug. Fahin poured another cup.

It turned into a ritual. Each of the apprentices gulped down the vile brew. They pulled faces and jeered and cheered one another. Edeard quietly went to fetch a bottle of water from the market's pump. Fahin was right; it did help clear his head. After about a quarter of an hour he was feeling okay again, not a hundred percent, but the brew definitely had alleviated the worst symptoms. He could even consider some kind of breakfast.

“Thanks,” he told Fahin. The tall lad smiled in appreciation.

Afterward, when they packed the carts and got the ge-horses ready, the apprentices were all a lot easier around one another, and the joshing and pranks weren't as hard-edged as before. Edeard imagined that this was what it would be like from now on; they had shared together, made connections. He often envied the casual friendships between the older people in the village, the way they got on with one another. It was outings like this that saw such seeds rooting. In a hundred years' time, maybe it would be he and Genril laughing at hungover apprentices. Of course, that would be a much bigger caravan, and Ashwell would be the same size as Witham by then.

Melzar led the caravan on a slightly different route back, curving westward to take in the foothills of the Sardok mountain range. It was an area of low valleys with wide floors, mostly wooded, home to a huge variety of native creatures. There were few paths other than those carved out by the herds of chamalans that grazed on the pastures between the forests. Farsight and the ge-wolves also sniffed out drakken pit traps that would have swallowed a ge-horse and rider. The drakken were burrowing animals the size of cats, with five legs in the usual Querencia arrangement of two on each side and a thick, highly flexible limb at the rear that helped them make their loping run. The front two limbs had evolved into ferociously sharp claws that could dig through soil at a phenomenal rate. They were hive animals, digging their vast warrens underground, with populations over a hundred strong. Singly they were harmless, but they attacked in swarms that even a well-armed human had trouble fighting off. Their ability to excavate big caverns just below the surface provided them with the means to trap their prey; even the largest native creatures were susceptible to the pit traps.

A biannual hunt had eliminated the drakken from the lands around Ashwell, but in the wild they were prevalent. Watching for them heightened Edeard's senses as they passed through the endless undulating countryside. On the third day out of Witham they reached the fringes of the foothills and entered one of the massive forests there, parts of which reached across to the base of the Sardoks themselves.

Edeard had never been in a forest this size before; according to Melzar, it predated the arrival of humans on Querencia two thousand years before. The sheer size of the trees seemed to back up his claim; they were tall and tightly clustered, their trunks dark and lifeless for the first fifty feet until they burst into a thick interlaced canopy where branches and leaves struggled against one another for light. Little grew on the floor beneath, and in summer when the leaves were in full bloom, not much rain dripped through. A huge blanket of dead crisped leaves covered the ground, hiding hollows from sight, requiring the humans to use their farsight to guide the ge-horses safely around cervices and snags.