His eyelids were getting heavy when someone rose from his—no, her—sleepsack: Evillia, on her way to the privy shed behind some bushes. His eyes opened wider; in the dim firelight, she looked like a moving statue of polished bronze. As soon as her back was to him, he ran his tongue over his lips.
But instead of getting back into her sack when she returned, Evillia squatted by Lofosa’s. Both Highhead girls laughed softly. A moment later, they both climbed to their feet and headed Radnal’s way. Lust turned to alarm—what were they doing?
They knelt down, one on either side of him. Lofosa whispered, “We think you’re a fine chunk of man.” Evillia set a hand on the tie of his robe, began to undo it.
“Both of you?” he blurted. Lust was back, impossible to disguise since he lay on his back. Incredulity came with it. Tarteshan women—even Tarteshan tarts—weren’t so brazen (he thought how Evillia had reminded him of smoothly moving bronze); nor were Tarteshan men. Not that Tarteshan men didn’t enjoy lewd imaginings, but they usually kept quiet about them.
The Highhead girls shook with more quiet laughter, as if his reserve were the funniest thing imaginable. “Why not?” Evillia said. “Three can do lots of interesting things two can’t.”
“But—” Radnal waved to the rest of the tour group. “What if they wake up?”
The girls laughed harder; their flesh shifted more alluringly. Lofosa answered, “They’ll learn something.”
Radnal learned quite a few things. One was that, being on the far side of thirty, his nights of keeping more than one woman happy were behind him, though he enjoyed trying. Another was that, what with sensual distractions, trying to make two women happy at once was harder than patting his head with one hand and rubbing his stomach with the other. Still another was that neither Lofosa nor Evillia carried an inhibition anywhere about her person.
He felt himself flagging, knew he’d be limp in more ways than one come morning. “Shall we have mercy on him?” Evillia asked—in Tarteshan, so he could understand her teasing.
“I suppose so,” Lofosa said. “This time.” She twisted like a snake, brushed her lips against Radnal’s. “Sleep well, freeman.” She and Evillia went back to their sleepsacks, leaving him to wonder if he’d dreamed they were with him but too worn to believe it.
This time, his drift toward sleep was more like a dive. But before he yielded, he saw Toglo zev Pamdal come back from the privy. For a moment, that meant nothing. But if she was coming back now, she must have gone before, when he was too occupied to notice … which meant she must have seen him so occupied.
He hissed like an ocellated lizard, though green wasn’t the color he was turning. Toglo got back into her sleepsack without looking either at him or the two Highhead girls. Whatever fantasies he’d had about her shriveled. The best he could hope for come morning was the cool politeness someone of prominence gives an underling of imperfect manners. The worst …
What if she starts screaming to the group? he wondered. He supposed he could grit his teeth and carry on. But what if she complains about me to the Hereditary Tyrant? He didn’t like the answers he came up with; I’ll lose my job was the first that sprang to mind, and they went downhill from there.
He wondered why Moblay Sopsirk’s son couldn’t have got up to empty his bladder. Moblay would have been envious and admiring, not disgusted as Toglo surely was.
Radnal hissed again. Since he couldn’t do anything about what he’d already done, he tried telling himself he would have to muddle along and deal with whatever sprang from it. He repeated that to himself several times. It didn’t keep him from staying awake most of the night, no matter how tired he was.
The sun woke the tour guide. He heard some of the group already up and stirring. Though still sandy-eyed and clumsy with sleep, he made himself scramble out of his sack. He’d intended to get moving first, as he usually did, but the previous night’s exertion and worry overcame the best of intentions.
To cover what he saw as a failing, he tried to move twice as fast as usual, which meant he kept making small, annoying mistakes: tripping over a stone and almost falling, calling the privy the campfire and the campfire the privy, going to a donkey that carried only fodder when he wanted breakfast packs.
He finally found the smoked sausages and hard bread. Evillia and Lofosa grinned when they took out the sausages, which flustered him worse. Eltsac vez Martois stole a roll from his wife, who cursed him with a dockwalloper’s fluency and more than a dockwalloper’s volume.
Then Radnal had to give breakfast to Toglo zev Pamdal. “Thank you, freeman,” she said, more at ease than he’d dared hope. Then her gray eyes met his. “I trust you slept well?”
It was a conventional Tarteshan morning greeting, or would have been, if she hadn’t sounded—no, Radnal decided, she couldn’t have sounded amused. “Er—yes,” he managed, and fled.
He knew only relief at handing the next breakfast to a Strongbrow who put away a sketch pad and charcoal to take it. “Thank you,” the fellow said. Though he seemed polite enough, his guttural accent and the striped tunic and trousers he wore proclaimed him a native of Morgaf, the island kingdom off the northern coast of Tartesh—and the Tyranny’s frequent foe. Their current twenty-year bout of peace was as long as they’d enjoyed in centuries.
Normally, Radnal would have been cautious around a Morgaffo. But now he found him easier to confront than Toglo. Glancing at the sketch pad, he said, “That’s a fine drawing, freeman, ah—”
The Morgaffo held out both hands in front of him in his people’s greeting. “I am Dokhnor of Kellef, freeman vez Krobir,” he said. “Thank you for your interest.”
He made it sound like stop spying on me. Radnal hadn’t meant it that way. With a few deft strokes of his charcoal stick, Dokhnor had picked out the features of the campsite: the fire pits, the oleanders in front of the privy, the tethered donkeys. As a biologist who did field work, Radnal was a fair hand with a piece of charcoal. He wasn’t in Dokhnor’s class, though. A military engineer couldn’t have done better.
That thought triggered his suspicions. He looked at the Morgaffo more closely. The fellow carried himself as a soldier would, which proved nothing. Lots of Morgaffos were soldiers. Although far smaller than Tartesh, the island kingdom had always held its own in their struggles. Radnal laughed at himself. If Dokhnor was an agent, why was he in Trench Park instead of, say, at a naval base along the Western Ocean?
The Morgaffo glowered. “If you have finished examining my work, freeman, perhaps you will give someone else a breakfast.”
“Certainly,” Radnal answered in a voice as icy as he could make it. Dokhnor certainly had the proverbial Morgaffo arrogance. Maybe that proved he wasn’t a spy—a real spy would have been smoother. Or maybe a real spy would think no one would expect him to act like a spy, and act like one as a disguise. Radnal realized he could extend the chain to as many links as his imagination could forge. He gave up.
When all the breakfast packs were eaten, all the sleepsacks deflated and stowed, the group headed over to remount their donkeys for the trip into Trench Park itself. As he had the night before, Radnal warned, “The trail will be much steeper today. As long as we take it slow and careful, we’ll be fine.”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the ground quivered beneath his feet. Everyone stood stock-still; a couple of people exclaimed in dismay. The birds, on the other hand, all fell silent. Radnal had lived in earthquake country his whole life. He waited for the shaking to stop, and after a few heartbeats it did.
“Nothing to get alarmed at,” he said when the quake was over. “This part of Tartesh is seismically active, probably because of the inland sea that dried up so long ago. The crust of the earth is still adjusting to the weight of so much water being gone. There are a lot of fault lines in the area, some quite close to the surface.”
Dokhnor of Kellef stuck up a hand. “What i
f an earthquakes should—how do you say it?—make the Barrier Mountains fall?”
“Then the Bottomlands would flood.” Radnal laughed. “Freeman, if it hasn’t happened in the last five and a half million years, I won’t lose sleep worrying that it’ll happen tomorrow, or any time I’m down in Trench Park.”
The Morgaffo nodded curtly. “That is a worthy answer. Carry on, freeman.”
Radnal had an impulse to salute him—he spoke with the same automatic assumption of authority that Tarteshan officers employed. The tour guide mounted his own donkey, waited until his charges were in ragged line behind him. He waved. “Let’s go.”
The trail down into Trench Park was hacked and blasted from rock that had been on the bottom of the sea. It was only six or eight cubits wide, and frequently switched back and forth. A motor with power to all wheels might have negotiated it, but Radnal wouldn’t have wanted to be at the tiller of one that tried.
His donkey pulled up a gladiolus and munched it. That made him think of something about which he’d forgotten to warn his group. He said, “When we get lower into the park, you’ll want to keep your animals from browsing. The soil down there has large amounts of things like selenium and tellurium along with the more usual minerals—they were concentrated there as the sea evaporated. That doesn’t bother a lot of the Bottomlands plants, but it will bother—and maybe kill—your donkeys if they eat the wrong ones.”
“How will we know which ones are which?” Eltsac zev Martois called.
He fought the urge to throw Eltsac off the trail and let him tumble down into Trench Park. The idiot tourist would probably land on his head, which by all evidence was too hard to be damaged by a fall of a mere few thousand cubits. And Radnal’s job was riding herd on idiot tourists. He answered, “Don’t let your donkey forage at all. The pack donkeys carry fodder, and there’ll be more at the lodge.”
The tour group rode on in silence for a while. Then Toglo zev Pamdal said, “This trail reminds me of the one down into the big canyon through the western desert in the Empire of Stekia, over on the Double Continent.”
Radnal was both glad Toglo would speak to him and jealous of the wealth that let her travel—just a collateral relation of the Hereditary Tyrant’s, eh? “I’ve only seen pictures,” he said wistfully. “I suppose there is some similarity of looks, but the canyon was formed differently from the Bottomlands: by erosion, not evaporation.”
“Of course,” she said. “I’ve also only seen pictures myself.”
“Oh.” Maybe she was a distant relative, then. He went on, “Much more like the big canyon are the gorges our rivers cut before they tumble into what was deep seabottom to form the Bitter Lakes in the deepest parts of the Bottomlands. There’s a small one in Trench Park, though it often dries up—the Dalorz River doesn’t send down enough water to maintain it very well.”
A little later, when the trail twisted west around a big limestone boulder, several tourists exclaimed over the misty plume of water plunging toward the floor of the park. Lofosa asked, “Is that the Dalorz?”
“That’s it,” Radnal said. “Its flow is too erratic to make it worth Tartesh’s while to build a power station where it falls off the ancient continental shelf, though we’ve done that with several other bigger rivers. They supply more than three fourths of our electricity: another benefit of the Bottomlands.”
A few small spun-sugar clouds drifted across the sky from west to east. Otherwise, nothing blocked the sun from beating down on the tourists with greater force every cubit they descended. The donkeys kicked up dust at every footfall.
“Does it ever rain here?” Evillia asked.
“Not very often,” Radnal admitted. “The Bottomlands desert is one of the driest places on earth. The Barrier Mountains pick off most of the moisture that blows from the Western Ocean, and the other mountain ranges that stretch into the Bottomlands from the north catch most of what’s left. But every two or three years Trench Park does get a downpour. It’s the most dangerous time to be there—a torrent can tear through a wash and drown you before you know it’s coming.”
“But it’s also the most beautiful time,” Toglo zev Pamdal said. “Pictures of Trench Park after a rain first made me want to come here, and I was lucky enough to see it myself on my last visit.”
“May I be so fortunate,” Dokhnor of Kellef said. “I brought colorsticks as well as charcoal, on the off chance I might be able to draw post-rain foliage.”
“The odds are against you, though the freelady was lucky before,” Radnal said. Dokhnor spread his hands to show his agreement. Like everything he did, the gesture was tight, restrained, perfectly controlled. Radnal had trouble imagining him going into transports of artistic rapture over desert flowers, no matter how rare or brilliant.
He said, “The flowers are beautiful, but they’re only the tip of the iceberg, if you’ll let me use a wildly inappropriate comparison. All life in Trench Park depends on water, the same as everywhere else. It’s adapted to get along with very little, but not none. As soon as any moisture comes, plants and animals try to pack a generation’s worth of growth and breeding into the little while it takes to dry up.”
About a quarter of a daytenth later, a sign set by the side of the trail announced that the tourists were farther below sea level than they could go anywhere outside the Bottomlands. Radnal read it aloud and pointed out, rather smugly, that the salt lake which was the next most submerged spot on dry land lay close to the Bottomlands, and might almost be considered an extension of them.
Moblay Sopsirk’s son said, “I didn’t imagine anyone would be so proud of this wasteland as to want to include more of the Great Continent in it.” His brown skin kept him from roasting under the desert sun, but sweat sheened his bare arms and torso.
A little more than halfway down the trail, a wide flat rest area was carved out of the rock. Radnal let the tourists halt for a while, stretch their legs and ease their weary hindquarters, and use the odorous privy. He passed out ration packs, ignored his charges’ grumbles. He noticed Dokhnor of Kellef ate his meal without complaint.
He tossed his own pack into the bin by the privy, then, a couple of cubits from the edge of the trail, peered down onto the floor of the Bottomlands. After one of the rare rains, the park was spectacular from here. Now it just baked: white salt pans, gray-brown or yellow-brown dirt, a scattering of faded green vegetation. Not even the area around the lodge was watered artificially; the Tyrant’s charter ordained that Trench Park be kept pristine.
As they came off the trail and started along the ancient sea bottom toward the lodge, Evillia said, “I thought it would be as if we were in the bottom of a bowl, with mountain all around us. It doesn’t really feel that way. I can see the ones we just came down, and the Barrier Mountains to the west, but there’s nothing to the east and hardly anything to the south—just a blur on the horizon.”
“I expected it would look like a bowl, too, the first time I came here,” Radnal said. “We are in the bottom of a bowl. But it doesn’t look that way because the Bottomlands are broad compared to their depth—it’s a big, shallow bowl. What makes it interesting is that its top is at the same level as the bottom of most other geological bowls, and its bottom deeper than any of them.”
“What are those cracks?” Toglo zev Pamdal asked, pointing down to breaks in the soil that ran across the tour group’s path. Some were no wider than a barleycorn; others, like open, lidless mouths, had gaps of a couple of digits between their sides.
“In arid terrain like this you’ll see all kinds of cracks in the ground from mud drying unevenly after a rain,” Radnal said. “But the ones you’ve noticed do mark a fault line. The earthquake we felt earlier probably was triggered along this fault: it marks where two plates in the earth’s crust are colliding.”
Nocso zev Martois let out a frightened squeak. “Do you mean that if we have another earthquake, those cracks w
ill open and swallow us down?” She twitched her donkey’s reins, as if to speed it up and get as far away from the fault line as she could.
Radnal didn’t laugh; the Tyranny paid him for not laughing at tourists. He answered gravely, “If you worry about something that unlikely, you might as well worry about getting hit by a skystone, too. The one has about as much chance of happening as the other.”
“Are you sure?” Lofosa sounded anxious, too.
“I’m sure.” He tried to figure out where she and Evillia were from: probably the Krepalgan Unity, by their accent. Krepalga was the northwesternmost Highhead nation; its western border lay at the eastern edge of the Bottomlands. More to the point, it was earthquake country too. If this was all Lofosa knew about quakes, it didn’t say much for her brains.
And if Lofosa didn’t have a lot of brains, what did that say about her and Evillia picking Radnal to amuse themselves with? No one cares to think of a sexual partner’s judgment as faulty, for that reflects upon him.
Radnal did what any sensible man might have done: he changed the subject. “We’ll be at the lodge soon, so you’ll want to think about getting your things out of your bags and into your sleep cubicles.”
“What I want to think about is getting clean,” Moblay Sopsirk’s son contradicted.
“You’ll each be issued a small bucket of water every day for personal purposes,” he said, and overrode a chorus of groans: “Don’t complain—our brochures are specific about this. Almost all the fresh water in Trench Park comes down the trail we rode, on the backs of these donkeys. Think how much you’ll relish a hot soak when we come out of the park.”
“Think how much we’ll need a hot soak when we come out of the park,” said the elderly Strongbrow man Radnal had tagged as someone spending the silver he’d made in his earlier years (to his embarrassment, he’d forgotten the fellow’s name). “It’s not so bad for these Highheads here, since their bodies are mostly bare, but all my hair will be a greasy mess by the time this excursion is done.” He glared at Radnal as if it were his fault.
We Install Page 18
