The Harbors of the Sun

by Martha Wells

  Stone asked her, “There were Hian traders at the last place we stopped, meaning to meet a flying boat somewhere along here. Was there a flying boat here before the Fell attack?”

  The proprietor said, “No traders like that came to the caravanserai. But there was a ship of the air of Kish. It fled when the Fell appeared.”

  One of the groundlings sitting beside the debris looked a little like the slender Coastals of Than-Serest. It said, “No, the airship stayed. I was trapped under a collapsed tent in the market, and I saw it was there when we crawled out. We were all looking up to see if the Fell were really gone.”

  The proprietor made an arms wide gesture, her equivalent of a shrug. “There were no mails for a ship to take, so it was here for trade or passengers.”

  “Mails?” Moon asked.

  “Messages. For ships.” The proprietor pointed up at the trade flag poles standing high above the river docks. “They take and leave from the poles.”

  Moon shaded his eyes. Now that he looked, he saw there were baskets atop the poles, just below the flags, with ropes attached so they could be hauled up and down.

  “Were the Fell chasing the boat?” Stone asked. Moon thought that question was a little too pointed, and nudged him in the back. Stone ignored him.

  “Chasing it here?” The Coastal made a neutral gesture. “Maybe? But the craft gave no warning. It stopped, like it meant to take on or drop passengers. I didn’t see it go.”

  “Did it use its fire weapons on the Fell?” Stone asked.

  “Not that we saw,” the proprietor said. She gestured at the kethel. “But in the end it wasn’t needed, I suppose.”

  Moon pulled Stone away a few steps, and said in Raksuran, “Why didn’t they use their weapons?”

  Stone said, “Somebody used something. The Fell didn’t fall out of the sky for no reason.”

  “And the Jandera—” Moon stopped. He had a terrible thought. Hians had reason to fear Jandera, since they had stolen Callumkal. “You don’t think . . . this was the artifact. This is what it can do. This is why Vendoin wanted it.”

  From Stone’s expression he had already thought of that. “It would make sense. The Fell heard it was a weapon, but they got that from the Hians. They didn’t know what kind of weapon it was.”

  “Vendoin said it would be cruel to tell us what it was.” Cold settled in Moon’s stomach as all the wider implications hit him. “If it could do this to a Fell flight, it could do it to a Raksuran court.”

  Stone’s jaw tightened, as he tried to hold back a hiss or growl that would frighten the nearby groundlings. “That would explain a lot.”

  “This is our fault.” Moon looked down and wiped the grit from his eyes to give himself time to think. It didn’t help. Song, Magrim, Kellimdar, the three others on the sunsailer who hadn’t survived the poison. It had been bad enough before the Hians had killed a group of harmless Jandera traders for fear of pursuit. “We brought the shitting thing out of the city for them.” Now the Hians could do anything with it.

  Stone ruffled his hair sympathetically, then said, “Stop it.”

  Moon twitched, an urge to self-consciously settle the spines of his other form. “We’re only barely more than a day behind them and we don’t know if they’re still going south. Or why they stopped here.”

  Stone didn’t answer, until Moon looked up. Stone’s expression was somewhere between resigned and grimly amused. He said, “I’ve got nothing else to do.”

  Past the smashed tent a voice rose in anguish, speaking in Altanic, “But how were killed the Jandera? Why dead them?”

  The Coastal shook its head, its crest shivering with the motion. “And who is next?”

  Stone turned back to the proprietor and said, “Are there any Kish living here who weren’t Jandera traders? Any Hians?”

  Following the proprietor’s directions, they climbed the stairs that wound up one of the hills, past the stone houses and the twining limbs of small determined shade trees and flowering bushes. There was less confusion up here, most of the inhabitants still huddling inside the sturdy structures. An array of small colorful birds sang and called as if nothing had happened.

  They followed the staircase around and up, past an open terrace where potted garden plants had been toppled when dead dakti limbs had fallen on them, and up again. The houses had little archways marking the paths that led to their doors, most wound with vines or other greenery. They found the one with the symbol on it that the caravanserai proprietor had told them to look for. It led to a square doorway in a chunky stone façade, sheltered by the branches of a leaning fringe tree. Moon heard movement inside as they approached, and cautiously stopped short of the door. “Hello?”

  A small Bikuru emerged, her large eyes curious. Stone said, “We’re looking for the Hian scholar.”

  She lifted her hands helplessly. “All dead.”

  Moon hadn’t expected that. He glanced at Stone, and asked the Bikuru, “It was the Fell?”

  “Just dead,” the Bikuru said. She motioned for them to come in, and they passed through a cool stone foyer and into a larger room. Windows were carved in the rock but shaded by the greenery outside, letting in a cool breeze. Pieces of wooden furniture and a woven rug had been pushed aside so the Bikuru could lay out four bodies.

  All four were Hians, three small enough to be children. Their clothes weren’t torn and there was no blood; it looked as if they had just fallen down dead, exactly like the Jandera.

  Another groundling sat on the far side of the room, a willowy one with white hair and blue-gray skin, very thin, with long boney ridges along its arms and hands. It was shaking, making distressed noises. “We came to see the scholar,” Stone said. “What happened? Was it the Fell?”

  “I don’t know.” It looked up at them with gray eyes. Its Kedaic was much better than the Bikuru’s. “She was outside when the Fell came, but there are no wounds! And the younglings were in here.”

  Moon wasn’t sure what to ask. “Was she expecting visitors from the flying boat? Other Hians, maybe?”

  It buried its face in its hands, made a distressed noise, then pushed to its feet and ran out of the room.

  Stone hissed under his breath. The others were staring at them and Moon said in Raksuran, “We better go.”

  Stone grimaced agreement. But as they turned for the door, one of the Bikuru said, “Why are you here?”

  On impulse Moon decided on a version close to the truth. It had worked for Stone in the swampling city. “We’re looking for the Hians who were on the flying boat. We thought they wanted to meet with the scholar who lived here.”

  The Bikuru stepped out into the foyer with them. “The ship of Kish left after the Fell died. They had devices that allowed them to lift up and down. Kish have these. You have seen?”

  She meant the flying packs. Moon said, “Yes, with the harnesses?”

  “Yes. Some came from the ship in that fashion. I did not see them, but Ile-res said she saw them leave the house, and now the scholar’s writings are gone.” The Bikuru watched them carefully, critically. “Do you know why they did this?”

  That one Moon could answer honestly. “No.”

  Stone added, “They stole from us, too. They’re thieves.”

  The Bikuru watched them a moment more, but Moon got the feeling she believed them. “Most of the scholar’s writings are not here. They are at the scriptorium on the tier below.”

  Stone lifted his brows. “Her writings about what?”

  “Her ancestors. The ancestors of all of Kish. They had a city out that way somewhere, near the sea.” She made a vague gesture toward the south. “Under the cloudwall, in poetic terms.”

  “Are the writings in Kedaic?” Moon asked, though he wasn’t hopeful. Kedaic was primarily a trade language, made up of words from other Kishan languages. He didn’t think it was something most scholars would use.

  The Bikuru seemed bemused by the question, but answered, “Not Kedaic. I have not seen myself, b
ut the scholar was partial to Kish-Kenar, and would write in High Isra, or Kenarae, perhaps.”

  Someone in the house wailed again, and the Bikuru gestured a hurried farewell and went inside.

  Stone made a thoughtful noise and started back down the path. Moon said, “So we know what they were here for. We just don’t know if they got it.” It didn’t sound like the Hians had had much time to go through the scholar’s papers after they killed her and her family. If the writings they wanted were stored in the scriptorium, they hadn’t realized it.

  Stone said, “I don’t suppose you read High Isra or Kenarae, because I don’t.”

  “No.” Moon doubted they would be able to figure it out, whatever it was, even if they could read the scholar’s books. That was a job for a mentor, or for Delin and Callumkal . . . Moon stopped on the steps. “You think that’s why they took Delin and Callumkal? Because Vendoin knew they were going to have to come here, and get something from this scholar that she needed help to understand?”

  Stone hadn’t stopped, and Moon had to hurry to catch up with him. Stone said, “That, or she didn’t want them with us when we followed her and found this place. We’ve wasted enough time here. We need to get in the air again.”

  “There’s one more thing we can do,” Moon said. “I want to leave a mail.”

  They stopped at the caravanserai on their way out of town. Stone wrote a message and Moon added a bit of the tracking moss to it to guide Kalam’s horticultural here. Then one of the proprietor’s assistants folded it up in a waterproofed cloth packet, labeled it with Niran’s and Diar’s names and hauled it to the top of a mail pole with a flag indicating urgency.

  Once that was done, they walked out of town toward the road. Moon looked up at the forest, wondering if there were any loose herd-beasts there or if they should wait until they spotted some wild grasseaters. Someone else was on the road now, another traveler standing on the raised stone surface and staring toward the town. Staring toward them . . . Moon stopped abruptly. “That’s a kethel.”

  “That’s our kethel,” Stone said after a moment.

  Moon had had time to spot the kilt and the braided hair. He suppressed the urge to shift. They couldn’t do it here, not in front of this shocked and reeling town. He started for the road. “It’s not ours, I don’t want a kethel.”

  But by the time they reached the ramp up to the elevated road, the kethel had vanished. Moon balanced on the nearest pylon, staring into the sandy hills and the tall fringed trees, alert for any sign of movement.

  “Moon, come here.” Stone was looking at something on the road’s weather beaten surface. Reluctantly, Moon stepped down and went to join him.

  It was an arrow, scratched into the dust of the pavement, pointing south.

  Moon and Stone flew the rest of the day, crossing low hills dotted with large serene umbrella trees, shading little colonies of what Moon had first thought were small mammals. When they landed at dusk, the little creatures turned out to be plants, able to uproot themselves and walk slowly away from the Raksuran intruders. Between the trees were small ponds and streams, lit by iridescent water grass, and Moon was able to catch a few fish.

  While Stone was eating, Moon stood in the shallows of a stream, staring at the glowing grass between his foot claws, lost in thought, until the walking plants decided he was harmless and returned. He missed his clutch so much it felt like a physical ache.

  Then he felt something change, something different in the shadows under the tall umbrella trees. His spines lifted and he tilted his head to listen. Behind him, Stone was suddenly on his feet.

  Then Moon caught the scent and swallowed a growl. Stone stepped up beside him and snarled, then said, “Come out of there.”

  There was a silent pause, then Moon sensed something moving in the shadows. The kethel stepped out of the dark onto the iridescent grass near the stream.

  Moon hissed. “Stop following us, or we’ll kill you.”

  It said, “If I didn’t follow you, you’d be dead in the flying trees.”

  It had a point, which just made Moon that much more frustrated. Stone took a casual step toward it. It ducked its head and looked at the ground, but didn’t back away. “What do you want?” Stone said, frustration under the growl in his voice.

  “I told you, to help you,” it said. In the dimming light, it was hard to read its expression. Reading a Fell ruler’s expression was useless, since Moon thought it was rare that they used facial expressions to communicate with each other. Mostly they used them to fool and entrap groundlings. The kethel, which didn’t interact with groundlings, might be different, but with the shadows concealing its deep-set eyes, it was hard to tell.

  Stone hissed out a breath and said, “Where are the others?”

  The kethel said, “No others. I sent the dakti back to her long ago. To tell her that I followed you.”

  “Her” had to be the half-Fell queen. Moon asked, “Where is she?”

  The kethel turned its face up to the sunset sky, and Moon had a moment of trepidation that it was about to say “here.” The kethel said, “With the others. On the plain, nearer to the sea.”

  Stone eyed him thoughtfully. “But what is she doing now? Why did she send you ahead?”

  The kethel looked down, its lips pursing stubbornly.

  “The rulers won’t let you tell us,” Moon said.

  It made a noise of contempt. “Rulers.”

  Moon turned to look incredulously at Stone and found Stone looking incredulously at him. Moon said, “I know your flight has rulers. I saw them at the island.”

  “The rulers are young. She—” It faced them suddenly. Moon hissed and flinched back. Stone’s growl made the tree beside them tremble and release a shower of puffy white seed pods.

  The kethel took a hasty step back. It said, “She killed the progenitor.”

  The half-Fell queen had said that too, and Moon believed it. He just wasn’t certain he could believe this kethel was operating under its own will, with nothing to tell it what to do but its own judgment. “There’s no voice in your head. Nothing making you talk.”

  The kethel said only, “No,” but something in its voice suggested controlled irritation.

  “Since when?” Stone said, “When did she kill the progenitor?”

  “Long ago.” The kethel watched them, as if trying to gauge their reaction. It took all of Moon’s concentration not to let his scales twitch uncontrollably. Stone was staring at it with a concentrated intensity that finally made the kethel look away. Then it said, “You tell stories?”

  Moon let himself twitch. It was a relief. Stone cocked his head and said, “What?”

  The kethel slid a careful glance at him. “The other consort told stories.”

  Stone hissed out a breath, and Moon belatedly realized what the kethel meant. He snarled, “We don’t want to hear about how the consort your flight captured and forced to mate with your progenitor passed the time while being tortured.”

  The kethel looked away again. If it had been a Raksura, Moon would have said it was disappointed. “I just thought you have stories.”

  Stone considered it for a long time. Then he said, “Tell us your story, and we’ll tell you a story.”

  Moon’s jaw tightened. He said to Stone, “By we, you mean you.”

  Stone ignored him. “Tell us about her, your Queen.”

  The kethel seemed to struggle with itself, the emotion almost hidden under what must be a deliberate effort at expressional stoicism. Moon had thought it might be young, though he had no idea how kethel aged. Now he was certain it was young. It said, reluctantly, “I was too small. But she wouldn’t let the others kill me. I was hers. There was us, and the dakti that were born with her. Some other dakti that were too small, or too different. And our consort. He called her Consolation.”

  “He named her,” Stone said, his voice giving away nothing. Moon felt his spines ripple uneasily.

  The kethel hesitated, as if uncertain how to
react, then it continued, “Then our consort died and she said that some time she would be big enough to kill the progenitor. The progenitor didn’t fear her. The rulers were there, they protect the progenitor. But the progenitor forgot me, and I grew big too. I killed the rulers, and she killed the progenitor. Our dakti helped.”

  Moon looked away, watching the sparkling water weeds move with the current. Stone said, “What about the others?”

  “We killed some, but the others are friends now.” The kethel added, “Now you tell a story.” It tilted its head toward them, clearly hopeful.

  Stone rubbed his face. Then he turned and took a couple of paces away to sit down on a thick tree root.

  The kethel threw a wary look at Moon, then sat where it was on the iridescent grass. Moon moved a few paces down the stream, where he would be in a good position to attack if the kethel flung itself at Stone. As he sat on his heels on the bank, Stone began, “This is a story of Solace and Sable, when they went to trade with cloud people in the far east valleys . . .”

  Later, Moon and Stone went to rest in the curving bowl-shape of a parasol tree’s crown. It was high and difficult to reach, so a predator would be unable to approach without shaking the whole tree.

  They were both in their groundling forms, sheltered by the inward-curving leaves. Moon curled up and tucked himself in under Stone’s arm, and Stone didn’t comment. His face pressed against Stone’s ribcage, Moon said, “We can’t believe anything it says. That’s not a half-Fell. That’s a shitting kethel.”

  Stone made a noise of agreement. After a time, he said, “That’s the third Fell flight we’ve heard of that was destroyed because it made Fell-Raksuran crossbreeds. Plus a couple more, if you count the flights that were destroyed because another flight made Fell-Raksuran crossbreeds.”

  “I noticed that.” Moon was tracking the presence of the kethel by scent and sound, knowing it was about thirty paces from the base of their tree. It was sleeping next to the stream where they had talked. “You’d think the Fell would pass the word around and stop doing it.”