by Martha Wells
The local groundlings, apparently used to the sight, had already started up the stairs. Stone followed and Moon trailed after him. He had a bad feeling the giant waterling was only the beginning. At least he knew now what the woman in the wine bar had meant when she said the display in the tower was disturbing.
Preserved carvings hung along the inside stairwell, large sections chipped out of the walls of some other building. The faded paint showed groundlings with elaborate jeweled headdresses riding in procession on giant grasseaters, taller than the trees along the side of the avenue. In any other circumstances, Moon would have stopped for a closer look, but this place was making his skin twitch. Most of the groundlings passed the carvings with only brief glances as well, their attention on the gallery above the stairs.
The next level held far more exhibits. Carvings of stone and wood, all obviously cut or chipped out of their original locations, some painted or set with jewels. Some statues were rough and crude, others were beautifully carved, of strange types of groundlings, of other creatures Moon had never seen before. There were metalwork panels, shields, weapons, a whole row of full sets of armor, inlaid with gold, silver, and gems, the helmets formed into snarling animal masks. But next to all the wonderful things there were cubbies in the walls, and in each one was a dead creature, stuffed and posed in a horribly lifelike position. Standing on a low plinth in the center of the hall was the skeleton of something like a branch spider, standing more than fifteen paces high. The bones had been rearticulated somehow, maybe with wire, and the effect was eerily lifelike.
Moon and Stone moved out into the room, as the groundlings wandered and pointed and exclaimed. It looked like this was as far up into the tower as they were allowed to go. A shorter open stairway led to a set of doors, but they were tightly shut and watched by two guards.
Stone stopped suddenly. He was staring at a stand with a large jar set atop it.
Moon’s breath caught. We’re in the right place. The jar was carved of rich dark wood, and it had obviously been made by Arbora. The sinuous shapes of winged Raksura wrapped it, their claws hooked over the rim. The wide opening was sealed with a single piece of polished onyx. Stone turned away from it, and said, low-voiced, “It’s a queen’s funerary urn.”
Moon looked down, biting his lip, trying to conceal his start of shock. “From Indigo Cloud?” he muttered, speaking Raksuran.
Stone shook his head. “Ours were put into hollows in the wood of the tree, and the mentors made it grow around them. No one could get to them.” He looked at it again, eyes narrow. “This came from another colony.”
Moon swallowed, relieved. At least it wasn’t one of Jade or Stone’s ancestors. “Ardan’s been to the forests. The seed has to be here somewhere.”
Stone strolled away toward one side of the room. Moon took the other.
Delin, Niran’s scholarly grandfather, had a collection from his travels too, but it had been limited to pretty samples of pottery and other trinkets, and his books of notes and drawings. Ardan had sea creatures with maws of teeth and staring eyes, a flightless giant bird like the vargits that stalked the jungles far to the east, and something that was just a bundle of tentacles with mouths on the ends. There was a Tath, standing upright and pinned to a wooden post, the boney mask that protected its face making it look sightless. Its jaw hung open and its long clawed hands dangled uselessly, and Moon still had the urge to rip it apart. He was half-afraid to look into an alcove and discover that Ardan had collected a Fell. Though he supposed the Fell would have long since found a way to reach the island if Ardan had been fool enough to stuff a ruler or a major kethel.
Then he walked past an alcove with an occupant that stopped him in his tracks.
A waterling lay stretched out on a plinth, but it was nothing like Nobent or the monstrous creature downstairs. This was a sea realm dweller. Her skin was pale green, with a pattern of opalescent scales. The heavy ribbons of her hair were dark green, like sea wrack, and there were sharp fins along her calves and thighs. Her fingers and toes were webbed, and tipped with deceptively delicate claws.
Moon stepped closer, unwillingly fascinated. She still wore her jewelry: a belt of pearls, white metal armbands shaped like water snakes. He couldn’t see the death wound; possibly it was in her back. Whatever preserved her maintained the appearance of life, betrayed only by the faint scent of corruption and the sunken, bruised skin around her closed eyes. Moon had never seen a sea dweller this close before. He would have much preferred to see this one alive and swimming.
He turned away to see Stone regarding it with a grimace of disgust. “I’m surprised he doesn’t have any stuffed groundlings,” Moon said. There was no way Ardan could even pretend to classify a sealing with the Tath, the branch spider, and the other predators.
Stone gave the dead woman one last dark glance. “He doesn’t have them down here, where the others can see.”
He had a point. “Have you found anything?”
“It’s not here.” Stone’s jaw set, as if it took all he had to suppress a growl.
“It’s not on display,” Moon corrected. The next step seemed obvious. Tricky and potentially dangerous, but obvious. “I’ll say I want to see Ardan, tell him I know where he can find more Raksuran treasures.”
Stone shook his head. “Moon—”
Moon explained impatiently, “If he believes me, maybe I can look around inside the—”
“Moon, if he finds out what you are, he’ll collect you.”
“I know that.” With effort, Moon kept his voice low. “He won’t find out. I’m good at not being caught.”
Stone was more skeptical. “I saw how good you were at it when your groundling friends staked you out to be bird bait.”
It was unfair to bring that up. “That was different.” It was different in a hundred ways. Ilane had wanted to get rid of Moon somehow; if he hadn’t turned out to be a shapeshifter she could accuse of being a Fell, she would have thought of something else. Presumably Ardan wouldn’t have that kind of personal malice towards him. Not on such short acquaintance, anyway. “And he’s not going to have Fell poison.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Fine, so what do you want to do?”
Stone didn’t have to think about it. “I’ll tell him I know where to find the treasures.”
“You can’t. The rooms upstairs could be too small for you to shift in. You’d be stuck.” Obviously Stone didn’t object to the plan, just the fact that Moon was the one implementing it. He stifled the impulse to feel hurt; Stone couldn’t think he would betray the court to some random groundling sorcerer. Still…” What, you don’t trust me?” All right, maybe he hadn’t quite stifled the impulse.
Stone gave him a withering look. “Jade made me swear to take care of you and not let you do anything crazy.”
Moon stared at him, torn between extreme pique and gratification at the show of concern. And there was always the chance that Stone was just making it up, to justify him taking the risk instead of Moon. “I don’t do crazy things. I don’t need to be taken care of. And since when do you listen to Jade? Or anybody?”
“I’m a consort, I listen to queens. Something you might consider at some point.”
How Stone managed to say that with a straight face, Moon had no idea, and he wasn’t going to dignify it with an argument. Instead, he pointed out, “None of the others can do this.” In either of her forms, Jade would be recognized as a Raksura by any of the thieves who had been to the colony tree and seen the carvings. None of the warriors had ever had to hide what they were. The only groundling they had spent any time with was Niran, and he didn’t count. “It has to be you or me, and it can’t be you.”
Stone folded his arms and stared at the wall. He said, “You don’t know I’d get stuck,” but Moon knew resignation when he heard it, even from Stone.
First, they made a quick trip back to their tower so Moon could retrieve his consort’s gifts from their h
iding place. If he was going to convince Ardan he knew where Raksuran treasure lay, it would be handy to have proof. He convinced Stone not to return to Ardan’s tower with him; if something went wrong, then at least only one of them would be caught, and Stone would be free to find a way to rescue Moon—before Moon’s dead body turned up in Ardan’s collection.
Stone agreed reluctantly, and didn’t tell Moon to be careful. They both knew that being careful wouldn’t get them the seed.
By the time he returned to Ardan’s tower, most of the locals had gone, but the traders seemed to be waiting for something. Moon hoped it was for Ardan to make an appearance.
Finally, the doors at the top of the stairs opened and a group of groundlings came out. Some were guards, some obviously servants, and one, a short blue-pearl man dressed in rich gold and green robes, was obviously the leader. That has to be Ardan. Moon followed the other traders over, trying not to show the tension that was making his teeth ache. This was the one thing he was most worried about; if Ardan was very powerful, he might be able to tell Moon was a shifter just by looking at him. As an ivory-inlaid folding table and a chair were whisked into place for the leader, one of the servant groundlings announced, “This is the Superior Bialin. He speaks for Magister Ardan.”
Of course he is, Moon thought sourly, disappointed. Ardan couldn’t come down here, where the big doors downstairs were still open and Moon could leap the gallery and have a straight path outside if anything went wrong.
There were several traders here to offer objects and information, and Moon let them go first so he could watch what happened. It was a simple procedure: the traders each presented their objects to Bialin, who examined them, and then told the trader it was garbage and to go away. Moon wasn’t close enough to get a good look at the objects, but from what he overheard, most were either jewelry pieces or small carvings from distant groundling cities—the kind of things that would have pleased Delin, but that were far too prosaic for Ardan’s taste.
Two traders had a small chest, which they opened to reveal the preserved body of a little creature. Moon stood on tiptoes to catch a glimpse and thought it looked like a treeling sewn onto a lizard.
Bialin gazed at them tiredly. “This is a treeling sewn onto a lizard. Get out.”
Finally it was Moon’s turn. He stepped up to the table and Bialin said skeptically, “And what have you got to offer?”
Watching the others fail had made Moon more confident. “I can tell the Magister where he can find more Raksuran treasure.”
“Raksuran? What is—” Bialin’s gaze sharpened and suddenly Moon had all his attention. He leaned back in his chair, trying to look uninterested. “What is that?”
Bialin had already lost the chance to play coy. His first reaction had been telling. Moon said, “They live in the forest Reaches on the eastern coast. He already has that wooden pot with the onyx lid. It’s a Raksuran queen’s funerary urn.”
Bialin leaned forward, giving up his skeptical pose. “How do you know this?”
“I’ve been to the forest.”
“Can you prove it?”
Moon unbuckled his belt, and laid it and the sheathed knife on the table.
Bialin leaned over it, frowning. Then he snapped his fingers at his subordinate. The man handed him a heavy glass lens, and Bialin held it to his eye to study the leather more closely. He traced the pattern of lines, then drew the knife partway and fingered the carving on the hilt. Moon pulled his sleeve up and held his arm out, holding the red-gold consort’s wristband almost under Bialin’s nose. Bialin just blinked and switched his scrutiny to it.
Finally he sat up, lowering the lens. “Yes.” He nodded to himself and smiled faintly. “I think the Magister will be very interested.”
Moon followed Bialin and his attendants and guards up the short flight of stairs and through the double doors, into the private recesses of the tower. When the heavy doors closed behind him and the guards turned the lock, Moon took a deep breath. He was committed now.
They didn’t go far, down a high-ceilinged corridor and then into a large room. The decoration was all heavy, the alabaster carving full of staring faces, reflecting cold light from the vapor-lamps. The ceiling was just as heavily carved as the walls, with inset squares and circles, the edges made to look like bunched fabric. Moon scanned just enough to note there was nothing lurking in the corners, and focused on the man seated at the table in the center.
Like Bialin, Ardan was one of the blue-skinned groundlings, but he was younger than Moon had expected. His features were even and handsome, and there were faint lines of concentration at the corners of his eyes. He wore a silky gray robe shot with silver, simple compared to how some of the other wealthy locals dressed. He was reading a roll of white paper spread out on the ivory-inset surface of the table, and didn’t glance up at them.
Bialin stepped around the table, leaned over and whispered to him. Finally Ardan looked up. His gaze was sharp but faintly skeptical, as if Bialin had erred in the past and his expectations were not high. In a voice so dry it was dusty, he said, “Let me see these objects.”
Bialin gestured impatiently. He looked nervous, and it was probably his head on the block if Ardan wasn’t pleased. Moon could sympathize; his nerves were jumping, but Ardan didn’t seem to know he was in the room with a shifter. He put the knife and belt down on the table, hesitated for a moment, then slipped off the wristband and set it next to them.
Ardan leaned forward, took the glass lens Bialin held ready for him, and began to examine the objects. The rough skin just below the edge of his pearly skull started to furrow with interest.
The vapor-lights hanging overhead misted in the cool damp air, and Moon waited, tracking the bead of sweat working its way down his back. With the sea kingdom woman lying stuffed in his grand hall like an animal, Moon had half-expected Ardan to look like a monster. He didn’t. He just looked like a clever man.
He’s not a monster because he doesn’t see that woman as a person, Moon thought. If he had known Moon was a Raksura, he wouldn’t see him as a person, either, just another potential collector’s item. Moon was suddenly glad he had bothered with the boots.
Ardan examined the knife, belt, and wristband for a long silent moment. Then he looked up and studied Moon, his hooded eyes thoughtful. “What are you called?”
“Niran.” Giving a fake name might be overcautious. In both Kedaic and Altanic, Moon’s name was just a random sound, meaningless. But Moon looked into Ardan’s eyes again and decided he couldn’t be too careful.
He gestured to the collection on the table. “You’re selling these things?” “No, I’m selling the information.” He would hand over the knife and the wristband if he had to, but he didn’t think a real trader would be eager to part with them either. “You’re not interested in trinkets.”
Ardan conceded that with a faint smile. “No, I’m not.” He was now clearly intrigued. “How did you know that container was a… queen’s funerary urn?”
Moon had absolutely no idea how Stone had identified it as a queen’s urn, but then it didn’t matter if Ardan thought he was lying for effect. “It was like the others we found. The scholar I was with said that’s what they were. His name was Delin-Evran-lindel, from the Golden Isles in the Yellow Sea.”
“You found other urns?”
“In an abandoned Raksuran—” Moon reminded himself not to be too exact with the terminology. “Hive.”
Ardan nodded. “And where was this abandoned hive?”
“Near the edge of the Reaches.” And Moon began to describe a journey on a flying boat to the old Indigo Cloud colony, the one that had been built into the groundling ruin straddling the river valley, but with the location transposed to the lakes they had passed before entering the forest.
As Ardan’s expression grew even more intent, Moon populated this version of the colony with scattered bones and other grisly remains, to explain why these Raksura had left all their belonging
s behind. Finally Ardan lifted a hand. “Stop. I wish someone else to hear this.” He called one of the guards over and spoke to him briefly. Moon caught the words, “Bring Negal.”
Bringing someone else in to listen was possibly a trick to catch Moon in a lie, to see if he changed his story with repetition, or if the details sounded memorized. He wasn’t worried; the details were all true, just arranged in different ways from how they had actually happened.
As they waited, Ardan set the knife aside, saying, “You’ll get this back when you leave here.” He handed the belt and wristband to Bialin, who handed them to his subordinate, who handed them back to Moon. Moon buckled on the belt, then slipped the band back onto his wrist, pulling his sleeve down over it. He hoped this was a good sign.
After a short time, another groundling was led into the room. He was from a different race than those common to the leviathan, with light brown skin, curly gray hair, and a trim gray beard. He wore dark pants and a shirt of a knit material in a coarse weave, a short jacket, and heavy low boots. Clothes meant for colder weather, and bearing a close resemblance to the kind of clothing left behind on the metal ship.
We were right, Moon thought. His skin prickled, something that happened when prey was in sight. He folded his arms, hoping he looked bored and impatient.
The man’s eyes were dark and wary. From the tension in his body he didn’t appear eager to be here. Ardan said briskly, “Negal, sit down. This man is called Niran. He’s an explorer who has been to the fringe of the eastern forest.”
Negal’s expression relaxed slightly. Whatever he had been afraid to hear, that wasn’t it. He took a seat on a stool, saying with some irony, “Ah, how interesting.” He spoke Kedaic too, but with a different accent than the others.
At a nod from Ardan, Moon described the old colony again, throwing in a few additional details.
Negal sat forward, listening with growing interest. When Moon paused for breath, he said, “Were there carvings of both types of Raksura, those with wings and those without? Was there anything to indicate what the relationship between them was?”
