Yeah, you are. Douche. “I said no. I'm sure first-tiers have been measured and tested as much as anybody could ever want. I don't have time to waste playing around just so you can manhandle one yourself. If you've got nothing for me, I'm leaving.”
Oh, he doesn't like me at all. “Mr. Iskinder, a fair exchange of information is one thing. This is something else. First-tiers are different. Do you understand me? Different.” He runs his hand through his thin hair again. “You can't tease me with him and then just walk away!”
This has been twenty minutes of stupidity, and my patience is done. “Have a good day, Professor.” I head for the stairs.
Students of all ages stare as I walk past, whispering to each other. I remember being that scrawny. I remember being small and scared and big-eyed, bruised where people wouldn't see because I had a famous name.
I learned how to bruise back.
It worked, but it cost me. Leaders don't get to have friends.
“Wait! Mr. Iskinder, wait!” Standish puffs as he comes up behind me, his bluff successfully called. “I am so sorry. There's been a misunderstanding. Of course I will answer your questions. Please come back.” He wipes at his forehead, smearing the sweat from one side of his face to the other.
I don't look smug. There's no pride in bullying. “If you're sure.”
“I'm sure. I'm sure! Mr. Iskinder! It's an honor!” He gets louder, arms wide, probably because everyone is watching us.
I nod and follow him back again.
Aakesh stays by my side, silent. Suddenly I'm glad he wears the little kilt. Who cares what's under there? It's nobody's business.
Once we're back in Standish's office—which, like him, is small and round and not very clean—he flops into his chair and pulls a flask out of his desk drawer. Some Sundered One keeps it chilled for him, and his fingers leave marks in the condensation. “All right. Mr. Iskinder. What would you like to know?”
Here we go. “How many first-tiers are there?”
“To be honest, Mr. Iskinder, we aren't sure.”
Just the answer I didn't want. “What do you mean, you aren't sure?”
He clears his throat and sips from his flask again, looking anywhere but at me. He doesn't like me. Gasp. Whatever will I do? “It's not that simple. We have a rough idea how many Sundered are in the wilderness, of course, based on sightings and the number of captures each year. We do not know how many first-tier there are because they tend to ... hide.”
Now, that makes sense. “Hide.”
“Yes, hide. Rather well, actually.” He takes one more sip and puts his flask back. His cheeks and nose are already flushed.
“You mean they go invisible.”
He hesitates, mouth open, tilting his head from side to side, like he thinks he can't bring this complicated idea down to my level. “Well, I wouldn't put it that way.”
“Then put it your way.” And stop dicking around.
He shrugs and leans back. His window overlooks the black water, not the market, and there isn't much noise. For a city this grungy, it's as much peace as a guy can get. “It's not that they're invisible. It has to do with influencing the observer's attention.”
Ahhh. “So we do see them physically, but it doesn't register in our conscious minds.”
He blinks. That's right, I have a brain. “Essentially, yes. Unless they're claimed, we might not even know they're there. Even when they are claimed, sometimes, according to research.”
If that's really true, then there'd be no reason for them ever to get captured at all. So how the hell did he let me catch him? Maybe he didn't expect me to go for him—or maybe he didn't expect me to succeed. “What are their limitations? I remember the charts we had to memorize—the stupid rhyme—but they didn't include first-tier. 'Fifth-tier's strong and lifts big blocks, not too bright but strong as ox——’”
Standish laughs heartily. “I haven't heard that in years! I'd nearly forgotten that old thing.” He wipes the corners of his eyes. “They don't even teach it anymore.”
What? But ... that was really useful. I mean, sure, it simplified things, but it's a perfect foundation. “Why? What do they teach instead?”
“Well, basic lore, more practical applications—we're getting off the subject,” Standish says, dismissing the whole school system with a wave. “You asked me about his abilities. Well. We don't really know. First-tier Sundered limitations seem to depend entirely on the people who claim them. The trick is that first-tiers are clever enough to find loopholes in nearly anything they're told, which makes them very dangerous. There are far more reversals with first-tier than second-tier. To be perfectly honest, most people don't find first-tier Sundered Ones worth keeping. It takes too much effort to make them useful.”
He's lying.
I can see it in his beady eyes, in the way he keeps nervously licking his lips. He's trying to convince me Aakesh isn't safe to own.
Aakesh agrees. He shifts around my mind like an impatient worm, nipping and tugging at my thoughts as if trying to pull away. He really was trying to get me to let go of him last night.
I didn't let go, did I? “I see.”
Standish seems to feel I'm not getting the point. He purses his lips. “Generally speaking, owners of first-tier Sundered trade them in within a week of claiming them,” he says, rummaging in his desk. “I have the forms for Sundered One trade-in, actually, if you'll give me a moment.”
He wants what I have. Funny how that solidifies my decision to keep him. “I'm not here to trade him. How dangerous are they to their owners? Can they lie? Bring them harm?”
He stops. Stares at me. “Well. No, not precisely. It all depends on your orders. No claimed Sundered is technically safe, but the risk with first-tier is monumental. Surely you realize that by now. Really, Mr. Iskinder. It's not like you can actually do anything with him.”
Right. Because scavengers are stupid people, and we couldn't possibly think of things the way disgraced professors can. Screw you. “Thank you for your help, Professor. Good day.”
That startles him. “Wait! Mr. Iskinder!”
Nope. I'll find more answers elsewhere. I head for the door.
Standish calls after us. We both ignore him. Aakesh seems thoughtful as I clomp down the circular stairs. I wonder if I learned anything he didn't want me to know.
How often do first-tier Sundered Ones kill their owners?
It all depends on my orders. He won't pull a reversal on me. “Aakesh.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“From this day forward, you're to view my life as just as valuable as your own. That is a command.”
His expression twitches.
Yeah, think your way out of that one, Mr. I-Wear-Clothes-and-Volunteer-My-Name.
“Yes, my lord.”
I'll have to think of other ways to protect myself and my Travelers, just to be safe. Which I guess means I'm keeping him until he dies. I've never kept a Sundered One that long before.
“My lord?”
“Hm?”
“'Lifts big blocks?’”
“It's a stupid children's rhyme, drilled into us to help us understand the different tiers of Sundered strength. It’s practical.”
“Practical.”
I can't look at him for some reason. “Yeah. 'Fifth-tier's strong and lifts big blocks, not too bright but strong as ox. Fourth-tier's fine with clever fingers, painting, sculptures, make good singers. Third-tier's quiet, good for play, safe for children every day. Second-tier's wild, feral, free, eats everyone, but works for me. Claim the rest with little work, but they die soon, so best not shirk.'”
He stops walking and looks at me.
What?
What is it?
He looks at me steadily, expectantly, just a little sadly like I should know better about something, or should be doing something other than what I'm doing.
“What is your problem, Aakesh?”
“You do not see how degrading it is?” he says softly.
&n
bsp; I've relied on that rhyme all my life. Fifth-tiers are physically strong, but only bright enough for defense or manual labor. Fourth-tiers actually have a lot more power to create and change what they touch, and they have artistry—you can say something like “decorate that hall,” and it won't look like ass. Third-tiers are more powerful still, but they're also loyal, and can be really gentle. People use them in nurseries and hospitals. Second-tiers are volatile, strong, but tend to get into fights with other Sundered.
And anything below fifth-tier isn't even worth numbering (hello, Gorish.) “There's nothing wrong with the rhyme. It isn't degrading.”
“Of course, my lord,” he murmurs.
I scowl at him. “It just teaches how things work.”
“I've no doubt, my lord. Perhaps all should be so neatly categorized,” Aakesh suggests in his smooth voice. “Young males strut and sling their sperm, never thinking whom they harm.”
“That's disgusting, Aakesh.” I rub my face.
“Young girls take and preen and pose, forgetting death is ever close,” he continues. “Now, I know everything there is to know about teenage humans.”
Okay. All right, that makes his point. “Stop.”
He's not finished. “Humans love and claim and die, ever dreaming, ever sly. Yet their end lies in their scope, no matter how they search for—”
“Stop!” I know what rhymes with scope. “Just stop.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
I’m shaking. He was about to sing hope at me.
Why? How?
He's pushing me, taunting me. He knows about the Hope. Or at least that I want it.
Too bad. I won't rise to the bait. Not now, and not ever again.
● ●
● CHAPTER 6 ●
Religious Fanatics
The marketplace is still noisy and crowded. I shove through the stink of sweat and burned spices, losing myself in the press, the heat, the rub of ugly strangers.
I buy some greasy fish and give Aakesh half. He eats it delicately, licking his slender black fingers.
I'm sure I have him truly claimed. Sure enough to gamble my life, my Travelers' lives. I'd be crazy to let him go.
My Travelers have been busy, as it turns out.
“Harry! There you are! Check this out! Awoooo!” Tomas howls like a moron and holds up a bulging burlap sack filled with who knows what.
All of my Travelers look rested and happy, and everybody's wearing something new. New trousers here, new boots there, new hair color for Kaia. I see three new knives on people's belts—nice. Looks like good metalwork. I should get one myself.
Tomas is still trying to show me his stupid sack. Guess I'd better respond. “What is it?”
“Only the very best in baking supplies, Sundered-wrapped and guaranteed to be good for months. “He shows me packets of flour, little dried leaves for flavor, pure white salt, and all of it imperishable as long as we keep them wrapped.
This is way better than what Tomas usually produces. “Good job. How did you—” And then I realize what's missing. “Where's Gorish?”
“Sold him. Look at all this! We got enough for ages.”
They sold him already.
I knew they would. I mean, that was the whole point, right?
I still feel bad. Maybe his new owner will take better care of him than we did. “We can go for weeks on this without stopping.” My thoughts run down my map like an insect with sticky feet, figuring out how many blank spaces we can fill just on this food alone. Wait. This doesn't make sense. “You couldn't possibly have gotten this much for him.”
Tomas shrugs. “We convinced a guy he was a higher tier than he is.”
Okay, first of all, that guy is an idiot. You can feel the tier, taste it, the moment you touch a Sundered One. Second of all, Tomas lied to someone. A customer. A paying customer, who is going to talk about getting ripped off by Iskinder's crew. “You lied to a customer? You lied?”
Another shrug. “Everybody's happy. Relax. Look! Whiskey!”
There goes my reputation. “Tomas, you're a jackass!”
He laughs at me.
I grab the whiskey. I can't fix it now, and chasing somebody down will look worse than if I pretend ignorance later. Dammit, Tomas. “He went to a nice person, though, right? Somebody who won't overuse him?”
Tomas shrugs again, dismissing the question.
Don't hit him, Harry. You'll lose his brother.
The whiskey burns all the way down. I'm sorry, Gorish. I'm so sorry.
Sheldon pats my back. “Happy Landing Day, boss.”
Landing Day: the day mankind supposedly found the first dry land after the black water took our world. The day everybody celebrates at least once a year, and sometimes more than once because there's debate about the date.
I don't celebrate Landing Day. I won't until I find the Hope.
“We're leaving in the morning.” My voice is harsh, rough.
“We'll be ready,” Sandra promises with a smile. Whiskey put color in her cheeks, sparkle in her eyes, and she practically skips away.
They all leave me with my thoughts, and I think we're all more comfortable that way.
Places like Danton will disappear if I find the Hope. I can't say I'd mind.
My father said Travelers believed.
I know damn well they don't. They follow me because I make money by scavenging, and I have excellent maps. They don't care about the generations to come, when we run out of Sundered. They think I'm a religious loony.
The Hope of Humanity is like some unseen relic. While people are usually nice enough not to laugh in the faces of those who believe it's real, they always find the whole idea ludicrous. Wherever the Hope is, whatever it does, they think we're never going to see it again, and anybody willing to risk life and limb to chase it through black water is a fool.
That's my cue.
I believe in the Hope.
I believe our planet can go back to what it was before.
And I believe we can do it before the black water finishes the job it started hundreds of years ago and swallows us all.
“You seem deep in thought, my lord,” Aakesh says quietly.
I shrug. This city, so ugly and dirty, so filthy and stinking and crowded, makes me crave something I've never even seen. “The water used to be blue, can you believe that?” I look at the sky. “Blue like that. Blue like paint. A long time ago, it was blue.”
“My lord, with all due respect, it was never blue.”
I try to picture it and fail. Blue water, stretching to the horizon, surrounding enormous continents and swaths of land. Magnificent. “Yes, it was.”
“No. It was not.”
Really, Aakesh? Really? “You're not old enough to know. Don't your people pass down histories?”
“No, my lord. We do not.”
Huh. I guess that's another way we're superior.
Whiskey warms my breath, filling my nostrils with each exhale. “My histories go back generations. I'm telling you, the water used to be blue.”
“It was always black.” He watches me with orange eyes, unblinking.
“Whatever, Aakesh.” Maybe he's talking about some other kind of water.
Maybe I am a religious fanatic, after all.
I have fourteen hours to kill, and I'm tired of thinking.
I really don't want to sleep. I could go back to the Academy to read, but this one's full of douches, so no. The market has nothing to hold my interest except maybe Gorish, but I can't justify the money to buy him back. I can't even justify why I'd want to do that. What's wrong with me?
I need relaxation, and that leaves me with just one option: the Soothsayers.
The Soothsayers are pagans of some kind, women in age from just-got-their-periods to a few seconds past corpse. I have no idea what their philosophy is, and I don't care. What I care about is their herbs and dreams.
The herbs get you stoned. The dreams appear in your head—from where, I don't know—but s
ometimes, they're accurate.
I dream maps. I dream of finding the Hope. When I dream with Soothsayers, I feel better.
Maybe I can get Aakesh so stoned he'll actually answer my questions. Ha ha.
Soothsayers always live on the east side of a city, in quiet, residential sections. Potted ferns lead toward their door, symbolizing life or some such rot, but they take up too much space on Danton's narrow walkways. Damn this city. I have to squeeze around, and there's not enough room. The stupid pot is scraping my balls. “Aakesh, you'll—”
He walks through the plant.
Through the potted plant, like it wasn't even there.
“How the hell did you do that?” I shout at him, startled.
“You saw,” says Aakesh, looking at me, but he doesn't say it like you already have your answer. He says it like, Oh, you noticed? What a surprise.
“Yes, I saw!” I inch around another pot. “What the hell did you just do?”
“I rearranged the available space,” he says all casually. “Perhaps it would behoove you to keep this observation to yourself.”
What is he talking about? “You did what? You can do that?”
“Hello, Harry Iskinder,” comes a creaky-creepy voice right by my ear, and I jump so hard I slam my balls into the damn potted plant again.
Soothsayer. She stands there, hidden in her brown hood and robe, without an inch of skin visible. Did I mention they always know your name? Creepy-ass Soothsayers.
“Uh. Hey.” Way to wow her, Harry.
I think she didn't see Aakesh walk through the pot. If she did, she didn't react. “Come. Your pallet waits.” She raises her arm. It's all dark in the sleeve, an empty tunnel.
She wants payment. I grab my money pouch.
“That will not be necessary.” The sleeve-tunnel points at Aakesh. “We will require payment of him.”
Oh, like hell. “I'm not giving you him.”
“A boon from him. That is all. We would not own a Sundered One.”
Sure you wouldn't. “What boon?”
“Nothing you are unwilling to pay.” She turns silently, but her cloak catches some dead leaves and drags them, scraping spookily as she seems to float along.
The Sundered Page 5
