The Crystal Eye

by Deborah Chester

  She felt a sensation of wet, and slowly realized she was being dragged into the water. The smell of the river came to her, filthy and strong. Her head went under. She struggled, and came to the surface, gasping and floundering.

  Rubbing her eyes, she managed to focus blurrily. Giant flames blazed skyward above the wall. Debris was raining down steadily, hitting her. She sank lower in the water, and a hand gripped her arm and tugged her along, towing her to safety.

  A long while later, when dawn was slowly breaking over the city and the fire still raged in the old section of the palace, Ampris knelt on the riverbank under the drooping branches of a dying tree. Its roots, exposed by the erosion of the bank, were knotted and hard. Her hearing was coming back, although her ears still rang, and she had painful flash burns on her arms and one side of her head.

  Those would heal.

  Prynan had a broken wrist. Quiesl had sprained his ankle and was hobbling about painfully. They had made a little inventory of what they’d saved, and when the black wooden box that Ampris had picked up at the last moment off a table in the galley was revealed, Prynan had cried out and flung himself at her, weeping against her neck.

  “You saved it,” he cried. “You saved it.”

  The box contained a book, a strange artifact she had never seen before. It was a slim volume with pages of fine vellum bound on one edge and wrapped in leather. It was the journal of Nithlived the mother, and Nithlived the daughter, and Nithlived the granddaughter, all warrior-priestesses, all members of the great Heva clan. It contained their writings, much of which could no longer be deciphered, as most of the Aaroun alphabet and ancient languages had been lost in time, but it was the only record of their thoughts and wisdom now in existence.

  “I couldn’t find it with the Histories,” Prynan explained, still sobbing. “I looked and looked for it, thinking it was misshelved. I’d forgotten about taking it upstairs to be cleaned.”

  He went on weeping, and gently Ampris held him. They all looked ready to cry with him. The sadness and bleak horror in their faces was not for themselves or for the home they’d lost, but for the fact that Israi, in her need for retaliation, had destroyed the Imperial Archives just to punish them. All the history, all the knowledge and information stored there, was now gone forever.

  Ampris stared across the river at the city of Vir, its spires and rooftops gilded with the rising sun, and her heart felt cold and small with amazement. Israi embodied the supreme ignorance of her race. For not just the records of the abiru people had been wiped out, but also all that was Viis. Israi could have saved her empire had she accessed the information stored beneath her own palace floors. Instead, she had destroyed it.

  Truly, the empire was now doomed.

  CHAPTER•FOURTEEN

  By the time Nashmarl reached the gates of Vir, he didn’t much care anymore.

  Coated with dust, footsore, and wishing he’d never tagged along with Foloth on this adventure, Nashmarl had been excited the first time he saw what looked like the city rising up through the shimmering waves of heat.

  But it turned out to be nothing but a fueling station.

  The next day, Foloth jabbed him in the ribs and pointed excitedly. “Look!” he shouted. “There it is! There it is!”

  But that turned out to be Port Filea, the spaceport servicing Vir. Oh, it was wondrous enough, with its tall communications towers, the revolving solar chargers, the glass-encased terminal curved like a comet’s tail. The port was like a hive of insects, with workers in orange coveralls going in all directions. Ground-space shuttles—amazing craft shaped like needles—landed and took off almost constantly. The tremendous, ground-shaking booms as they entered or exited the sound barrier frightened Nashmarl at first, but Foloth stood at the perimeter fence with his face tilted up to the sky, eyes squinted against the sun as he followed the trajectory of a takeoff.

  “Beautiful,” he said.

  Yes, Nashmarl agreed it was beautiful, but the place was also loud, deafening him not just with the sonic booms but also with blaring sirens, and voices channeled through loudspeakers, and screaming brakes, and roaring engines, and the clackety rhythm of the cargo haulers and the passenger trams. Everything went too fast. It was too much to see, all at once.

  Then the sniffer found them, and suddenly it was blaring right over their heads: “Warning! You are too close to the security boundary. Step back six paces. Warning! You are too close to the security boundary.”

  Nashmarl turned and ran, certain that the authorities would be coming to pick them up at any moment. Foloth, who had almost touched the fence, turned and strolled away in a big show of bravado that didn’t impress Nashmarl at all.

  It took three more days of walking to reach Vir, three days of choking on the dust tossed up by transports and other freight traffic. The cargo haulers were the worst. They were slow-moving and almost skimmed the ground with a full load. The exhaust they belched choked Nashmarl and made him long to be back in the mountains, breathing the clean, narpine-scented air. Sometimes they had to abandon the road and hide themselves when patrollers went by. That slowed them down, and the rations they’d stolen from Harthril’s shelter the night they left were starting to run out.

  There was nothing to hunt; all the vegetation looked burned up by the sun and dead. Panting in the heat, feeling his head throbbing beneath his hood, which was almost smothering him, Nashmarl wanted to go home.

  Foloth glared at him. “Don’t be stupid. We’ve come too far to turn back. Besides, we’re almost there.”

  “And what’re we going to eat when we get there?” Nashmarl asked. “There’s no hunting in a city.”

  “You have the brains of a worm,” Foloth told him. “We’re Viis. We’ll be fed just like everyone else.”

  Nashmarl gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep up with Foloth’s pace. “We’re half-Viis,” he said. “Who’s going to give us food?”

  “The same people who give away food to the Rejects. It’s a law or something. They have to take care of us.”

  Nashmarl couldn’t believe the confidence he heard in Foloth’s voice. “No one has to take care of us,” he said. “We ain’t even Rejects.”

  “Aren’t,” Foloth corrected him. “Say ‘aren’t.’ ”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re Viis. You mustn’t talk like the abiru folk.”

  “I am abiru!” Nashmarl shouted. “Mother is abiru, and that makes us both—”

  “Viis blood is stronger than Aaroun,” Foloth said. He pointed. “Look, Nashmarl. There is Vir.”

  Nashmarl was looking at his feet, at the puffs of dust fogging around his ankles with every step. “Vir is a fable,” he said stubbornly. “Made up. It doesn’t exist.”

  Foloth shoved him, nearly knocking him off his feet. “There! Look at it.”

  Nashmarl looked, and there before him was a vast, sprawling metropolis shimmering as though a mirage. Mother had told them Vir was a large place, but nothing had prepared him for the immense size of it. It stretched on and on across the horizon, bordered on one side by a brown muddy river. He had seen towns before, but even if they were all placed together, they would not be this big. He stared, his mouth hanging open, and felt suddenly small and insignificant in the scheme of life. He was frightened as well, but Foloth was hurrying on. Slowly, Nashmarl followed.

  They walked all day, camped in a dry ditch off the road far away from some other travelers who looked like dangerous cutthroats, and walked another half-day before they reached the city gates.

  The walls, built of pale stone, towered tall and straight. Beyond the walls, Nashmarl could see buildings of fabulous shapes looming up even taller. Airborne traffic swarmed in all directions, glinting in the sunlight. Patrollers wearing black body armor and carrying side-arms had a checkpoint station at the gates themselves. More patrollers stood atop the walls, which were also fitted with scanners and other surveillance devices. Sniffers floated here and there.

  Nashmarl a
nd Foloth ducked off the road to avoid getting run down by the heavy traffic going in and out. Nashmarl tried to follow his brother, but he kept finding himself standing still and simply staring. Nothing had prepared him for this. The size, the noise, the congestion all overwhelmed his senses. He realized he and Foloth should have never come here. They had no chance at all of finding Mother in a place like this, no matter what Foloth said.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Foloth asked, jolting him from his thoughts. “Come on!”

  Nashmarl shook his head. “I have a bad feeling. We’ll get lost in there.”

  Foloth’s dark eyes narrowed. “Do you think I’m going to turn back now? After we’ve walked all this way? We’re here, Nashmarl!”

  “I don’t care,” Nashmarl said. “I don’t think we should go in there.”

  “I am going,” Foloth said in a cold, tight voice. “And you are going.”

  Nashmarl took warning from his tone and whirled to run, but Foloth tackled him from behind and knocked him flat. Sitting on Nashmarl’s back, he mashed his face into the hot dirt.

  “Enough of this,” he said. “I never expected my brother to be a coward.”

  Anger made Nashmarl lift his head despite Foloth’s efforts to hold it down. “Not a coward!” he said, spitting out a mouthful of dirt.

  “Afraid of the big city,” Foloth taunted him.

  “Not—”

  “Afraid. Afraid!”

  Nashmarl flailed and struggled, finally managing to dislodge Foloth from on top of him. Squirming around, he caught Foloth and hit him, but Foloth shoved him back and kicked him.

  The kick caught Nashmarl in his thigh muscle and hurt enough to make him yell.

  “Baby,” Foloth said.

  Nashmarl’s pride was hurt now. He scrambled to his feet, coated in dirt, and glared at his brother. “I am not a baby, and I am not afraid,” he said breathlessly. “I just don’t think we can find Mother in a place this big.”

  “The baby wants his mother,” Foloth taunted him.

  Rage flared in Nashmarl. Yelling, he ran at Foloth and butted him with his head, knocking his brother flat on his back and flailing away at him until Foloth managed to shove him off.

  “Stop it!” Foloth shouted at him. “If you felt like this, why did you wait until now to mention it? Why did you come at all? Eating my rations. Wasting my time. I’m better off without you.”

  Giving Nashmarl a look of disgust, Foloth turned his back and marched away.

  Nashmarl got to his feet and realized Foloth was heading for the gates without him. He couldn’t walk back to camp by himself. And he knew that if Foloth ever vanished into the city without him, he would never see his brother again.

  Alarmed, Nashmarl muttered a curse and hurried after Foloth. “Wait!”

  Foloth never slowed down. But when Nashmarl caught up with him, he said, “Thought you weren’t coming.”

  Nashmarl glared at him and didn’t answer. Foloth always had to rub it in.

  They joined the end of a line of other people on foot, mostly Gorlican traders who had to hand over their cargo manifests personally in order to get through. A Viis male garbed in dirt-colored clothing and towing a line of half-grown abiru in chains gave the cubs a hard look.

  Nashmarl pulled his hood farther over his face, and felt suddenly nervous. “Is he a slaver?” he whispered to Foloth.

  Foloth started to stare at the Viis, but Nashmarl gripped his arm. “Don’t stare at him. Don’t attract his attention.”

  “He’s already looking at us,” Foloth whispered.

  “Cleared,” the patroller checking papers said in a bored voice, and the slaver gathered his property together, whipping them forward with short, quick slashes.

  Someone behind the cubs growled and gave them a shove. Nashmarl stumbled forward, tugging his hood even farther forward. A fresh worry occurred to him. “We don’t have any papers,” he whispered. “No—”

  “Abiru?” the patroller said to them without glancing up. He reached behind him and picked up a handheld scanner. “Hold out your arms.”

  They didn’t have registration implants. Nashmarl’s mind suddenly remembered all the warnings their mother had given them, again and again, through the years. Now, here they were, bold as anything, making the worst mistake of their lives.

  Foloth had his hood up too, but he held his head high. Arrogantly he said, “We don’t have arm registrations. Your scanner will register nothing.”

  He spoke in Viis, and Nashmarl’s alarm grew. He wanted to hit Foloth, and make him stop this, but it was too late.

  The patroller lifted his gaze slowly to them and his red eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Abiru, talking Viis?” he said in disbelief. “What is this?”

  “We are not abiru,” Foloth said and threw back his hood before Nashmarl could stop him.

  The patroller swore and jumped from his stool as though shot. He stared at Foloth in horror, and his rill extended behind his head. “Lieutenant!” he shouted.

  Nashmarl gripped Foloth’s arm. “Let’s run for it.”

  “No,” Foloth said curtly, shaking him off.

  An officer, who along with two other patrollers was examining the bottom hull of a low-slung cargo-hauler as if they suspected it of having hidden compartments, straightened when called and turned around.

  He was carrying his helmet under his elbow as though it were too hot to wear it, but when he saw Foloth his rill stiffened, and he came hurrying over at once, with the other two patrollers right on his heels.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  The patroller who’d summoned him stiffened to attention and saluted crisply. “I do not know, sir. This creature appeared and says it has no registration.”

  “I should think not,” the lieutenant said. “Look under the owner’s registration or—”

  “Excuse me,” Foloth broke in, still speaking Viis with an arrogance that made Nashmarl flinch, “but we have no owners. We are free, like all Viis, and we wish directions to the imperial palace.”

  “Foloth, no!” Nashmarl exclaimed, too shocked to remain silent.

  Everyone ignored him. The lieutenant flicked out his tongue and glanced away from Foloth.

  “Clear this horror away,” he said. “And the other one, too. It’s probably worse, that it hides its face with such shame.”

  “Wait,” Foloth said. “You don’t understand—”

  Nashmarl gripped his arm. “Let’s go!”

  He tried to pull Foloth away, but the three patrollers were on them by then. One of them clubbed Nashmarl across the back of his head with a stun-stick, and the world suddenly looked a sick yellow, then gray, then black.

  He dropped to his knees before the world came back into focus around him. Foloth was tugging at him, and Nashmarl thought his brother was trying to help him up. But as he staggered to his feet, he found himself shoved by Foloth. He realized his hand was still gripping Foloth’s arm and Foloth was trying to pull free of him.

  A patroller, faceless inside his black-visored helmet, hit Foloth across the back of his shoulders, knocking him sprawling.

  Another blow crashed into Nashmarl’s shoulder. He half-fell across his brother, crying from the pain and fear. Someone kicked him, hard enough to make him yell.

  “Get out of here, freaks,” a patroller said.

  “They aren’t even Rejects. Look at them.”

  Nashmarl found himself yanked upright. His hood was torn back, exposing his head and face to the merciless sunlight. He squinted and held up his hands for mercy.

  “I don’t want to look at them,” another said. “They sicken my eyes.”

  The one holding Nashmarl shook him so hard the cub thought his neck might snap, then shoved him away. He tripped over Foloth, and fell down again.

  “They are too stupid to run.”

  “They don’t understand the drill, which means they aren’t from Reject Town.”

  “They aren’t Rejects.”

  “No,
something far worse.” The patroller who spoke unclipped his side-arm from his belt and aimed it right at Nashmarl’s head.

  Nashmarl couldn’t breathe. He could see nothing except the business end of that weapon, glowing red as it charged. He opened his mouth, but no plea for mercy came out. It was as though whatever had paralyzed his lungs had frozen his throat as well. He no longer had a voice. He no longer had any reason, except one single certainty.

  Flinging himself around, he somehow gained his feet and dodged to one side. The shot scorched the air between him and his brother, and the plasma slug hit the ground, turning a rock into a little puddle of slag.

  Foloth screamed and scrambled in the opposite direction.

  Laughing, a second patroller fired on them, first at Foloth, who was running full tilt now, then at Nashmarl. The shot hit Nashmarl’s heel, and pain flared up his leg. He was thrown off his feet and went tumbling. His fear was like something wet and clammy coiled about his throat. It was pulling him down, keeping him down despite his efforts to get up and go on running.

  “Foloth!” he called desperately. He dragged himself on the ground. His leg was numb now, useless. He couldn’t even pull it up beneath him to get back on his feet. “Foloth, wait for me!”

  Foloth glanced over his shoulder, calling something that Nashmarl did not understand. Foloth didn’t stop, and he didn’t come back to help. He just went on running toward the shacks clustered a short distance away.

  Nashmarl was weeping and screaming in fear. He dragged himself desperately, flopping facedown and floundering as he tried to get on his feet again. Behind him he could hear the patrollers laughing.

  “Run, freak!” one of them called out.

  Somehow Nashmarl got on his feet. His injured one wouldn’t support his weight. He hobbled, nearly fell, and kept hopping forward. For the first time in his young life, he realized how his mother’s crippled leg must hinder her.

  Another shot kicked up the dirt at his heels.