But that wouldn't save Anneliese.
He grimaced at the darkness. His daughter was out there. She might die in the desert, her body never found. Or be captured by the Llaird.
Panic seized him. How would he find her now? There were dozens of mehtars scattered about the city!
But only one gate, he thought. And eventually every scavenger passed beneath its arch.
CHAPTER 31
Anneliese lay upon her crib of cushions, listening to the sounds of the barrow awakening. Voices drifted to her: a child's laughter, an infant's cry, men in low conversation as they crossed the courtyard.
She wondered if Sayer-Kihn was among them. He'd acted so reticent these past days since she'd asked for help in getting home. Well, what had he expected—that she would beg to go to bed with him?
Moaning, she covered her face with a pillow, and then jumped at the touch of fingers upon her arm.
"Myetrae!” Anneliese cried.
"Forgive me. Are you ill?” the young woman asked.
Anneliese buried her hands in her hair. “Yes,” she said.
Myetrae-Ajiv sat upon the edge of the crib. “Crisis falls upon our barrow. Speakers have been called to the Chambers. All must attend."
"Even me?"
The young woman nodded solemnly. “I've planned a bath. Perhaps you'll come with me? I have fresh robes."
A bath! Anneliese brightened. “That sounds delightful."
She followed the chiliarch's daughter through a maze of tunnels. The air grew increasingly warm. There came a strange taint—moisture, she thought, licking her lips. She could taste the humidity.
From the darkness ahead came muffled voices, the steady drip of water.
Myetrae turned down her lantern until it was a mere gleam. “Take care with your footing. The rock is slick."
They were passing doorways, Anneliese realized. Were these the bathing places? She caught a glimpse of a naked woman and determined to keep her eyes focused ahead.
"Here,” said Myetrae, entering a niche. “This one is vacant."
Anneliese breathed deeply of the steamy air, her skin drinking in the moisture. Hesitantly, she stepped inside. Water flowed from a breach in the wall like a spigot left on full. It filled a large, shallow basin, spilling over the rim, draining into a cistern before it reached the floor.
Myetrae removed several bottles from a satchel. She unsheathed the knife from across her breasts. Draping her long hair over one shoulder, she tugged at the laces of her jerkin.
Anneliese cried, “You're getting undressed?"
Her companion shrugged. “It is the custom of my people to remove their clothing before bathing. But if you wish to remain in your tunic...."
Anneliese felt a blush rise to her cheeks. “I know, but...” she stammered, glancing about and motioning toward the door. Then she saw the glint of amusement in Myetrae's eyes.
"Our privacy is assured, Anneliese-Thielman. Come. Nothing repairs the spirit like a good scrubbing."
For a moment, Anneliese averted her gaze. Abruptly, she pulled the tunic over her head, tossing it onto the floor. Myetrae sat upon the edge of the basin, allowing the cascading water to pour around her legs. She coated a porous rock with a thick liquid then held the stone out. Anneliese thought it looked like a petrified sponge. She took it gingerly and then sat beside her friend.
The bath was hot. Anneliese yelped in surprise, then eased down into it again. Water gushed about her hips, between her legs, and her muscles uncoiled in response. Watching Myetrae, she drew the stone over her arm and across her breasts. The liquid lathered easily. It smelled like freshly turned soil. She scrubbed until her skin turned dark, layers sloughing away like burdens. Beneath the pumice, her skin felt new.
Myetrae stretched out within the basin. Her dark hair fanned in the water. “That's better,” she said.
Smiling, Anneliese leaned into the flowing current. The basin was barely four inches deep, not enough to immerse her lithe form, yet she couldn't remember a more refreshing bath. “Hot running water beneath a desert of stone. Your barrow must be very wealthy."
"Actually, this water isn't sweet enough to drink. The healer sometimes uses it for his ointments."
Anneliese pictured the wizened old man, the table of malpais. The people would be wealthy, she thought, if they marketed that table. “Myetrae, why are there so few aged people in the barrow?"
The chiliarch's daughter splashed water over her bosom, pausing before she answered. “The Llaird are at war, brutal and unending, against the cities, against each other. Against the Resort."
"And so your life expectancy is thirty years old?” Anneliese gasped. “Don't you see how wrong this is, how fruitless? You can't battle the Resort Debauch."
"Do you have grandparents?” Myetrae asked. “They are of wondrous love, brimming with laughter and patience and stories. I was very young when my grandfather died, but I still recall. He would weave magical tales of his own father as a boy, and of the Llaird before the Resort."
Myetrae sat abruptly, ducking her head beneath the stream of water as it spilled from the wall. For a moment, Anneliese thought that she wouldn't continue. Then she lay back against the rim, staring at the ceiling.
"Once, the Llaird lived in sprawling cities upon the ground,” Myetrae said. “They tended great herds of yllib in the hills. When the Resort came, it was at first a curiosity to my people, but day-to-day life soon brushed it from mind. Not so the Resort.
"Too soon, their airships gathered like clouds, swooping down from the sky, violating the hills. With high spirits and supplied weapons, they decimated herds, leaving thousands of yllib to waste in the sun. Outraged, my people met violence with violence.
"And, that was when the vacationers shifted their sights and began hunting Llaird for sport.” Myetrae's voice fell to a whisper.
Anneliese blinked with a slap of shock. The Resort hunted these people like animals? Suddenly, the sound of the water seemed very loud.
"Grandfather described those days clearly for me, grieved as if the memories were his own. He spoke of hunger and confusion, massacres in the schoolyards, funeral processions that stretched beyond sight. The cities fell, and the community split. Families turned their backs upon their brethren. Some sought clemency with the Resort itself, existing upon its refuse.
"Then a prophet arose. She hid the children in the burial crypts and led the people into the Fool's War. The children were left to raise themselves."
"Who was this prophet?” Anneliese asked.
"Jefe-Naik. The prophet of change."
From this point you may go in either direction. Anneliese shuddered. “She wasn't a very good prophet."
"Who's to say?” Myetrae roused herself from the bath, drawing her fingers through her hair, untangling it. “Anyway, Grandfather was of the first born to the barrows, but he never accepted life beneath the ground. He, and others like him, insisted upon rebuilding the herds. Always, the yllib were important to us, but soon they became sacred, a symbol of hope and triumph. So—herdsmen climb again among the hills of our ancestors, but they must be fleet. The airships have learned to glide without sound."
"You mean, the hunters still appear?” Anneliese thought of the skip-chaser she saw while traveling with Lirtsban's entourage. A queasy sensation clenched her throat.
Myetrae said, “We are still hunted. And we are still at war. That is what the meeting is about.” She looked at Anneliese. “Part of your hair has turned white."
Anneliese blinked with the shift in topics. She touched the hair at the back of her neck. “The color must be washing out. I had to change it to escape Enceinte."
"It's pretty. Come see."
Myetrae moved the lantern to a flat part of the wall. The polished rock shone like glass, and as Anneliese approached, her image reflected as deftly as from any mirror.
"It's awful,” Anneliese said, turning her head from side to side. Her hair looked streaked with gray.
"I like it.�
�� The taller woman fluffed the damp locks. “But it needs shaping. We'll use my knife."
"You're not going to cut it shorter!"
"Just a bit. Hold still."
Wincing, Anneliese watched her reflection. Shorn hair fell onto her cheeks. Gradually, the unruly tufts tapered into points, hugging her head like a cap.
Or a crown of feathers, she thought. The bird taking flight. Then her eyes fell to the slave band about her neck. She would yet find her freedom.
"Now you look as if you'd planned it. Come, we'd best be dressed.” Myetrae-Ajiv handed her a pair of bloomers and a soft, sleeveless shirt. “I've brought a robe for you to wear. It was mine as a child."
Anneliese accepted the silky garment. Muted colors ran its length, swirling in waves along the hem. “It's beautiful."
"Don't look too closely.” Myetrae laughed. “I made it myself. My first attempt."
Anneliese dressed before her reflection, smiling at her vanity. The colorful robe flowed around her. At last, she was a lady.
She followed Myetrae from the bathing caves upward toward the main caverns. The air felt cool upon her damp skin, refreshing after the steam. She ran her fingers along the wall as she walked. The stone was sharp, as if chiseled by hand.
She said, “It's hard to believe all this was once a burial crypt."
Myetrae nodded. “The upper regions are very old, created when the land was lush with greenery. But the Chambers are barren. My ancestors never envisioned bathing pools, nor the life caves where we grow our roots and moss."
Abandoned children creating a culture beneath the ground. Anneliese's mind whirled with questions, but she said only, “Your grandfather was courageous."
A crush of people filled the corridor ahead. Myetrae tugged Anneliese's sleeve, then turned down a winding tunnel.
She said, “The entrance of the Chambers are deliberately narrow so those entering will do so with some decorum. But I know an easier way."
"Will your father be among the speakers?” Anneliese asked.
"He represents the cause of restraint."
The tunnel curved into a staircase. Again, Myetrae extinguished her lamp. Anneliese could barely see the girl's shadowed form before her.
"Put your hands upon my shoulders,” Myetrae said as if reading her thoughts. “We are nearly there."
Anneliese stumbled forward. “You said this meeting has to do with the Fool's War?"
She felt her friend nod. “Sivlow-Rakin seeks to unite the barrows in a final onslaught of Enceinte. He will destroy the spaceport—no ships will land, and none will ever leave."
"But that's insane! Hasn't he learned from your own history?"
"His foolishness may be borne of desperation, but not insanity."
Anneliese bit back a response. She doubted the Resort cared if the Llaird attacked Enceinte, but if they damaged the ships berthed at the spaceport, there would be reprisals.
Quietly, she asked, “In four generations, has no one from outside your world tried to stop the slaughter?"
"Defy the Resort?” Myetrae laughed. “Who would put themselves at such risk? Would you?"
Yes! her mind cried and knew, suddenly, it was true—she would give her fortune for the downfall of the Resort Debauch.
"No, Anneliese-Thielman,” Myetrae continued. “No one helps us. It is too easy to look away."
"This war will mean your death,” Anneliese said.
They reached a dimly lit landing. Incense laced the air.
Myetrae hesitated before an arched entryway. “What you see now comes unchanged through the ages, and it must be approached with respect. I ask that you accept our rites as you have accepted my friendship."
Anneliese felt suddenly apprehensive. She heard a familiar sound—ching, ching, ching.
Dancers, she thought. Surely, the Llaird did not take part in ritualistic orgies. Biting her lip, she forced her feet forward.
The Chamber formed a vast amphitheatre. Rows of seats led upward in tiers. In the center of the arena, the floor glowed with rock light; and there, upon box-like pedestals, three women performed the moiru.
Anneliese winced with the pain of her memories. She thought of the scars upon Farin's legs, of the woman being assaulted upon the stage at Surah's lounge. These women held the same rapt expressions, moved with the same sinuous grace as the dancers she'd previously seen.
But these were fully clothed. Cuffed sleeves capped their shoulders and skirts flowed across their sandaled feet. Gleaming girdles of golden links created the music by which they danced.
Myetrae drew near, whispering, “What troubles you, Anneliese-Thielman?"
"Your people practice the moiru?"
"They beseech the prophets for guidance. Sometimes they dance for days, awaiting their vision."
Anneliese's face twisted. “This is a religious ritual?"
"The roots of the moiru lie deep within our beliefs. How do you know of this? Have you seen our custom before?"
Perverted. Debased. She wanted to scream—Yes! It is taught to children on the streets! See how innocence can be twisted, how the Resort can defile the very core of your prayers.
"No,” said Anneliese. “What I saw was different."
She raised her chin in defiance of her emotions. Movement among the seats caught her attention: a figure waving.
Pilar, she realized. His smile widened as her eyes rested upon him, and she relaxed enough to smile in return. He appeared clean and well fed, so different from when they'd first met. He sat beside a younger boy, and she wondered if he'd made a friend.
Myetrae-Ajiv led away from the shadowed stairwell. The majesty of the coliseum towered above them. Anneliese felt dwarfed, and she walked on tiptoe to keep her footfalls from echoing. Her eyes climbed the concave sides. High above, the Llaird filed through the main entrance. Their numbers were pitifully small within the huge room.
Anneliese thought of Myetrae's grandfather, of his father's father, generations ago. She imagined a time before the Resort, when the people filled these hallowed Chambers.
Ahead, a solemn group emerged from yet another entryway. She recognized the bodyguard, Wathe-Taln, and Ente, the chiliarch's servant. Then she saw Sayer-Kihn.
He stood regally, resplendent in layers of crimson robes, his hair held back by a circlet of gold. A sovereign overlooking his subjects. Anneliese sensed the distance between them. Then his gaze met hers, and her heart lightened.
He took a step in their direction, but people stood in his way, demanding attention with hushed voices and sharp eyes, as if unwilling to concede a heated debate. Wathe-Taln held up a silencing hand, and Anneliese thought of that hand closing about her arm. She knew the man was dangerous.
Myetrae moved to meet her father. “You are unable to dissuade them?"
Sayer hugged her briefly. Behind his smile, his face appeared taut and distracted. “You know it is not my place to dissuade."
"But, when they will not learn, will not reason."
"Their logic leans in a different direction.” He turned toward Anneliese and his expression softened, leaving for a moment his persona of protocol. Taking her hand, he said, “Now, you are the princess you profess to be."
She smiled, glancing away, searching for a witty response. Behind him, Ente narrowed her eyes. Anneliese blinked, taken aback at the expression upon the woman's face. Then a gong sounded, reverberating throughout the Chambers, banishing all thought of the chiliarch's servant.
CHAPTER 32
Mortar rubbed the sweat from his eyes. Again he held out the computer enhanced HC of Anneliese in short hair.
"Have you seen this child?” he asked in the local language.
The burly man shook his head. Behind him, the iron gates clanged shut. Mortar cringed. He gazed at the blazing sun.
The mehtar turned away, gathering his children. Mortar caught the man by the arm, and then quickly produced a coin. He'd handed out enough coins to pave a reputation, he thought—someone would come forth. “Do
you know of anyone else who might help me?” Mortar asked.
Grunting, the man pointed down a side road. Mortar slid the picture into his pocket. His jacket felt heavy, the shirt beneath it drenched. Straightening his shoulders, he moved in the proffered direction.
The street was unusually active so late in the morning: children bawling, people standing in alleys between the buildings. Homeless, he realized. Resigned to heat and shrinking shadows. He wondered how the city provided enough food.
Ahead, he saw a wicker carriage parked beneath an awning. Two boys sat beside it, polishing the metal axle. In the doorway of the building, a man lounged upon a hammock. An older boy attended him.
Mortar ran his sleeve over his upper lip then approached the group. “Excuse me, mehtar. I must speak with you."
The boy leapt to his feet, waving his arms, stamping his boots. Marginally, the man turned his head. The side of his face was dark with blisters, and one eye was swollen shut. The other eye appraised Mortar coolly.
Mortar held out the picture. “Have you seen this child? Do you know where I might find her?"
The boy yelped like a watchdog, tugging Mortar's sleeve. Suddenly, Bano moved between them, lifting the boy into the air and holding him by the scruff of his robe. Kicking and squirming, the boy wailed loudly.
Mortar glanced about for further opposition. The two younger boys huddled together, eyes wide. Nearer the building, a young girl watched in silence.
Mortar moved nearer the mehtar. “Look closely,” he said. “There is a reward."
The yellow eye was rimmed in black, the lips cracked and peeling. Mortar leaned forward, thinking the man was trying to speak.
The mehtar turned his face away. Slowly, Mortar clenched his fists. He wanted to throttle the man, wanted to bash his head into pulp. With effort, he took a step back.
"Let's go,” he told his bodyguard.
Bano tossed the child. The boy bounced against the wall and, holding his head, landed at the feet of the silent girl. She did not move to assist him.
Mortar followed the narrow road, boots loud with foreboding. He saw no other carriages along the route, no other scavengers. Looking upward, feeling the searing heat upon his face, he wondered what Anneliese was doing at that moment. She was alive—he couldn't believe anything less.
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