City of Bones

by Martha Wells

  It was difficult to tell what Elen thought; something had taught her to school her expression to impervious stone when she wanted to. If she was worried about ghosts, it might mean that she wasn't really a Warder, and had got the painrod some other way. Khat said, "They'll suck your life out of your body like marrow out of a cracked bone." Doubt crept into the oddly unchangeable blue of those eyes. Straight-faced, he added, "But I'm not worried, because they only like girls. Do you want half of the spidermite?"

  Persistence was apparently one of her virtues. Her mouth set in a grim line, she tried again. "What about rock demons?"

  "They aren't so bad, especially if you drain the blood out before you eat..."

  "I meant, are there any around here?"

  "They never come near Remnants." Khat cut the poison sacs out of the spidermite, and tossed them down into the fire. The contents turned the flames a brilliant blue for an instant. He added, "They're too afraid of the ghosts."

  Elen slumped back against the stone bench, unamused. She also refused her share of the spidermite, so Khat cracked the legs open for the pulp inside, and finished it all off himself. A shaman he had known back in the Enclave had vivisected a rock demon once, and shown everyone how the creature had a rudimentary pouch and several other uncomfortable physical similarities to krismen, causing several to speculate that the Mages might have made one or two rather drastic mistakes during their experiments on the Survivors. Imparting this information to Elen could have an interesting effect, but he decided to save it for when she really annoyed him.

  After that he stretched out and watched her watching him and pretending not to. He had noticed earlier that she still limped from the paralyzing venom in the spider bite, though she had cleaned away the worst of the blood and dust in the well chamber's pool. She had also wrapped the despised veil around her head in a tight cap to modestly cover her cropped hair, an odd gesture from someone who obviously didn't worry much about conventional behavior. It was a point in her favor that she had managed not to look overtly disgusted while he was eating the spidermite. City dwellers considered anything that grew or lived in the Waste to be unclean. Some extended this prohibition to include krismen, and those were the ones who tended to spit on you in the street.

  Some found it more to their best interest to exclude the kris from that category. Krismen and the Survivor-descended city dwellers could not breed together. Despite the scarcity of kris in Charisat, most Patricians were aware of this and of the immediate consequence to themselves, that they could take kris lovers without having to worry about any telltale babies appearing. This was especially important to Patrician women, who were expected to keep their class pure. Khat thought that having to worry about involuntarily giving birth was odd anyway. If a kris woman didn't want a baby, she simply disposed of the fertile egg sac when it came out, instead of implanting it in her own pouch or the father's or someone else's. Khat wondered if Elen knew that. Probably, but her face had a calm innocence to it that made you think she didn't know where babies came from in the first place. Such an appearance could conceivably come in quite handy to a Warder.

  Surprising him, Elen said suddenly, "Your eyes really do change color. I thought that was a myth, but it's happened three times now."

  Khat gave her his best bored-to-stone expression. The comment had the distinctive sound of an attempt at distraction, and reminded him she really hadn't told him anything yet. "Where did you get the relic, Elen?"

  She folded her arms, stubborn. "Why do you ask all the questions?"

  "So ask one of your own."

  Elen watched him thoughtfully. "If you thought I was going to kill you, why did you agree to come with me?"

  "Because I needed the tokens. Very badly." Khat had left his knife out after cutting up the spidermite. He angled the bone hilt so the amber bead set there would catch the firelight and turn into a living eye. It was a long, flat Kenniliar steel blade, with a gut hook just below the rounded pommel.

  "And why haven't you killed me yet?" Elen asked, more softly.

  "Have you given me a reason to kill you?"

  "You said you needed money. The relic must be worth"-she gestured helplessly-"hundreds of..."

  "Thousands of," Khat corrected, using a stick to poke at the fire and not looking up.

  "So what stopped you?"

  I'm not a murderer, I'm a relic dealer, and I'm trying to stay on the friendly side of the Trade Inspectors, Khat could've answered. What do you think it would do to my business with the Academia if they found out I took an upper-tier client into the Waste and she was never heard from again? But he didn't think Elen would accept that explanation. Instead, moved by curiosity, he asked, "What would you do in my place?"

  She looked away. "I don't know."

  Khat rolled his eyes. "The problem with this conversation is that one of us is still pretending that this isn't anything but an unusual find that's going to make someone a small hoard of coin in the relic market, and someone else is pretending that the other one really believes this. Which one are you?"

  Instead of answering, Elen leaned forward and turned back the cloth on the relic. The flicker of firelight woke a hundred jewel-like colors out of it. Beautiful, Khat thought, then realized he had spoken aloud. She was watching him. Eyes serious, she said, "I didn't know you would feel that way about it."

  Khat rolled onto his back and stretched to cover his confusion, suddenly feeling vulnerable and not sure why. He said dryly, "What a shock. It has feelings."

  "And it's far too sarcastic for its own good," Elen said, with a not-quite-smile. "Why were you certain I'd kill you for knowing about the relic?"

  Khat hesitated. So she had a painrod. She obviously had access to an upper-tier collection of relics. That didn't necessarily mean anything. Now who's fooling himself? He said simply, "You're a Warder."

  Elen blinked, badly startled. She licked her lips, said, "I..." and stopped, unable to deny it or unwilling to lie again.

  Khat sighed, and sat up on one elbow. He had been hoping she would deny it. "Next time you disguise yourself, don't carry a pain-rod. A professional dealer can smell a valuable relic in a high wind over a charnel heap." Here he was with a living symbol of Imperial might. All Warders had the status of the highest First Tier Patricians, but they were personally sworn to the Elector, and were supposed to carry out his will as if they had none of their own. As one, Elen might hold any number of high offices. She might be a spy, a diplomat, an assassin. What this would do to their burgeoning relationship he had no idea. He knew the Warders searched for evidence of power or talent or whatever they called it among the young of the Fringe Cities, taking those who qualified up to the First Tier of Charisat to come down robed in white. Some, it was said, never came down at all. They searched everywhere for candidates, even the lower tiers, but it wasn't any effort to guess that Elen was Patrician by birth.

  "That's why you hid it?" she asked.

  "Hid what?"

  It was Elen's turn to study the Remnant's heavy ceiling in irritation. Finally, she said, "If I'm not mistaken, we have a truce. I would appreciate it if you could manage to remember what it was you hid sometime before we get back to the city. Or I'll be in worse trouble than I already am."

  Khat stirred the ashes in the fire again, considering. If she could hear what other people were thinking, as Warders were supposed to be able to do, she would know where the painrod was by now. She still seemed awfully young to him; that might be why she hadn't used her power on the pirates. Or on him, that he knew of, except for that one abortive attempt with the simple. He asked, "What was the knotted cloth for? Was I supposed to fall over dead?"

  "Hardly." She snorted and looked away, perhaps in embarrassment. "It was meant to keep you out of this room. I was sure I had it right."

  "It didn't work," he pointed out.

  "I'm aware of that."

  Her voice was a little tight, and he decided to stop prodding on that point. He reached over and picked up the
plaque again. It was difficult to resist it, the crystals winking there in the firelight. "Is this yours?"

  "No. I... took it. I had to bring it here, to see if it really was what my master believed it to be. Someone had to, to stop them from just talking instead of doing, to make some progress." She rubbed her hands over her face and sighed. "I admit it was, well, precipitate."

  "Precipitate. Impulsive. Stupid." There was an example of the difference in their station already. When Khat "took" something, everyone agreed it was stealing.

  "Not stupid. Seul felt as I did, that we had to bring it out to one of the Remnants, but neither of us knew enough about them, or relics, to do more than stumble around aimlessly once we were here. I've never even been this far out into the Waste before." She stared into the fire. "It was his idea to hire you. And Jaq was my lictor. He discovered what we were doing and insisted on coming with us." She swallowed, remembering both men were dead now.

  That explained Jaq's Patrician attitude. Vigils were paid guards, usually from the lower tiers, while lictors were personal retainers from the lower-ranking Patrician families. They were given to court officials by the Elector as rewards for service. It also explained Seul. So he was a Warder too, Khat thought. He was glad the man was dead, though he didn't intend to say so. "The pirates knew you had something worth the trouble of taking. Now, it's death for them to be caught inside Charisat, so someone had to be able to tell them where you were going with it, where to wait in ambush." Some upper-tier merchants were rumored to have contacts with pirate bands, and occasionally to bargain with them for attacks on the caravans of rivals. The attack on Elen and Seul's steamwagon could have been similarly arranged.

  Elen shook her head, unwilling to concede the point. "Then why haven't they tried to get in to us? That door block isn't so thick we wouldn't hear them pounding on it."

  "Maybe they've left. Maybe they'd like us to think they've left." Elen had made a fine attempt to lead the conversation away from the matter at hand. "Who knew you were coming out here with it?"

  "I told you, no one."

  "Who did you take it from?"

  Her answer was reluctant. "My master. He ... studies the Ancients. He wanted to bring this here to test a theory, but I knew it was too dangerous for him. I was right about that, at least. So we took it without his knowledge and came in his place."

  Khat stared at her, amazed at how quickly the disaster had occurred. He knew Warders were organized into households, with the heads of each household having varying degrees of rank in the Elector's court. It was something like the way the kris Enclave was organized into lineages based on lines of descent, though there was nothing like a formal ruler in the Enclave; everything was decided by council and argument, with the oldest women having the deciding verdicts in most matters. Elen must mean the master of whatever household she came from. If the man came after her, there was a good chance he would need a scapegoat for the trouble she had caused, and she had been thoughtful enough to provide one for him by hiring a kris relic dealer. Perhaps that had been Kythen Seul's intention all along. Khat shook his head. "Elen, you don't know what you've done to me with all this."

  Elen looked defensive. "With all what?"

  Khat hesitated. She was leaning back against the side of the pit and hugging her knees, still flushed from the shame of admitting all the rules she had broken. Well, those rules were probably important to somebody. To Khat they had about as much weight as the rules governing a game of tables or mancala. A young woman raised on the upper tiers as a citizen of wealth and Patrician privilege and now become an apprentice Warder, and in Imperial favor. No, there was no possibility that Elen would understand. "Never mind," he said. "Never mind."

  ***

  Later that night, when the fire had burned low and Elen had dropped off into an uneasy sleep, Khat went up the ramp to the well chamber. He hesitated at the entrance to let his eyes adjust. Moonglow and starlight gleaming off the still pool of the cistern were the only illumination. The chambers of the Remnant looked even more unearthly in the stillness of night; it was not surprising that most people believed them to be teeming with ghosts.

  Some clever artisan had attached a metal clip to the end of the painrod, and Khat used it to hang the weapon from his belt. He hadn't had a chance to examine it closely yet.

  Boots slung over his shoulder, he found the worn grooves in the wall and started to climb. He had done this before, but it wasn't easy in the dark. It was made possible only by the fact that the stone inside the grooves was rough, providing good purchase for even sweaty fingers and toes. He was biting his lip and breathing hard when his hand found the edge of the roof.

  Khat lay on the flat stone for a time, resting, feeling the difference in the stone's texture, pitted lightly by however many years of blown sand. The day's leftover heat was like a warm blanket, and only faint light came from the obliquely angled openings of the air shafts. Without the interference of Charisat's eternal glow and man-made canyons, the sky was dark and gorgeous, like a dark-skinned woman wearing tiny gleaming diamonds.

  He pulled his boots back on, and groped across the roof looking for the rope. His last visit had been more than a year ago, another roof exploration financed by one of Robelin's colleagues. The rope had been handy then as a second way out of the Remnant, and he had left it behind for his next trip.

  He found the section of oilcloth held firmly down by piled rocks and uncovered it, getting stung in the process by a couple of wind-borne insects hiding in its folds. The rope was still coiled neatly underneath, oiled to protect it from the elements, tied to an iron spike laboriously driven into the surface of the Remnant. That had been another discovery. The other surfaces of the Remnant were impervious to any iron cutting tool; the vulnerable pitted roof was the only place where you could drive a spike in.

  He uncoiled the rope to the edge of the roof, then flung it over the side. This climb was relatively easy, holding the rope and walking backwards down the steep face of the Remnant.

  Khat slid down the wall to crouch at the base, just another rocky lump in the dark. The rope was invisible against the Remnant's surface, and nothing stirred. The Waste was even more like a solidified sea in the stark moon shadows, and this close the heat rising up from it was like the banked furnace of a steam engine. The smooth, flowing rock of the top level rose and fell in waves, bleached colorless, only the dark gaps of sinkholes and the jagged tears of gorges and miniature canyons that led down to the mid- and bottom levels visible.

  For a long moment Khat contemplated striking off across the Waste now, going back to Charisat. But left alone, Elen would make for the trade road and be caught by the pirates long before any honest travelers or patrolling vigils wandered by. Or she would try to cross the Waste alone and die.

  If she hadn't pitched herself at that pirate, you'd be meat now too, Khat reminded himself.

  Yes, and if you get her out of this, maybe she'll even feel grateful enough that she won't set the Trade Inspectors on you, or have you killed for knowing about her relic. Of course, one could always make time to visit Sagai's relatives in Kenniliar Free City, out of Charisat's Imperial jurisdiction. Khat's own relatives were out in the kris Enclave and as removed from Imperial justice as made no difference, but he had no intention of going back there. Not even if his life depended on it.

  After a time of sitting in the quiet he began to wonder if perhaps the pirates had gone. But then there was the sound of stone hitting stone, a clumsy step starting a minor avalanche of pebbles. No, they were still blundering about, when they should be huddled into a defensive knot on some relatively safe plateau of the top level. They must have a strong motive for moving through the midlevel after sunset, risking death from the poison of Waste predators, from the ghosts and air spirits that haunted the Waste, and from all the other lethal night hunters. Since he happened to be one of those hunters, Khat felt it was high time to start disposing of the interlopers.

  Belly flat to the ground, he c
rawled forward across the base of the Remnant to the nearest opening, pausing occasionally to listen. He climbed down through the sinkhole, feeling for his handholds carefully. From the crevices that led to the bottom level he could hear the hiss and snap of active nocturnal predators.

  Reaching the midlevel, he scrambled through a low tunnel into the twisting, turning passages, making his way in the direction of the rockfall he had heard. He reached a place where the top level had been ripped away, baring a lengthy, steep-sided gorge. The floor was sandy and marked with an occasional low ridge of creeping devil, a long tubular plant covered with sharp spines. It took root continually at one end, inching forward as the rear end shriveled and died, climbing any obstacle it encountered. Odd, but harmless, and it tended to keep away the larger belowground predators. Khat started to climb out of the narrow passage when a faint skittering of pebbles from above warned him.

  A tall form in tattered robes appeared at the lip of the gorge, clambering awkwardly to keep from silhouetting itself, then sliding down the steep plain of the wall to the sandy floor. Metal glinted in the man's hand, a weapon held close to his body. He stood still, scanning the rocky walls of the gorge intently. Khat was motionless, considering how to deal with this impediment. He wanted to be able to strike fast: you had to kill pirates quickly, otherwise you might remember that they had been people once, and any hesitation could be fatal.

  The pirate stepped forward and stumbled. Snarling curses in a low voice, he stamped savagely on the ground, trying to free himself from something that clung fiercely to his leg. Never one to let opportunity pass him by, Khat sprang. They struggled, and Khat caught a slash on the forearm, then drove his own knife in under the man's rib cage.

  After lowering the body to the ground, Khat searched for the predator the pirate had stumbled into and found it a few feet away, scrabbling in the sand to return to its burrow. It was a bloater, a foot-wide, distended, jellylike sac with a large mouth rimmed with tiny sharp teeth. It hunted by burying itself in the sand with only the mouth exposed, waiting for other predators or someone's unwary foot to blunder in. A quick twist of his knife dispatched the creature, and he tossed it back toward the pirate's body so he wouldn't misplace it in the dark.