GHOSTS IN THE GLASS Read online

  . . . feathers? Ashes. . . ?

  —drifted through his vision, threatening to float right down and blanket him entirely. He moaned.

  “Do it again, and I’m afraid I’ll have to execute you. I’d rather not do that, Zerestus.”

  “Kill me then. I don’t care.”

  Reeth caught his bicep and heaved until Zres thought his arm would pop clean out of the socket. He dangled against the Soulmaker’s grasp, head lolling, blood running down the back of his throat. The coppery taste mixed with the smoky essence still cluttering his lungs.

  Then, the Soulmaker gave him a hard shake. Zres fell onto Moad, slid off, and lay there. Something between a sob and a shriek twisted out of his mouth, and he became dimly aware he must resemble a dying hog. A piglet, squealing for Mama Pig back in Dogton, burned and buried. Finally, the pitiful noise dried up in his throat and only air squeezed between his lips in mute puffs.

  Reeth wiped his gloves against the dusty leather seat. “Zerestus, you will not believe this right now, but I’m here to help you. Save you, perhaps, from a miserable life. You’re a very special person. I knew that the moment I first saw you. You were a baby, and wouldn’t have recalled that visit, of course.”

  Zres curled up, trying to hide, and found no place to do so.

  Patting his shoulder gently, Reeth said, “The smile. I’ve seen it, and I understand it. I know that hot feeling in the back of your head, right before you do something you can’t seem to stop.”

  The fingers tightened again.

  Please. . . leave me alone. Go away, or shoot me. Don’t. . .

  Reeth hauled him into a sitting position and held him there, leaning so close they were nose to nose. “Help me with Moad.”

  Zres nodded. The grin twitched at the corner of his lips, up and down, like the legs of a squished fly.

  Sliding an arm around his waist, Reeth nodded. “I’ll help you stand. There, good. Your pants are soiled, but I think we can take care of that later when we stop driving for the night. Yes, very good, Zerestus. Now take a step. Think of it as your first step in a new life. You are an infant again, in a way, and birth is never easy, is it? Not for mother or child. Not even for the father standing by and watching. Hold my hand.”

  As his feet scuffed along in the dust, Zres watched his shadow move over rocks and bleached acacia branches pushing from the red soil like bits of old bone. After a few steps, his legs grew steadier and he didn’t have to lean against Opert Reeth. The wet trousers stuck to his groin and bruised thighs, making the skin itch.

  Reeth stepped back, studying him. “All right. Can you stretch and touch your toes? If you can do that without falling, I think it’s fair to say you’ll be able to help me with Harper Moad.”

  Too frightened to argue, Zres leaned over. His vision swam, then cleared. Straightening again, he touched his temple gingerly, and felt the crusted blood there.

  Does your head hurt, Zerestus?”

  “Yeah,” he replied dutifully. “There’s a lump.”

  “I suspect there is, yes. But there’s no real damage done.” Reeth moved to the rover and tugged the canvas tarp covering Moad. “If you can get his feet, I’ll get the top end.”

  “What. . . what are we going to do with him?”

  Reeth hauled the corpse upward so it rested against his chest. “Look behind you, to the west.”

  Obediently, Zres turned and looked. At first, he saw nothing but the desert in all its usual drab glory. Scrub and acacia dotted the region. Rocks, large and small, lumped up against the horizon, all dingy red and brown. Then a break in the land caught his attention, no more than a hundred yards from where Reeth had stopped the rover. It was too small to be Bywater Gully, and not far enough south; Zres recalled another such ravine marked on scout maps he’d studied over the years; this was the Yellow Gully.

  “You’re gonna dump him in there?”

  Reeth pursed his lips in the barest hint of impatience. “Yes. Please take his feet; he’s a heavy man.”

  “You’re just gonna throw him in an old river bed for the crows to pick at?”

  “Do you mind particularly if crows pick at him?”

  Zres shook his head. “No.”

  “Good. Nature will dispose of this body more efficiently than we could. Besides, Harpers in the upper echelon do not bury their dead—that is simply a ritual we reserve for our advocates. The devoted masses, so to speak, who benefit from the added comfort of saying a final goodbye to their loved ones. Quaint practice, and unnecessary within our own ranks. Please take his feet.”

  Zres had nothing to say to that, though his skin prickled under Reeth’s scrutiny. Swallowing a thick sense of revulsion, he grabbed Moad’s legs and lifted. He grunted, his lower back and legs straining as he wrestled with the dead weight. For an instant, Zres thought he might topple into the sand and retch up all the water he’d drank.

  Save for a few droplets of sweat along his brow, Reeth showed no sign of strain, and spoke in a conversational tone as they worked. “I did try to warn Moad several times about his excesses with women, food, and alcohol. If he’d have paid me heed, he might still be alive. Pity for him.”

  Zres’s boot struck a rock and he stumbled, almost dropping Moad’s legs as he tried to catch his balance. The other man dipped with the sudden motion, bent his knee, and shifted his weight to steady himself.

  “Careful, now. Let’s not drop him and have to pick him up off the ground. A few more yards and we’ll toss him over the side.”

  Zres tightened his arms. Sweat trickled down his skin and pain shot along his muscles. He wanted to sit down. Wanted to cry and then run off into the desert. If the crows needed a feast, they could have him.

  But the crows were getting Phineas Moad instead.

  Suddenly, he could hold onto the body no longer. The Harper’s legs crashed to the ground, almost pulling Reeth along for the ride. Zres’s breath caught in his throat. If he could knock Reeth off his feet and—

  The Soulmaker lifted his gray eyes as he released his grip on the canvas. He gave a slight shake of his head, back and forth once, like a one-stop pendulum.

  He knows.

  The dim hope died in the wake of that helplessness; there would be no catching the Soulmaker off guard. There would be no escaping.

  “Let’s roll him in and be done with it,” Reeth said.

  This can’t be happenin’.

  But it did happen. Reeth put a dusty boot on Moad’s canvas-wrapped body, and all Zres could picture was some awful, black spider wrapping up a dead fly. The Soulmaker waited patiently, nodding at him to do the same. Zres’s stomach gave a sickening lurch as he pushed. Moad’s body inched toward the lip of the shallow gully, tottered there, and then spilled over the side. As the dead man tumbled, the tarp tangled around his legs. Moad caught on a clump of dried roots poking from the side of the bank, hung a moment, and then slid—slow as molasses—to the bottom. He hit face-first. Those terrible, opaque eyes filled with sand, but Zres imagined Moad still stared at him through the grit accusingly. Maybe he even had that jolly smile caked on his bloated lips.

  Zres sank into the dust, lowered his face to his hands, and began to cry. Big, ugly sobs shook his whole frame, while tears cut a hot river down his dirty face. “Why? Why did any of this?”

  “There is no reason why, Zerestus, except that these things do happen. Dogton may or may not survive, but it’s of little consequence in the long run. But you. . . we need you.”

  With a squeak of leather, Reeth’s hands slid onto his shoulders. Zres shrank from his touch, skin crawling as though a thousand insects roved along his body.

  The Soulmaker didn’t seem to notice or care. “That chapter of your life is over now. Look back on it and learn from it. See it clearly for what it was, yes, but what lies before you. . . ” he trailed off, staring into the gully and smiling softly.

  Zres, peered between his wet fingers. Already, a few flies circled Moad, buzzing about for the best place to get at t
he rotten meat.

  Ants

  The days blended together in a monotonous routine of walking, finding water, and arguing. Every morning before dawn, Senqua would rise, collect whatever dew she could, sharpen her knife, and estimate how much longer it would be before they had to resort to drinking Sulari tea.

  A week before, Aizr-hin had brought down an antelope and they’d dried the meat. That supply had run perilously low. Worse, each afternoon, her muscles would cramp so badly she wanted to scream. Senqua felt bone weary, more tired than she’d ever had in her entire life. Not even her girlhood days as a house slave had been so tedious or exhausting. It seemed whatever spark of restlessness that had always burned hot within her spirit dwindled to a mere flicker. The Foundry—their destination in some eternal place simply called “north”—never seemed any closer, nor did the distant Senbehi mountains. Senqua imagined the three of them moving across the dry plain, insignificant as ants.

  Most awful of all, her nights were filled with visions of her mother pulled away into an unfathomable darkness swallowing her whole.

  “No! Don’t let it! Mother. . . stop!” Senqua screamed in those nightmares, watching her mother drift away. “Don’t go away, please!”

  Then, the nightmare would shift, and she would see her father. He, too, would be carried off down the black river, smiling as he waved.

  “Father, don’t leave me. I’m sorry. I’ll come home. I won’t be a scout! Don’t go!”

  Over and over she pleaded, to no avail. Senqua would catch a glimpse of his face between twining, iron-gray shadows of his braids. Then, he would vanish, gone under the current as the black sea crashed over her in droning waves.

  Yes, the nightmares were the worst of all—worse than aching muscles, hunger, or fatigue. Worse than the vast, dry steppes so devoid of water and game.

  Senqua bent to rub her legs, working the knotted muscles with stiff fingers. To her left, Aizr-hin sang a tragic Sulari love song as he marched through the tall, brown grass.

  “Beware, My Love, for the serpents cross the sand

  Seeking the steps of the unwary and hearts free of hate

  In the darkest hours, when the Queen of Night shines pale

  Beware, My Love, for the snakes glide along the sand. . . ”

  As he drew near, he paused. “Do you know that song, Senqua?”

  She straightened, flexed her legs, and thought about kicking him. “I heard it often enough when I was young to know I hate it.”

  “You look very pale, Senqua. I think it’s time to rest for a while.”

  “It’s not time to rest yet. We have hours until dusk.”

  He shrugged and strode away, whistling the last notes of the song.

  Senqua pushed the yalei over her shoulders so it draped loosely down her back. The frayed ends hung in tatters against her legs, and the intricate pattern of bright chevrons had faded under the sun. A dusty, sweaty smell clung to the wool, and she wished she could fling it away. It looked no better than Aizr-hin’s coat, now; someone might mistake her for a squatter, should they meet anyone.

  Gairy treaded past, fixing her with a sullen look. “You’re slowing us down, starin’ off like that.” The canteens clanged as he adjusted them. “What, you gettin’ sick? I thought Shyiine don’t get sick.”

  “No, I’m not sick,” Senqua said, so tired the thought of lying down and curling up in the long grass became more appealing with every step. A tremble worked its way up to her knees and through her thighs. Steadying herself, she drew in a deep breath. “We need to find more water tonight, or make water traps.”

  “Too much wind for water traps to work here,” Gairy said, squinting at the steppes. “Might have to try something else. I heard there’s a way you can make condensation in a water trap if you use hot coals. Might be worth the try.”

  “We might burn down the entire plain, too,” Aizr-hin said, glancing back without slowing. “One spark that takes wind and catches this grass, and we’ll all die a very bad death in a prairie fire. I’d rather drink my own water than burn in my own skin, He-Goat.”

  “Was just a suggestion. You got any better, squatter?”

  Senqua felt her lips lips compress into a tight, bloodless line. “We have to think of something, and we’ll never do that if we’re fighting.”

  “I’m thinking on it. Maybe you can suggest something?” Aizr-hin pivoted on his heels, his smug grin fading into an anxious expression. “Gairy is right, though; you look ill, She-Snake. I know you’ve been getting up very early in the mornings to try to find water. You’re not sleeping enough, or eating enough. Even Shyiine—”

  “I’m fine. Don’t speak about me like I cannot answer for myself. I can answer, and if I choose not to, that’s my business.” Senqua swallowed, ducked her head, and stomped past the two men. The Senbehi seemed to watch, their suspicion painted in dim shades of brown and gray. They frightened her in a way they never had before.

  “You’re gonna fall down if you keep up that pace,” they taunted in a voice very much like Gairy Reidur’s. “Women don’t belong out here.”

  The tremble worked its way to her shoulders. Her vision swam.

  “Senqua.” The mountains pushed closer, bearded and smelling of stale sweat. “You’re sick. I told you that you were too small to walk this far. Now we’ll have to stop early.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, the world spun sickeningly and she stumbled forward.

  “Catch her, He-Goat! she’s about to fall!”

  “Leave me be!” Senqua pushed the big hand away as it reached for her. The movement made the ground rise and smash her face. The sky wavered, spilled, and then dripped right over her in a hot wave. A storm cloud blotted the sun, and then another appeared, pressed against the first and frowning down at her. Fingers touched her forehead. Senqua blinked, eyes struggling to focus.

  “She’s sun sick, I think.”

  “Give her some water.”

  “My father told me about this, He-Goat. Shyiine will push themselves too hard, sometimes. You have to watch them closely. They are willful things, but strange.”

  “Everyone knows that.”

  A canteen pressed against her lips.

  “Drink it, Senqua.” Aizr-hin nodded. “Even Shyiine must have water.”

  The men’s faces blurred above her, sliding into featureless, dark blobs against the brighter backdrop. She shoved the canteen away with trembling hands. “I don’t need any.”

  “The hell you don’t,” Gairy said. “Do it, Senqua. Don’t whine about it like you do everything else. Drink the fucking water. Everyone drinks.”

  I don’t need water, I need to go back to Dogton.

  But when the lip of the canteen crowded her mouth again, she swallowed, and her vision cleared a little. Senqua took another gulp, wincing at the stale and slightly metallic taste.

  “There, good,” Aizr-hin said. “Now let’s just stop and enjoy the afternoon a while, hm? It is hot today. Odd weather for this part of the Shy’war-Anquai so late in the season. A strange year all around, I think.”

  “I want to sit up. I’m just tired, that’s all.” Senqua pushed to her elbows. The ground spun close for an instant, then steadied. The odor of the two men clogged her nose, and she turned her head to stop from gagging.

  “You gonna puke?” Gairy asked tactfully.

  “No.” She waved him away. “Just let me sit a moment. Stop pressing so close to me! I’ll be fine to walk soon.”

  “No, you won’t.” Aizr-hin rose from his crouch and tapped his sandaled feet against the rifle stock. “We’re stopping for today. This is as good a place to camp as we’ll find out here.”

  Sighing, Senqua stared at the southern horizon, but paid little heed to the sea of grass flattening in the incessant wind. Instead, she imagined Dogton’s big gates catching the sunlight and flashing so brightly they could be seen for miles across the desert. An Enforcer—Vore, probably—leaned against the gate terminal, dozi
ng, a ranging hat tugged low over his eyes. And, not too far south, a caravan approached, trailed by a line of dust that—

  But there was a line of dust approaching from that direction. Expecting it to vanish, Senqua squinted; it was no illusion, and continued to rise steadily from the earth in a long cloud.

  I know that sound. That’s a rover.

  “Gairy!” Senqua vaulted to her feet, knees turning to jelly. She grabbed for the Druen, balancing against him as she pointed. “Look!”

  “What the hell, Senqua, sit down and rest!” Gairy pushed her shoulders and she sank to her knees.

  “Damn you, Gairy Reidur!” She twisted from underneath his heavy hands. “There’s a rover coming this way! See? The dust. . . I can see the roll cage. Look!”

  He turned and peered at the cloud, face going pale underneath the tangled beard. “Shit. Aizr-hin, get that Pumer ready.” He jerked the old revolver from his belt and stepped to block Senqua’s view of the oncoming rover. She peered between his thick legs, fingering the knife at her belt. The sound grew louder, and something about it gnawed at the edge of her mind.

  Romano’s Draggin. . .

  Dread spread through her veins.

  “Whoever is driving it has spotted us.” Aizr-hin lifted the rifle to his shoulder. “He-Goat, it could be the Scrappers have decided to do more than let you walk away from that bad deal. We’ll never outrun that Draggin.”

  Through the haze, Senqua could make out a lone driver—small in the seat, wearing a pair of goggles that glinted in the afternoon sun. Something moved next to the hunched figure, too low and oblong to be another person. Recognition clawed at her. The set of the shoulders, so familiar she could almost taste the name on her tongue, made a different kind of alarm ring in her mind.

  Who is that? It’s not Romano, is it?

  “A little closer and there will be one less Scrapper in the world.” Aizr-hin sighted down the barrel. “Don’t ever say the Sulari haven’t done a good thing, Senqua.”

  No, too small to be Romano.

  “Aim for the tire,” Gairy thumbed the revolver’s hammer. “We blow that out at the speed he’s goin’, it’ll flip more times than a—”