GHOSTS IN THE GLASS Page 23

  I can see my reflection. . .

  Felix’s body arched as he flew like an awkward, featherless bird, crashed to the ground, and rolled once onto his belly. He tried to lift his head, a long groan escaping his lips. Then, he lay still in the red dust.

  Reeth holstered the revolver wordlessly.

  The blood came then, leaking beneath Felix in greater quantities than Zres would have thought possible for such a skinny body. Already, flies were wading into the ragged edges of the puddle, sipping daintily. Soon, vultures and crows would circle above, adding their own song to the drone.

  Zres let out a slow breath. “You killed him. You. . . gunned him down. A Harper.”

  “A liar, as you pointed out. Let’s go get the lift in the outpost here, Zerestus. Then we’ll fill these barrels.” The Soulmaker turned and strolled purposefully toward the shack.

  Stepping carefully around the still body, Zres followed, dazed mind caught the quickening tempo of his thoughts. “You killed a Harper. He lied about Kaitar and Mi’et, but he was a Harper. There’s the cross on his necklace and everything.” Rough-hewn boards poked the soles of his feet as he pulled himself onto the uneven porch.

  Reeth opened the sagging door. “That was not a Harper, Zerestus. Think on what he did and said. That was some bandit who, in all probability, murdered Simons and disposed of the—” He stopped, peering into the little shack, face screwed up into a look of disdain. “Ah. Well. I’ve located Harper Simons after all. I suppose the bandit was planning on trying to pass the corpse off as Kaitar Besh next spring. Simons did have black hair, and in a month’s time, decomposition would have made it impossible to tell a Shyiine from an Estarian.”

  Zres stared past the door. There, he saw a pair of bare legs, but the wall blocked any further view of the unfortunate Harper Simons.

  Reeth pursed his lips as he craned his neck, peeking in the shack. “We’ve just rid the world of a liar, a murderer, and a cannibal. It seems he’d been eating pieces of the good Harper. Come in and help me with this.”

  “I don’t wanna go in there.”

  “Wait here, then.”

  “I could be in that rover before you could get back out of the shack.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. But you won’t. Even if you do, I’m a very good shot, Zerestus. Failing that, I’ve other ways of stopping you from running off. But I don’t think you really want to run off, do you?” Without waiting for the answer to that riddle, Reeth vanished inside. The door banged sharply against the hinges in exact mimicry of the one back at the Dust Bin.

  A fly settled on his shoulder and rubbed its black forelegs together while its thoughtless eyes peered up at him. Zres stared dumbly at the insect, leg muscles tensing as he readied himself for the sprint to the rover. He’d vault right over the dead bandit, pitch himself into the vehicle and jam the thing into gear. Duck any flying bullets. Drive like a madman into the desert. Find some way to survive. He had his Enforcer training and some basic navigation skills, even if he had no water except for a few canteens still in the vehicle. Food could wait until he found a caravan or traveler. Even a bandit. Anyone would be better than Opert Reeth.

  A voice crackled from within the outpost. Not Reeth’s, but one as familiar and almost as hated—Evrik Niles, calling out the bounty on Kaitar and Mi’et from the static-cracked tones of an old Veraleid transceiver. Niles announced a water ban for Enetics and reiterating the bounty on Senqua and Gairy. By the time Zres realized he had not jumped off the porch to make a mad dash to the rover , Reeth was wheeling a rusty dolly-lift onto the porch.

  “This should suffice. In a week’s time, we’ll be at the Citadel. All of this will seem like a bad dream you’ve walked through, and out of.”

  “I’ll never walk outta this nightmare. You can’t walk out of the world, can you?”

  “Can’t you?” Reeth smiled, stepped off the porch, and hoisted the lift. The Soulmaker paid no attention to the dead man, stinking of filth and blood and swarming with flies. He paid no attention to the heat, or to wind, or to anything as he began to maneuver the barrels closer to the well.

  Whistling.

  Zres lowered himself onto the porch, his mind swirling, his nose filled with the lingering odor of death. He covered his hands with his face, fingers still damp with the well water and cool against his sunburnt cheeks. A memory creased his mind, only a few months old, but already faded; Mi’et, standing above him, ready to pound his grinning face in for bending two cards. Orin had come in, voice snapping, telling Mi’et to stand down. But it wasn’t the fear Zres remembered, or the thrill at seeing his white-haired father standing up to Mi’et—it was the half-breed’s words he recalled.

  “You are lucky to have your mother. And your father. Especially your father.”

  The crack of a revolver snapped him from his thoughts. He stared at the dead man in the pool of blood, who had somehow risen to his knees, clutching his bloody chest. Felix’s scrawny arm trembled. A tarnished gun fell from his crimson-slicked fingers. Then he, too, fell, rolled to his back with a wheeze, and then stared emptily up at the sky with bulging eyes.

  Opert Reeth leaned over a barrel, a strange flickering passing over his black-clad form, bright as a fork of lightning. Then, it was gone, and the Soulmaker’s slumped against the solid container, knees bent as though he were about to go down in prayer, but could not. Would not ever. His mind could no longer control his legs; his brains leaked with slow, wet plops from the hole in his skull, trailed by a shining wire that fell to the ground, coiled there like a silver snake.

  Zres got to his feet, but his legs wobbled. Staggering, he fell back, too weak to support himself, too stunned to scream or cry.

  For a long time, he sat there, surrounded by death and listening to flies.

  The Foundry

  Aizr-hin thought the acrid scent in the air might be a far-off grass fire, and he hoped they were driving away from whatever spark had taken hold on the dry steppes. A fire would roar over the arid grassland as quickly as the Draggin, leaving behind a great, desolate plain of ash and cinder in its wake.

  “But,” Gah’bez had said him once, years ago, “From that fire, seeds will split. When the dews lie thick in the spring and summer, they will grow. For a while, everything will be green like you cannot imagine.”

  The landscape zipped by, all waving, brown grass. A stunted tree or two broke that endless sea, smaller than the acacia of the south. The familiar, thorny scrub was absent entirely, but he saw no trace of devastation in the steppes. Aizr-hin wondered if he’d ever see anything green in his lifetime. With a sigh, he stretched his legs, the rover’s vibrations humming all the way up his ankles to his thighs. When he raised his arms high, his coat sleeves slapped against his forearms and his skin prickled with the chill.

  Erid smiled at him. “We’ll be there soon. You can’t see it yet, but you will in a few miles. See how close we are to the mountains?”

  “I think even a blind man would see those.” Aizr-hin studied the jagged rises, so different from the smooth, wind-scoured eastern range. When the sunlight struck the snow on the highest peaks, they glowed, obscured only by the clouds drifting past and casting muddy shadows on the mountain’s face. He thought the Senbehi seemed so close the Draggin would smash into them at any moment. Ridiculous as that notion was, it would not stop tormenting him.

  He said, “I think there’s a grass fire. If there is, we’ll have to get away quickly before it overtakes us.”

  “That’s not a fire.” Erid shrugged. “It’s the Foundry.”

  “The Foundry smells like that?”

  “Yeah. It’s not just one place, you know. I mean. . . the Foundry is the biggest part of it, but it’s a town. Everyone there is a Junker, certified by the Union, except some of the Drahgur. They do a lot of mining and smelting for Avaeliis. And engineering, of course.” Erid patted the steering wheel. “Machinery, like the Draggin. My dad built this one, and helped design the solar railing that keeps it charged without havin
g to find a place to refill the cells.”

  Aizr-hin ran a thumb along the gleaming, black rails inlaid into the roll cage, frowning thoughtfully. “The Pihranese were great architects and poets and mathematicians, but I don’t recall Ga’behz ever telling me about any building something like this. And this sort of thing is common in the Foundry?”

  “Not as common as in Avaeliis, I guess,” Erid admitted. “There aren’t too many Draggin’ rovers this nice. Most of it goes to Avaeliis, my dad said.” He wiped his goggles clean with his palm. “Ga’behz. . . was he your brother?”

  Aizr-hin smiled, though the smoky odor had grown strong enough to make him feel ill. “My cousin. But he was much older than me. Of an age to be my father. He was a great teacher of history and literature before everything fell, and I was fortunate to have him tutor me. Many of the children in Bywater cannot even spell their own names, let alone recite the succession of Pihranese emperors.”

  “It sounds boring,” the boy muttered, then cleared his throat apologetically. “I mean. . . it’s important to know history. I know some of the Junker history. But I always got bored listening to my Uncle Frell talk about it.”

  Aizr-hin chuckled. “My lessons were exceedingly dull. I was a poor student.” On the horizon, a faint plume of black smoke twisted upward, slithering against the mountain foothills like a strange serpent. “That is the Foundry, I assume.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Let’s stop a minute and use the Veraleid to let them know we’re coming in. They always send someone out to meet Junkers coming in from a break-down run, so I bet they’ll want to do that now, too.” Erid flicked the Veraleid transmitter on as the rover rolled to a stop. Aizr-hin pushed himself from the seat, glad for the chance to stretch his legs. Aerby, who had spent most the trip napping blissfully in the back, saw to his task of wetting the tires.

  A voice broke over the Veraleid—an Estarian drawl, rolling against the static whine. “This is Lawrence Holt, Union member number 3-5-8-6-2. Who’s trying to reach us?”

  Erid leaned close to the device. “Erid Vargas. Romano Vargas’ son, Union member number 2-2-5-6-4. Uncle Frell said you’d be waiting for me. We’re about five miles south.”

  “Erid! Well, we expected you days ago,” the voice responded, more cheerful now. “Why didn’t that Scrapper escorting you contact us with updates? Your grandpa Elgin’s been trying to get through to Dogton about it, but we got no answer. Bad signal, maybe.”

  Erid paused. Aizr-hin shrugged, unsure of any of the protocol, and feeling more nervous by the second. It was one thing to playact a Sulari prince—even if a fallen one—but he’d never had to be a diplomat for his people.

  Father used to have paintings in the manse of grand emissaries, wearing robes and escorted by their slaves. And here I am, in a goat wool coat older than myself, with broken sandals on my feet, being escorted by an Estarian boy.

  Usually, such a thought would have struck him as humorous. Now, it only made him scowl. As Aizr-hin rubbed his palms against his stained coat, the anxiety tickle in his gut became a sinking feeling.

  Erid spoke hesitantly into the Veraleid. “He’s. . . dead. The Scrapper, I mean. There was an accident. I’m OK though, and I’ve got someone with me who wants to speak to Gran—uh. . . President Elgin. He’s a Sulari prince from Bywater named Aizr-hin.”

  For a moment, only a crackling fuzz answered them. Aizr-hin took a deep breath, but the stink riding the wind only made him cough.

  Lawrence Holt’s voice broke through at last. “We’re sending someone out to meet you, Erid. One of our secretaries here in the Foundry. She’ll, heh. . . she’ll escort you in the rest of the way. Tell her what happened so she can get it all straight for the paperwork.”

  “A secretary?” Aizr-hin blinked.

  Erid cupped his hand over the Veraleid. “It’s pretty normal.” He leaned close and spoke into the transceiver. “All right, Mr. Holt. We’ll wait here.”

  “Good,” Holt replied. “Ending transmission.”

  The static died. Erid tugged his jacket around himself and shivered against the wind, a pleased smile making his eyes bright. After a moment, he climbed onto the nose of the vehicle, impatiently watching the northern horizon. Aizr-hin bent to tie the loose cords of his sandals more tightly; if they fell off during a meeting with Ham Elgin, he felt sure t here’d be no hope for the Sulari at all.

  I’m going to have to beg on my knees. They’ll expect it—most men in power do. How did the slaves do it? Keep the eyes low and head down. Never raise the voice too much.

  He knelt to help Aerby with an itch and wondered if he’d have to kneel the same way before Ham Elgin. “Why do they need to send an escort out now, Erid? We came all this way. You drove yourself most of it. Surely, we can make the last five miles without disaster. I don’t understand.”

  Erid shielded his eyes against the sun as he continued to watch for any sign of the Junker secretary. “I dunno. Something about regulations. I guess it helps them get the paperwork done faster if the secretary knows most of the details.”

  “Paperwork?”

  The boy nodded, exasperated. “Yeah, everything has to be on file. The Union is technically governed by its members, but all records go to Avaeliis, and they always want things to be kept track of. My dad said it was the worst part about being a Junker—all the filing and record-keeping. But he said no one in the Junkers’ Union ever had trouble finding work or a good place to live.”

  The sinking feeling came back, doubled; the Avaeliis Syndicate had been the reason the Sulari had been exiled. There had been many other reasons, much the fault of the Sulari themselves, but that didn’t change the fact the Syndicate had pushed the final brick from their foundation and sent them toppling into a ragged heap. If the Junkers were under Avaeliis law, his father’s dream of mercy for the Sulari might be no more tangible than desert fog.

  “They’ll help,” Erid said, noting his frown. “They helped the slaves, and they help all the border towns. Uncle Frell said they even helped some of the refugees back when Lein Strauss first started the rebellion.”

  Help for Bywater refugees? Only the Estarians who were there. Never the Sulari. Do you know that part, Erid, or did your uncle omit that half of the tale?

  But there was no point in arguing. Instead, Aizr-hin motioned north. “Listen. I think I hear our escort.” Between the blowing gusts of wind and the harsh rustle of grass, a high whine echoed over the plain.

  “I see it!” Erid waved. “Still a half-mile off or so, but I can see it! That’s definitely a Union sand bike.” He squinted and added, “I think it’s a Drahgur driving it.”

  “I think you are right.”

  The noise from the sand bike grew steadily louder. Aizr-hin wiped some of the dust from his face with a coat sleeve, suddenly aware of the odor of sweat rising from his body—a thing which had never troubled him much in Bywater. Even the highest born Sulari smelled rank between ash and sand baths, and he’d not had one in weeks.

  The sand bike buzzed toward them like a great, black hornet. A short figure, hardly taller than Senqua, dressed in a snug da’mel leather coat and mechanic’s boots, steered the vehicle with an expertise even Erid could not have matched. The bike slowed as it neared, the engine squealing before breaking into low idle. The Drahgur pushed the goggles onto her forehead and peered at them, her maroon-colored eyes shining a keen interest. She returned Erid’s smile, lips turned up under the sharp point of her nose.

  “Hi,” Erid said, grinning.

  “Hello,” she said, tilting her head. “What’dya got?”

  Aizr-hin blinked, mystified. “I don’t have much of anything, if you want the truth of it.”

  “That’s how they say hello,” Erid explained. “Cultural thing. I guess the Sulari didn’t have many Drahgur around.”

  “No,” Aizr-hin said, still staring at the woman. “A few came to trade or work as house servants, but I only knew one. He worked as something of a healer, when he wasn’t busy try
ing to sell all of the princes miracle elixirs to stay young or please their concubines more frequently,” he added. “Sokepta.”

  “Sokepta!” Erid nodded. “He comes to Dogton a lot. He was there when I left.”

  “My cousin,” the Drahgur said. “I’m Khote.” She produced a small, rectangular device from her jacket pocket and thumbed a button. The screen displayed the glowing words: Veraleid. Bringing you closer to the future.

  “Before we go back, I’m supposed to get a little information from you so I can start filing it into the system,” Khote said. “I need both your names and reason for visiting the Foundry, though it’s obvious enough to me. Elgin likes his paperwork in order, though, and Avaeliis. . . ” She sighed, then smirked. “They’re getting a bit strict about keeping all the records in order. So, let’s begin, and then we can get to the Foundry. Ham Elgin will want to see you before lunch.”

  Aizr-hin took a breath and forced a smile, speaking with as dignified a tone as he could manage. “I am prince Aizr-hin, son of prince Gah’leen, descendant of the ancient house of Ra-yejii. I have come here to speak to the leaders of the Junkers’ Union about aid for Bywater, where many of the exiled Sulari children now live. This was the wish of my dying father, may Sun shine in grace upon his memory.”

  Ga’behz would be happy I remembered my manners, at least. It should be him here speaking, not me.

  “That is why I have come here to the Foundry. I hope I have answered your questions satisfactory.” Bending at the waist, Aizr-hin extended a hand toward the tawny-skinned woman in a grand bow. “I will add, it is a pleasure to meet you, Khote. I was expecting our escort to be a rough, oil-stained brute, but here you are instead. Much more pleasant company.”

  A little flattery never hurt, and he decided Khote might have some sway with Ham Elgin. Aizr-hin wondered what the meeting would be like, but could only picture his father’s grand manse and inner courtyard, where diplomats and family had come to speak and pay compliments in return for favors. The punchy odor of smoke told him that whatever the Foundry meeting rooms might be like, they probably would not much resemble his father’s beautiful palace.