Текст книги "City at the end of time"
Автор книги: Грег Бир
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 33 страниц)
Is this a trick? She can’t be a march leader. She’s soold– why hasn’t the Bleak Warden come for her?Jebrassy felt his face tighten into a frown, and forced himself to relax—he did not want to reveal any more than he had to.
“Twenty have been chosen,” Grayne began. “Four from this group, sixteen…elsewhere. The Kalpa is forever—but we are new. We are youthand newness. We are not pets, not toys—we are hope, kept bottled until needed. And now the cap is pulled—we areneeded. No one else in the Kalpa has the will to cross the Chaos.”
“No one else,” the group intoned.
“We send our marchers through the gates, across the border of the real, into mystery—to find our lost cousins and to free ourselves. What’s outthere, beyond the Kalpa?” Grayne asked softly. “Does anybody really know?”
Jebrassy shook his head, his eyes held by her black, intense glare.
“Do you?” she asked him directly.
“No.”
“And so we all give up to mystery, to the unknown, to save ourselves from suffocation. Are you with us?”
“Yes,” Jebrassy said.
Grayne studied him, then got up from the bench, reached into the pocket of her robe, and produced a small bag. The old sama walked around the chamber, handing out little square tabs to everyone—except Jebrassy.
“We’ll meet one more time before the march. Everyone will go now—except the fighter. And Tiadba.”
Tiadba helped Grayne along the pipe to the surface. Jebrassy followed. The three of them stood there for a moment, while Grayne’s breathing slowed. “Everything you know is wrong, young fighter,” she said. The others in the group had already spread out over the rutted fallow field and then down the path through the low groves, slinking past the solitary and unmoving warden, its vanes glowing a faint and pulsing blue in the darkness.
The pedes had curled into glinting, twitching bundles in the near dark, to conserve heat.
“I know I’m ignorant,” Jebrassy said, keeping his voice low. “But I’m not stupid.”
Grayne reached out and took Jebrassy’s jaw in her strong, knobby fingers. She twisted his face toward her, eyes darting. “Tiadba tells me your visitor knows nothing of the Tiers, or the Kalpa. Where do you think he comes from?”
Jebrassy did not pull away. “Tiadba probably knows more about him than I do.”
“Never mind,” Grayne said, and shivered in the cooling air. “Let’s walk.”
The sama’s niche was humble enough—she dwelt in the lowest tier of the third isle’s main bloc, within a kind of support column, surrounded by ancient, silent machinery—great hulks of smooth hardness, lumbering, dark, and unrevealing of the tasks they had once performed. The niche’s furnishings were equally humble—a few dun-colored blankets and cushions, a small box where she kept her food—and a larger box, equipped with a finger lock. She offered them water and they sat quietly as she touched the box, opened it, and removed—
A book. A real book, bound in green, with letters on its spine and its front cover. It was the first real book—loose and whole—they had ever seen. Tiadba let out her breath as if someone had knocked her in the stomach. Jebrassy kept his expression under tight control, unsure once again what either of these two females were up to—perhaps no good. Perhaps they were part of a trap laid by the Tall Ones to entice foolish young breeds…
His mind raced through confusion after confusion, and then he looked at Tiadba—and realized that she was as entranced as he.
Grayne clutched the book to her bosom and stepped slowly toward them. “I love these dangerous, impossible things above all else in the Tiers,” she said, holding it out in both hands and opening it for their inspection. “Isn’t it lovely?”
Jebrassy longed to hold it, but did not dare reach out. The cover had been worked with flowers of types unlike any he had ever seen in the produce fields, placed around a design that attracted his eyes immediately—a cross circled by interlaced, apparently whirling bands. Tiadba glanced at him. He nodded. This design was familiar—though they had never seen it before.
“Is it from the shelves in the upper Tiers?” Tiadba asked.
“Those books aren’t real,” Jebrassy said. “I’ve tried to pull them out. They’re just decoration.”
Grayne circled two fingers over the book and pursed her lips, blowing out her cheeks with a snorking whuff. “Miles and miles of temptation and futility. A curiosity, I think, that we instinctively love books, yet can’t have them, can’t read them, can’t do more than look at their spines, cemented into those awful, wonderful shelves.” She solemnly laid the book on a small table between them. “Touch it. It’s very old, very sturdy—it’s been waiting to be of use for many thousands of lives. You can’t harm it.”
Tiadba had tears in her eyes as she lifted the book and smelled its cover. “Can you read it?” she asked Grayne.
The sama held up one finger—yes. “Some of us have translated pages. Many pages.”
“How?” Jebrassy asked.
Grayne beamed. “Of all my strange instructions and duties, I love this part most of all. There is a secret so wonderful that no one will believe you if you tell them—so don’t bother.
“Once, when we were quite young, my crèche sisters and I made up a game. We climbed to the upper Tiers, then ran along the impossible shelves. We laughed and leaped and pulled at the unmoving spines, top shelves, bottom shelves, one up, one down, center shelves…tugged on the odd, unyielding volumes for hours, laughing and leaping and failing and falling, and laughing some more. No one expected we would ever succeed, but we believed, as children will, that if we felt so attracted to them, if there were so many children’s stories and legends about books, there must be some truth behind them—something behind the tantalizing spinebacks.”
Grayne squatted slowly, in private her movements more obviously painful. Jebrassy wondered if he would live long enough to feel that sort of pain. She’s the oldest breed I’ve ever seen…
For the first time, he caught himself thinking that a visit from the Bleak Warden might be a blessing—not a thing to be feared.
“I wasn’t the first to find it—our first loose book on the shelves. It was my best friend, Lassidin—full of curiosity, fastest of all my sisters. A spark among glows, you males say. To me, she was a flame…”
Grayne closed her eyes. “The Bleak Warden claimed her long ago. But she was the first to solve that riddle, watching, in her brightness, always watching, all the time seeing things we did not, puzzling it through, running, leaping, tugging…until she got it right.”
Grayne lifted a crooked finger and hooked at empty air, reliving the moment. “Lassidin grabbed a spine…just the right spine—and before our eyes she pulled down a book. That surprised her so much she fell and landed on her butt. The book flopped open on the dusty floor, revealing a page covered with letters from an ancient alphabet—some familiar, most not. All of my crèche sisters—there were four of us, families could be larger then—gathered around the book and looked, afraid to touch it. Two ran away. Lassidin and I somehow gathered up the courage to take the book to our family niche, where we hid it from our mer and per. At first we told no one. And when we returned to that spot in the Tiers, where the gap had been—we found another book in its place, as false and unyielding as before. We wondered if we had been dreaming, and rushed back to our niches—where Lassidin had placed the book in this old box, with its finger lock.
“By the time we returned to the upper levels, a few wakes later, Lassidin had solved the puzzle of the shelves, and the shelves rewarded her—us—for cleverness. We pulled down the second of many, which we then retrieved and hid away with the first.”
“How many?” Tiadba asked.
Grayne tightened her lips and touched the stiff fur on her nose. “More than one,” she said, a faint smile on her lips. “Fewer than a dozen.”
“Who loosened the books? Why let anyone look at them?” Jebrassy asked. “I thought the Tall Ones wanted to keep us ignorant.”
“A sophisticated question from our young warrior,” Grayne said. “I don’t know the answer. Some say, however, that a great and powerful citizen, far above the Tall Ones, created these shelves to honor his daughter—long dead or missing. They may not have been intended for us at all. At any rate, in time the Bleak Warden came for my sisters, but never for me.” She looked up. “I am the guardian of Lassidin’s box, and all the books we plucked from the walls—all the books we were allowed to find.”
Tiadba turned to the next page in the green book. Her nose drew up in fine wrinkles and she pushed her chin forward. “I can’t read it. The letters are too different.”
“They are old. A few are still familiar.”
Tiadba followed the lines with her fingers, then said, “Here’s one. And another.” Delighted, she showed Jebrassy.
“My crèche sister Kovleschi was meeker and did not chase the shelves with us—but she knew of antique letterbugs, marked on their wing-cases by such letters. We visited the families who kept and prized them, and there we studied the way they formed words—and compared how younger bugs with different, newer symbols formed the very same words.”
Letterbugs could live many breed lifetimes, and were often passed down for generations.
“In time, we were able to piece together a syllabary, and from that, a beginning dictionary. But even then we could read only a few passages. There are still so many that mean nothing to me. Though I’ve memorized them…as many as will hold still. They seem to change, you know.”
Tiadba handed the book to Jebrassy. He, too, examined the first page—and his brow shot up.
“‘Sangmer,’” he read, drawing his finger under one odd word. “Is this about Sangmer?” Sometimes the teachers told frightening stories to breeds who had misbehaved, some involving a traveler named Sangmer, who died after he strayed beyond his neighborhood.
“Perhaps I haven’t been so foolish after all,” Grayne said, eyes twinkling. “Most of our books speak at many points of Sangmer and Ishanaxade. They were partners, and not always happy ones. A tempestuous pair. What little we can read tells us that ultimately they both vanished in the Chaos.”
“And what do the other books tell?”
“More puzzling still, they speak of things no breed can understand. Of the aging of the world outside this one, and of the decline of all-powerful rulers…and how they were forced to retreat to the Kalpa. There is even a brief history of the last years of what seems to have been a shining brightness in an open sky, something called the ‘sun.’”
“I’d like to read that,” Jebrassy whispered. “I’d like to read them all.” He looked around as if afraid that Grayne, the niche, the box—these real books—might just vanish in a puff. With her staff, Grayne pulled the box toward her. “These were ourbooks. They were meant for us alone, to guide us. You will find your own books—and they will accompany you to places we could never go. Perhaps they will even finish the great story.” She narrowed her eyes, near exhaustion. Tiadba seemed stunned, but she took the book from Jebrassy—pulled it from his grasping fingers—and handed it to Grayne, who returned it to Lassidin’s box.
Grayne closed the cover and locked it. “This will be the last march,” the old sama said. “Out there you will go, utterly ignorant, unless you find your books and learn how to read what they contain. You will tell those stories to your fellows. Every march has its stories and instructions. Those are the rules.”
“Whose rules?” Jebrassy asked.
Grayne ignored him. She removed her cloak, revealing thin, bowed shoulders under a smooth black gown, and handed it to Tiadba. “The sisterhood made this, many lifetimes ago, when we were all young. Look inside…sewn within the lining, our crude syllabary and a comparison dictionary. All made by referring to the antique letterbugs. Some of those bugs still survive. You must look for them—borrow them—learn your own words, add what you can to our knowledge.”
“Why us?” Jebrassy asked.
“Better to ask why you, young warrior,” Grayne said. “I would have passed this all on to Tiadba. That was my plan—until she chose to be adventurous. For a time, angry with her, I thought I would die with our box locked, taking my revenge against a world that made no more lovely and sensiblesisters. But I have my instructions.”
Tall Ones?Jebrassy held his tongue on this question, but still blurted, “You guide the marches. You arrange for equipment, you send them…” He could not untangle this knot.
“True. I have been used, but have always hoped—in my defense—that someday, individuals at least would return, and tell me of what lies beyond the border of the real. None has. How many have I condemned?” She wiped a tear, then straightened and assumed her sama mien. “Here is our secret—what the sisterhood discovered. Lassidin and I listed the most promising Tiers and levels in the syllabary. The false shelves in all the inhabited levels are locked and useless. Only in the deserted levels do they sometimes free a book. Look to those shelves. They are not always the same. Understand why, and how, and you will learn what we learned.
“Now…there’s very little time, young breeds,” Grayne said. “I believe the Bleak Warden will soon pay me a visit. But before that happens, I must arrange this final march.”
Jebrassy looked down, excited, confused—and frightened.
“Your first challenge is to learn what you can—so very little, but it might save your lives. Then—you will be taken into the flood channels, to begin your training.”
CHAPTER 30
All the water of the Tiers flowed through this conduit, which vanished in low mists beyond where Jebrassy stood, at the edge of the outer meadow. The water made a dismal, sleepy sound as it dropped along its sluice. It was clear and smelled wet and a little sad. He measured with his arms and fingers the distance between the top edge of the sluice and the dirt that surrounded it—that same pebbled, granular, brown-gray soil found everywhere in the Tiers. He was still trying to understand everything at once—and it made his head hurt.
Farther back, closer to the bridge, the conduit had been higher. Perhaps the water didn’t reach the far wall, but vanished into the ground, absorbed as if by a rag. Somehow, the ground, granular and rough, sucked it down, spread it out, purified it.
Whatever pulls the water, pulls me. And does the ground tug the water in and out the same way it tugs me? I don’t know anything about where I live.
Confused, frustrated, he felt like striking out—always his first impulse when he confronted his abysmal ignorance.
He stood and turned at the sound of footsteps. At first he couldn’t see who it was over a rise in the meadow—but then he made out Khren’s round, shock-furred head. Beside Khren paced three young breeds, all wide-eyed with anticipation.
Tiadba had said he needed to find four helpers, and that she would meet them all at the spiral stair core that rose through the inward end of the first isle Tiers. They were going to visit an abandoned level high in the Tiers. They might spend all day searching just a few of the halls that radiated from the stair core—a very small part of the abandoned levels—and with the lights dimmed, a few extra pairs of hands and bright, young eyes would certainly be useful. Still, Jebrassy felt uneasy that they would be sharing their rare time together with others—even uneasy about Khren, who had been with him on so many adventures.
The young males ran down to the straight road and clustered around him, touching fingers and giving sharp whistles of greeting.
“Shewel, Nico, Mash—this is Jebrassy,” Khren said. “A very unwise and devious breed.” They were impressed; Khren had obviously been filling their heads with nonsense.
“You’re a warrior,” said Shewel, the tallest, a gangly young male with wide-spaced eyes and reddish scalp fur.
“Not much time for fighting now,” Jebrassy said.
“He has a glow to fill his empty hours,” Khren said, and Jebrassy shot him a look. Khren danced aside, as if he had thrown a rock.
The young breeds were breathless. “What are we looking for?” Nico asked. He was pale, his hair and fur silver, his eyes light blue—handsome enough, but with a high, piping voice. “Is there food buried out here? Strange things the wardens hide?”
“Nothing like that,” Jebrassy said. “We’re going to search an empty level in the Tiers.”
“Looking for dream-ghosts?” Mash asked. He was a strong, square-headed youngster—the youngest, Jebrassy guessed, but also the largest. Breeds sometimes told their young a tweenlight tale that the most beautiful dreams broke free when one awoke and flew off to hide in the deserted levels, where they might be gathered in baskets and brought back to sweeten future nights. Bad dreams—obviously, those should be avoided. “Bright or dark?” Mash persisted, defensive, as the others scoffed. He circled the group as if embarrassed to join them.
“No dreams. We’re going to explore the shelves and look for books. Try to pull them out. Real books we might be able to read.”
“No!” the group chorused, disappointed. They knew all the books were false. “That’s stupid—a waste.”
“A large bag of sweet chafe and tropps to anyone who finds a real book,” Jebrassy said. “And whether we find any or not, we share three bags when we get back, so everybody goes home full. But none to slackers.”
That motivated them up to a point, and they fell in line behind Khren and Jebrassy as they crossed the mid-line bridge to the first isle.
The lower tier levels were still populated, so they entered off the inward esplanade, keeping clear of the small groups of occupants around the lifts, and ascended the winding stairs through one of many ventilation cores—the steps gritty with disuse.
The group waited at the tenth level, where Tiadba had instructed them to gather. All the levels above the tenth on this end of the bloc had been abandoned in living memory, after three intrusions in a single wake—a fluke, perhaps, but enough to scare off all families and even young singles. None of the niches showed signs of having been lived in recently—all were filled with broken furniture, debris, and frass deposited by rogue letterbugs and pedes.
As Jebrassy paced, he glanced down the halls radiating off the stair core. Two lost letterbugs flitted about in the draft that rose here—too few, too widely scattered and disorganized to form interesting words, forlorn remnants of more cheerful wakes, when umber-borns had laid them out on shake cloths and played their learning games.
The young breeds, bored, played a few rounds of arm-off, then shook out their wrists and ran down a hall to practice tugging, so they said, though none of the halls on this level had shelves, much less spinebacks. “Don’t go far,” Khren called out, well aware how short the attention span of a young breed could be. “She’s late,” he observed to Jebrassy, his voice low and nervous. “They say intrusions never strike twice in the same place…but I’m not so sure.”
The two friends split a wad of bitter chafe and thoughtfully chewed the fibers, until the silence seemed to overwhelm them. They could no longer hear even the scrabbling and whickering of the three youngsters. The letterbugs had vanished as well.
“They’re wandering too far,” Khren said. He squatted, refusing to accompany Jebrassy in his back-and-forth around the stair core. “I should go find them.” But he did not get up. Khren much preferred contemplation to actual movement, even when he was anxious.
“They’re fine,” Jebrassy said. “A shout will fetch them. Patience.”
“How reliable is your glow?” Khren asked.
Jebrassy was about to answer, but they heard soft steps echo and Tiadba appeared, stepping quickly through the balustrade. She wore the same pants and shift tied at the waist that she had worn at the Diurns, and she looked tired. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “Gray wardens. I had to go out and around on the first level so they wouldn’t follow. Why would anyone come here, after all?” She peered accusingly at Khren.
“I didn’t say anything,” he responded, spinning two fingers resentfully.
“Of course not,” Tiadba said. “Did you find helpers?”
“Khren recruited three,” Jebrassy said. “They’re green sticks but lively. They’re already out hunting.”
Khren glanced at Jebrassy, still stung, and excused himself to go join them.
“He’s an honest breed,” Jebrassy said when he was out of hearing. “Leaders have to take care with their words.”
Tiadba sniffed. “Grayne tells me the best hunting is above the fiftieth. Those levels have been abandoned for hundreds of generations. For some reason, that loosens the spinebacks even more—so she says. She says—”
“How does she know so much?” Jebrassy asked. “Who talks to her? Tall Ones?”
“ Breedstalk to her,” Tiadba said. “She’s been a sama for a long time. Breeds come to the market from all the Tiers to consult with her. She’s as close to a real teacher as we have. But I was going to tell you—”
A racketing echoed down a long hall, preceding the return of Khren and the three youngsters. More introductions went around, and Tiadba softened the critical tone she had used earlier. The young breeds weren’t shy around a female; if anything, they ramped up their raucous sporting, and it seemed they might explode any moment. Only Nico appeared willing to maintain a kind of philosophic dignity.
“We’ll race! Fifty—that’s near the top,” Shewel called out as he started up the spiral stairs. His voice echoed back. “We could climb out on the roof!” The others followed close behind, but Mash trailed—slower and a little abashed.
“What do we need books for?” he asked. “Even if they’re real, they’d only tell us about the times before there were breeds. Who cares?”
“It’s a game,” Tiadba said. “That’s all. You can read, can’t you?”
“I can riddle any letterbug challenge, as long as it’s fair,” Mash said. “And I can read anything a teacher puts in front of me. I’m big, but I’m not dim.”
The fiftieth level had a desolate, muggy smell that sent shivers down to Jebrassy’s fingers. Just a few levels below the roof of this bloc, the stair core had expanded to almost three times its diameter at the ground floor, making the risers shorter, the steps wider, and perversely increasing the distance they had to climb. He stumbled several times. None of the other stair cores were like this, which increased the feeling of strangeness—an inappropriate place for breeds.
The youngsters did not seem to notice. They had already radiated off, drawing marks in the grit before each hallway they investigated. There were over twelve halls stretching away from the core at this level, and hundreds of niches—all empty. Not even the rustle and flap of lost letterbugs broke the ancient hush. Nothing alive seemed to want to be here.
The three youngsters quickly filled that silence, counting out how many spinebacks they had fruitlessly tugged. Their voices echoed and grew faint the farther they ran, until they could barely be heard at all.
“I’ll leave you two and join them,” Khren said. “Three’s an awkward number, don’t you think?”
Jebrassy was about to protest, but Tiadba thanked Khren and off he went, with some haste. He did not like being around Tiadba, obviously, which did not puzzle Jebrassy—she had not gone out of her way to make friends.
Tiadba took this opportunity to brush his shoulders with her hands. “Did you see?”
“See what?”
“I saw it just before Khren spoke. I wonder if they’ll even notice.”
“Notice what?”
Tiadba pushed him to the angle of an unexplored hall, one the youngsters had not marked. Here, six shelves rose on each side, each stretching ten arm lengths, filling the spaces between niche doorways, outward into the gloom—to the very end of the hall. False spinebacks marched off in solemn relief as far as they could see. “Wait. Look.”
He wasn’t paying attention. Guilty, he leaned forward and forced himself to concentrate on the titles, frowning as he walked along the middle row of spinebacks. “What am I looking for?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level, his tone humble.
And then he saw it. The titles changed—the odd letters seemed to crawl, rearrange, and fix themselves again, as innocent and permanent as he had always assumed they were. The sight did more than startle him. He couldn’t stop himself—he stumbled back and bumped against the shelves on the opposite wall. Then he looked toward Tiadba, ears hot with surprise. Such impermanence in a timeless feature like the false shelves was almost as frightening as an intrusion.
Tiadba did not laugh at him. “Is that what Grayne was talking about?” she asked, awestruck. “Here, everything changes, I mean—because nobody’s watching?”
“We’re watching. Why change it in front of us?”
“I…do…not…know,” Tiadba said, but she reached out and tugged at a false book. Of course, it refused to budge. “Grayne was being too sly. This is a puzzle. We have to riddle it to be worthy.”
“I’m clueless, but that’s always been obvious,” Jebrassy said, ears still warm. “I don’t like it here.”
“Maybe these shelves are showing us what happens everywhere, when the breeds sleep, and we’re too ignorant, too unobservant—or we sleep too soundly—to notice or even care. We could learn these old symbols. We could write them down on shake cloths and then compare them after a few sleeps—”
Jebrassy suddenly caught on. Momentarily forgetting his fear, he returned to the shelf and fingered the spines, but did not tug—presuming he had not earned that privilege, not yet. “The books that couldcome loose, that can be pulled out, are always the same,” he said. “But they move around. The titles move. Is that the secret?”
Tiadba smiled and reached out to pull on a few more spines. No luck. Then she whistled with excitement and raced down the hall.
“Maybe they’re like letterbugs,” Jebrassy said, moving toward her. “Maybe the books on the shelves actually breed. Maybe the titles make new titles—maybe they make new books.”
“I don’t see how it helps to know that,” she called back.
“How couldwe know?” Jebrassy murmured, his shock of discovery dissipating as quickly as it arrived.
“We can’t read them…we don’t know which ones to pull…they shift around or multiply each sleep when nobody’s looking…and that means, since the shelves never grow, some titles vanish… Frass,” he swore.
“It’s a dice game.”
“And the dice are loaded!” Tiadba said. “We can’t win. We’ll never find a book. But Grayne’s sisterhood found a few anyway.” Her face lit up. “Isn’t that the challenge? Isn’t it wonderful?”
Jebrassy peered after her. “Well, that can’t be all there is to it,” he said. “We’re missing something important.”
“Call your friend and the young breeds,” Tiadba said. “Maybe they’ll help us—maybe they’ll find their own books.”
Jebrassy looked across the core at the other hallways, radiating to the outer Tiers, thousands of shelves…he couldn’t begin to think how many titles. “This is going to take forever.”
“What’s that mean?” Tiadba asked.
Neither of them had ever heard that word before—it was not part of the breed tongue.
TEN ZEROS
CHAPTER 31
Before crossing Forty-fifth Street, in front of a motion picture theater, Whitlow looked both left and right—after so many years in London and Paris, he still could not decide which direction horse-drawn or gasoline-powered vehicles might descend upon him.
Whitlow lacked any sense of general danger, actually had less sense than the people he hunted. Minus the charm of the Chalk Princess, he would likely have died a thousand years ago, in the last Gape of burning Cordoba.
There were no items of interest to be found in any of the area hockshops. He hadn’t expected any—forces were obviously working in opposition, building toward a confrontation. The theater marquee indicated that a film called The Book of Dreamswas being screened. That brought out a broad smile, unveiling strong thick teeth, all alike and the color of old ivory. He wore his best suit, a little tatty after fifty years but well-mended. Invisible reweaving, indeed. He had administered a biweekly sponge-scrub in his studio flat in Belltown, greased his thinning black hair, trimmed and waxed his narrow mustache, and slipped on wool socks and high-laced black boots he’d had made in Italy to fit his deformed toes.
He then donned a new fedora.
It had been good to see Max Glaucous again, his young protégé, after so many decades—more than a century, really. As time wound down, the past seemed to bunch up, forming humps and valleys, difficult to judge distance or terrain…but no matter. Glaucous had always been a productive hunter, though by Whitlow’s standards a little brusque and obvious.
Whitlow himself had been in Seattle for over a month, having sensed a confluence, a drawing together of significant world-lines—well, of course, having been accorded the graceof some of the Moth’s vast well of knowledge. For one of the Moth’s talents lay in knowing when others were approaching points of desperate choice; and in particular, points of collision with the Chalk Princess or her employees: a specialty whose importance was not to be casually dismissed, nor discussed with the likes of Glaucous. Whitlow knew better than to come anywhere near Glaucous while he was collecting—knew even the danger of announcing his presence in Glaucous’s city. But their Livid Mistress expected her due, and Seattle was now home to at least two and possibly three targets.
The third target not only elusive, but problematic. Some in the profession doubted that one of this type would respond to any inducements, and yet might be more powerful than either of the others, or all of them combined.
The bad shepherd.
For decades, Whitlow had maintained a remote and watchful presence in cities around the world, without drawing attention from other hunters, and often enough without poaching their prey. For the Chalk Princess had, months after the Great War, set him a particular task: to find the one shifter who did notdream of that Citie over which she maintained, some said, eternal watch—in another existence. It was his custom to keep a cadre of irregulars on a payroll of money or drugs or both; a select few who lived their lives like insects under rocks, shy, watchful creatures with nothing to lose but their own brief, painful stretches of time. Fifty or so in most cities sufficed, randomly positioned. Shifters seemed to always come into loose contact with such unrooted beings, as if their own world-lines—so tightly controlled—were attracted to briefer and more ragged threads.
