Текст книги "The Abyss Beyond Dreams"

Автор книги: Peter F. Hamilton

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 44 страниц)

2

With Varlan situated just over a thousand kilometres south of the equator, every day in Bienvenido’s capital was a hot one. Even now, close to midnight, the cobbled streets and stone walls were still radiating out the heat they’d been punished with during the day.

Kervarl looked out of the cab’s windows as it trundled along Walton Boulevard, trying not to appear like a complete neophyte to the person who rode the cab with him. He was an important man back in Boutzen county, two thousand kilometres south at the end of the Southern City Line. But Boutzen was just a county capital, dwarfed in scale by Varlan.

The cab pulled up in front of the Rasheeda Hotel, which itself was probably larger than the Council chamber in Boutzen. Kervarl frowned, angry with himself for falling into such a depreciative mindset.

I’m here now. I’m making my own impact on this world. I’m as good as any capital merchant. Better, for I have more opportunity.

‘Relax,’ the man sitting opposite said, with a kindly smile. Kervarl forced a smile.

It had taken two weeks, and considerably more coins that he’d wanted to spend, but he’d finally won an appointment with the National Council’s First Speaker in his private annex. The First Speaker had agreed to sponsor him with the palace. Again for more coinage than he’d planned on. But that was Varlan for you: everything was on a bigger scale.

It didn’t matter, he kept telling himself. Here he was in a cab with Larrial, the First Speaker’s chief aide, on his way to the palace to see the First Officer himself. The mining licences were in sight. Just keep your nerve.

He jumped when the cab door was pulled open.

‘Calm,’ Larrial urged.

Kervarl tightened his shell and looked out. A man and a teenage girl were standing on the pavement. The girl was pleasant enough, with broad features and a good figure outlined by the flimsy white cotton dress she wore. Kervarl would have preferred a prettier one. His uncertainty must have leaked out.

‘She’s fine,’ Larrial said reassuringly. ‘Just what he likes.’

‘Okay.’

The man with the girl held his hand out. His face was fuzzed, but nonetheless Kervarl got the impression of bulk and malice. He dropped some coins into the waiting hand. It stayed there, open with the coins glinting in the light radiating out of the hotel’s grand high windows. Kervarl resisted the urge to sigh, and produced yet more money. The hand finally closed, and the girl was allowed to climb into the cab. She sat next to Kervarl.

Larrial ’pathed an order to the cab driver, and the mod-horse moved forward, back onto Walton Boulevard. ‘Couple of minutes to the palace from here. Perhaps a good time for your gift . . .’ He gestured at the girl.

‘Right.’ This was where it got slightly different to the deals he was used to at home. Kervarl prided himself that he was a man of the world, that he understood how things worked. After all, that was how he’d clawed his way up to his current status. This, however . . . He steeled himself against any doubts. This was the capital. Their rules. If you weren’t going to play by them, there was no point in being here.

He produced a small phial from his jacket pocket and offered it to the girl. Her eyes widened in delight and surprise. He could sense the greed in her thoughts.

‘Take it now,’ Larrial said. There was an edge to his voice.

‘Thank you, sir,’ the girl said. She removed the sealed lid with a practised twist and stuck the phial’s long neck into a nostril, inhaling deeply. Switched nostrils, inhaled once more.

‘I think there’s some left,’ Larrial said.

A sublime smile rose on the girl’s face. She inhaled again.

Kervarl watched anxiously as the narnik gripped her, for a moment it seemed she might swoon. She seemed barely conscious.

‘A much purer form than she’s used to, I expect,’ Larrial said, studying the girl’s lolling head. ‘She’ll thank us for that in the morning.’

Kervarl said nothing. He’d heard all the rumours about the First Officer.

Walton Boulevard led directly up to the Captain’s Palace. Kervarl tried not to be impressed, but the building was massive, like a whole town in one structure. An officer of the Palace Guard came over as the cab drew up outside the huge iron gates. He clearly knew Larrial and gave permission to enter.

The cab went through a two-storey archway in the façade, and into a courtyard. A footman in emerald and gold livery was waiting. He led them through another smaller archway, and out into the palace gardens.

‘Please refrain from using your ex-sight here, sir,’ the footman said in a deep, dignified voice.

The gardens were just as impressive as the palace itself. Long pathways webbed perfectly flat lawns. Topiary trees twice Kervarl’s height stood sentry along them. There were high hedges curving round secluded grottoes. Ponds with fountains were outlined by exotic blooms. Dozens of sweet scents mingled in the night air. Lanterns flickered gracefully, forming their own nebula. Kervarl hadn’t even known you could get oil that would burn in different coloured flames. The lights added the final touch, making the whole garden astonishingly beautiful.

He heard the sound of laughter as they walked. It seemed to be coming from one of the grottoes. There were the fainter rhythmic cries of sex. Cheering. Then came a yelp of pain. He focused on watching the stoned girl, making sure she didn’t stumble.

The footman led them into one of the grottoes, surrounded by an impenetrable rubybirch hedge. Smaller ornamental trees were inside, bark gnarled with age, and chosen for their night-blossom. Tiny pink and white petals snowed silently onto the spongy grass. Fountains played outside a pavilion of white cloth whose drapes fluttered softly in the warm breeze. Lamps inside made it glow with a golden hue, as if it were some kind of giant ethereal lantern. A harpist was playing.

The party inside was exclusive. Kervarl recognized Aothori, the First Officer. The Captain’s eldest son was in his thirties, though his exceptionally handsome face made him appear a lot younger. His fine features were framed by thick curly red-blond hair, with a neat goatee beard styled to emphasize the already-prominent cheekbones. A loose toga revealed a perfectly muscled torso as he lounged on a couch behind the table. Despite that strong physical presence, Kervarl could only think of him as dandyish. His friends around the table, from the highest echelons of Varlan’s aristocratic society, were equally youthful and vibrant. One couple in the corner of the pavilion were having sex on a mound of cushions, with several more standing over them, sipping wine as they watched. All the serving girls wore long skirts, but were naked from the waist up, and just as beautiful as the female guests. The two serving boys wore loincloths, their oiled skin glistening in the hazy lamplight.

All Kervarl’s inferiority came rushing back. He felt old, shabby, poor.

‘My dear chap,’ Aothori said. ‘Welcome.’

Some of the partygoers deigned to look at Kervarl, only to instantly dismiss him. That was when anger started to replace his timidity. Who the crud were they to look down on him? Aristos who’d inherited everything. Who accomplished nothing.

Larrial made the slightest sound in his throat.

Kervarl bowed. ‘Thank you for receiving me, sir.’

‘Not at all. The First Speaker speaks very highly of you.’ He turned to the beauty lounging next to him. ‘You see what I did there?’

She grinned indolently, then fixed Kervarl with an icy stare.

‘I brought you a token of my appreciation, sir.’ Kervarl applied his teekay to the girl’s back and pressed her forward, praying she wouldn’t trip over. Narnik-glazed eyes blinked heavily as she walked up to the table with its piles of rich food. Once again, Kervarl wished he’d brought a prettier girl.

‘How generous of you,’ Aothori said. ‘I’m sure she’ll be most entertaining.’

All Kervarl heard was the First Officer’s mocking tone.

Aothori clicked his fingers. ‘Get her ready,’ he told one of the serving boys. The girl was led away, still in a narnik stupor.

‘Now, I understand you have some kind of commercial proposition for me?’ Aothori said.

A couple of the guests laughed at that. Over on the cushions, the sex was getting louder. Another man shrugged out of his toga and joined in.

‘Indeed, sir. I have lands in the Sansone mountains. I would like a licence to mine there. The Captain controls mineral rights across the planet; I understand you can sign a licence for my company.’

‘To mine what, exactly?’

‘Silver, sir.’

Aothori raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow. ‘I didn’t know there was silver there.’

‘My surveyors have found it, sir,’ Kervarl said proudly. He wanted to explain how difficult it had been, how expensive, how much effort had gone into the venture. The risk. But here in this ludicrously decadent setting his prepared speech was rendered utterly pointless. All he wanted now was the agreement, and to leave.

‘That’s very enterprising of you,’ Aothori murmured.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And why exactly should I grant you a licence?’

‘I would like to propose a joint venture.’

‘Ah. Delightful. And very smart. I can see you and I will get along wonderfully. What sort of percentage did you see me taking?’

Kervarl hoped he wasn’t sweating. This was crucial: get the figure wrong . . . The First Speaker had advised fifteen. ‘Seventeen and a half, sir.’ He cursed himself all the way to Uracus for being such a coward.

‘That’s a very generous offer,’ Aothori said. He poured some wine from a flagon and gave it to a serving girl. She carried it over to Kervarl.

Everyone round the table was waiting, watching. Several knowing, predatory smiles were growing. Over on the cushions the vigorous threesome were drowning out the sound of the harp.

Aothori raised his own glass. ‘I do believe we have a deal.’ He drank his wine. The guests applauded.

Kervarl fought against showing any relief. Play it cool. Play his game. ‘Sir.’ He raised his glass to the First Officer and drank.

‘Here’s to the two of us,’ Aothori announced loudly. ‘My new business partner.’ Everyone at the table raised their glasses in salute.

‘Well done,’ Larrial private ’pathed.

Kervarl smiled round and drank some more wine. It wasn’t as good as he’d expected. But that didn’t matter. Nothing else did. I’ve got the licence!

‘My office will sort out the boring legal part with you tomorrow,’ Aothori said.

‘Yes, sir.’ Kervarl said. He didn’t quite know what to do now. The First Officer was giving him a mildly expectant gaze. ‘Do we stay?’ he private ’pathed Larrial.

‘Great Giu, no. Say goodbye. The likes of us don’t get to socialize with the First Officer.’

Kervarl bowed again. ‘You’ve been most kind, sir. I don’t wish to take up any more of your time. My lawyers will contact your office, as you suggested.’

‘Indeed,’ Aothori gave a casual magnanimous wave of his hand.

Kervarl turned and left. It took a lot of willpower not to dance out of the grotto.

*

Aothori watched the southern landowner stride across the palace gardens. He shook his head in bemusement at all the contentment spilling out of the man’s relaxed shell.

‘Amazing,’ he grunted.

‘That they found silver in the Sansones?’ Mirivia asked as she scraped her forefinger round a bowl of honeyed acral seeds.

He gave her a disappointed look. Mirivia was this week’s favourite, but not for being the sharpest thorn on the firepine. ‘That someone smart enough to find silver there could be so stupid. It’s the southern mentality, of course. Their pride in their work ethic will be the death of them.’ He grinned. ‘See what I did there.’

She pouted, and made a show of sucking the gooey black seeds from her finger. ‘You’re so cruel.’

‘I try.’ His ex-sight observed Kervarl slow to a halt, and give Larrial a puzzled look. ‘If only he’d been one of us instead of having the stench of the Shanty on him. A gentleman would have sent staff to deal with something as vulgar as a licence. But of course that involves spending money and having confidence in your command of others. It would seem Kervarl is too cheap for that.’

Across the garden, Kervarl had dropped to his knees. His hands scrabbled desperately at his throat. Panic and fright poured out of his shell-less mind.

‘And as well as not being a gentleman, he’s ambitious,’ Aothori said as Kervarl pitched forwards, face down onto the neat path. ‘We really don’t want to encourage that kind of thing; it’ll end up in another Jasmine Avenue.’

‘Well, nobody wants that,’ Mirivia agreed.

Larrial stood over the prone body, and turned to face the grotto. ‘He’s dead,’ the aide ’pathed.

‘Jolly good,’ Aothori ’pathed back. ‘Have the tax people overload the family with death duties. My office will purchase his estate. It looks like we’re in the silver-mining business.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Aothori picked up the flagon of poisoned wine and handed it to one of the serving girls. ‘Get rid of this; we don’t want any accidents.’

‘Sir.’

‘And is Kervarl’s gift ready? Shame to waste her.’

The girl carefully avoided his gaze, keeping her shell impervious. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Jolly good.’ He kissed Mirivia. ‘I’m keen to see what you can do with her first. Then I’ll show you mine.’

3

When he reached the top of the hill, Slvasta was a good twenty-five metres ahead of anyone else. He hadn’t jogged, but he’d set a very fast pace. It had taken an hour and a half to get to the summit. The first thing he’d done when he made lieutenant eight months ago was start his own training schedule for the seven squads he commanded. That training included a ten-kilometre run twice a week, wearing a full deployment pack. His fellow officers – those who’d been oh so reasonable and supportive during the twenty months between the Marines rescuing him and his promotion – hardly ever saw their troops on a day-to-day basis. It was considered bad form for people of their class to mix with the ranks; they left it to their NCOs to implement orders. And they certainly didn’t take physical exercise with their men, not after the amount of food and drink they consumed in the mess. Slvasta thought that stupid. He wanted his troopers to know he wasn’t some backroom oaf, appointed because of family wealth like most officers. They needed to see that he was just as capable as them when it came to sweeps. They needed to have trust and confidence in him. He also wanted to know their strengths and weaknesses; that way he knew how to deploy them: who could be trusted with what tasks, what skills they had. The only way to ascertain that was to observe them in action first hand.

He stopped and drew down deep breaths. It was almost noon, and the sky was cloudless. The sun was a fierce glare above him, its warmth permeating the air. His shirt was soaked with sweat. He took a canteen from his equipment belt and swigged down water.

The rest of the men started to arrive, grinning and panting, proud of themselves for keeping up with the lieutenant. Above them the air was clotted with spiralling mod-birds. Slvasta had made sure the regiment gave one to every soldier under his command. Now when they were deployed on sweeps, every square metre of ground could be examined for traces of a Fall. After the initial grumbling from senior officers, other squads were asking for mod-birds to be issued to every trooper, too. A new aviary was being built at headquarters to accommodate the expansion. Even less popular among his fellow officers, recruits were asking to serve under the notorious one-armed lieutenant.

‘Sergeant,’ Slvasta called.

Sergeant Yannrith came over. A big man in his mid-sixties whom troopers obeyed without question. A scar down his throat had given him a liquid whisper for a voice. When he spoke, no matter what he was saying, it sounded like a low menacing threat. Slvasta had never asked about the scar. Rumour in the mess was a husband who’d come home unexpectedly early; other talk was of a youth misspent in a town gang. It wasn’t important. Yannrith was the best sergeant in the regiment – that was all that mattered.

‘Sir?’ Yannrith saluted.

‘Ten minutes’ rest, then we’ll start the sight search. Make sure they have a drink.’

Yannrith gave a curt nod. ‘Sir.’

Slvasta sat on a rock, pushed back his wide-brimmed hat and started to examine the vista laid out before him. The hill wasn’t particularly high, but it showed him the lands stretching south, a rumpled expanse of forests and savannah. Shining silver rivers sliced through it. Lakes were dark gashes. He could pick out several hints of cultivation, ranches and cane farms, but the majority was wild and unsettled. Beyond the horizon, the river Colbal wound its lazy way south-west towards the capital.

They were two days south of Adice, now. Behind him, the land was heavily populated with big estates and a mosaic of prosperous farms. Towns and villages were connected by good roads. Long strands of smoke from the beacon fires still wound their way up into the sky above the worried residents. Slvasta wasn’t interested in that kind of territory; any eggs Fallen there would have been spotted immediately. But out here, in the hinterlands, where roads were few and people fewer – that was a different proposition altogether.

The troopers were settling down, taking snacks from their packs. Slvasta didn’t permit his squads to use mod-dwarfs, not after he’d witnessed Quanda’s absolute control over mods, so everything they needed during an active sweep had to be carried in their backpacks. The bulk of their field camp equipment was carried on four mod-horses and two new proper terrestrial horses he’d acquired; he was in the process of changing the remaining mod-horses for more terrestrial horses. In the meantime, he didn’t allow the mod-horses on any forward deployment during a sweep where they might encounter a Faller. Mod-birds were the only exception he’d grant, and he was still trying to figure out how to replace them. Most native birds were too small and skitty, nothing like as docile as a mod. Some people, mainly in Cham’s pubs, claimed mantahawks could be trained; rich estate lords in Rackwesh Province used them for hunting boar and razorback, allegedly. Quite how you’d catch one, even a fledgling, was something which eluded Slvasta, though.

Trooper Tovakar, who was still on punishment duty after his screw-up unloading equipment from the train, tethered the goat he’d been assigned to bring. His notoriously short temper made him an ideal handler for the grumpy animal that was snorting and tugging at its leash, cross about being forced up the hill. Slvasta grinned to himself at that. Nobody in his squads complained about bringing the tough animals along any more, and the five new recruits would understand why soon enough.

Slvasta called an end to the rest, and his NCOs came over. The group used telescopes to study the area they’d been assigned to sweep. Slvasta had requested this area, which the colonel had been quick enough to grant. No one else ever volunteered to sweep the difficult wild territories.

They divided it up into sections. Slvasta and Yannrith designated individual squads. Sweep patterns were discussed. Expected progress was matched against the actual state of the land, as opposed to a section of map. Overnight camp locations were agreed.

The squads set off back down the hill, gradually moving apart as they neared the bottom, and struck out for their individual sweeps.

Slvasta accompanied Yannrith’s squad. The area they’d chosen to sweep was reasonably flat, but covered in a native bamboo reed with a tough stem that produced a wide floppy magenta umbrella frond a couple of metres above his head. Sunlight ploughed through the downy mess, to be stained violet in the air underneath where the squad walked.

They spread out in a long line, spacing themselves three hundred metres apart, enough so their ’path voice could reach between them. Some troopers hacked at the stems with machetes. Slvasta used his teekay to snap them away. The hollow stems were a lot thinner than tree trunks, but the sheer mass of them reduced his visibility considerably. The mild claustrophobia didn’t bother him. He concentrated on his ex-sight, pulling in his mod-bird’s eyesight as it flew above the rippling ocean of purple fluff. His ’path directed it along a grid pattern, parallel to everyone else’s. Between them, the squad were sweeping an area over two kilometres wide.

‘Sir!’ Trooper Andricea called excitedly. ‘Is this one?’ Her ’path sight was showing a gifted view from her mod-bird, where a clump of the bamboo canes had fallen together.

‘Wait,’ Yannrith told her. Several mod-birds closed on the break in the swaying purple cover. Slvasta thought it was too small for an egg impact, but circled his mod-bird carefully before letting it flutter down onto the broken stems. There was no egg, and the wispy undergrowth had already recovered. His guess was some kind of fight between ventaus bulls; the thuggish bear-like creatures enjoyed the shade, and normally kept to themselves. But it had been the mating season a month ago.

‘Clear,’ Yannrith’s ’path-voice told the squad. ‘Good call, though, Andricea,’ he added.

Her mind sent out a burst of satisfaction before she tightened her shell. It was her first sweep, and she was determined to get things right. Slvasta had been worried that her height (lanky limbs put her a few centimetres taller than him) and youth (she was barely twenty) would prove a distraction to the men under his command. But Andricea had proved she could keep a level head in most situations, inside and out of the barracks.

The squad resumed its steady tramp forwards.

The ventaus bulls had clearly had a busy time of it. It wasn’t just Yannrith’s squad that kept checking out the smashed-up bamboo stems; the calls were constant. Then late that afternoon, Tovakar hailed everyone. ‘This is strange. I’ve found a trail, but I don’t know what made it. There are hoof marks and everything.’

Slvasta sent his mod-bird over to check. Tovakar could be a hothead, but out here in the field he was reliable enough. Sure enough, the trail was unusual – a long scar through the bamboo, three or four metres wide. The mod-bird didn’t give him the clarity he wanted, so Slvasta told the squad to take a break, and he shoved his way through the stalks to Tovakar. It took a good twenty minutes to cover the distance, during which he sent his mod-bird scouting on down the trail, which seemed to cut right through the bamboo and out into the scrubland beyond.

When he caught up with Tovakar, it was as if someone had cut a road through the bamboo. The trail was straight, with the bamboo snapped off just a few centimetres above the ground. Undergrowth trampled down in an interestingly uniform fashion. There were also several small continuous ruts. No wheel had made them, and just for a moment his imagination flashed up the crazy vision of a miniature plough being tugged along.

‘Something heavy has been pulled along here,’ Slvasta said. He examined the hoof prints in the damp soil; some were terrestrial horses, while the others were mod feet. When he ran his hand over the crushed blades of grass and shoots of whakwerry reeds, his skin was covered in sap. ‘Not long ago, two or three hours at most.’ He stood up and looked along the trail. Everything had been bent or snapped in one direction, south-west. ‘Sergeant?’ he ’path-spoke. ‘I want every squad to converge on me. We’re following this track.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Yannrith replied.

The aether was abruptly full of ’path shouts.

‘Come on,’ Slvasta said to Tovakar. The pair of them set off down the track.

‘What do you think it is, sir?’ the trooper asked, tugging on the goat’s leash.

‘I’ll tell you what I do know,’ Slvasta said. ‘Nests of established Fallers gather new-Fallen eggs and take them clear of the Fall zone where we’re sweeping. That way the eggs are safe and eggsumption isn’t left to chance.’

Tovakar looked down at the crushed vegetation he was walking on. ‘This was made by someone dragging an egg along?’

Slvasta shrugged. He sent his mod-bird spiralling high, trying to see what the track could possibly lead to. The land ahead stretched out like a mirage across his eyevision. Now, if he projected a straight line from the edge of the bamboo . . . A broad river cut across the scrubland maybe five or six kilometres ahead, meandering away in big ox-bow curves and odd bends round irregular hillocks. Stretches of rainforest began to build up the further west it went.

That’s got to be a tributary to the Colbal, he decided. The biggest river on the whole Lamarn continent, stretching from the Guelp mountain range north-east of Prerov, all the way west to the capital, Varlan, and beyond to empty into the Gulf of Meor, over three thousand kilometres away. Its complex tributary network snaked back through a good portion of the central lands. Hundreds of towns were sited on the banks. Even with the advent of the railway over the last fifteen hundred years, river traffic still carried the bulk of Lamarn’s cargo and people.

A boat could travel just about anywhere, a great deal more easily than any cart, and without any of the attention. It was perfect for a nest.

Over the next half-hour, the other squads caught up with him. By the time they left the bamboo behind, he had his whole command with him. Thirty-eight troopers, eager and excited.

Out of the bamboo, they began to pick up the pace. Clouds were streaming across the sky, long white strands at first, clawing their way across the bright cobalt vault. Then the northern horizon began to darken as the rainclouds built up.

The goat was starting to complain and wrench at its leash. Tovakar was having trouble pulling the bolshie animal along.

‘Tether it,’ Slvasta ordered.

The trail ploughed into a strip of dense trees, an easy kilometre wide, which skirted the river. They reached it just as the rain started. Mod-birds were sent on ahead. Slvasta kept the pace fast, following the route that had been trampled down through the trees and undergrowth.

‘Sir,’ Jostol called. ‘Boats!’

Slvasta’s ex-sense picked up the trooper’s mod-bird, seeing through its eyes. A pair of large stream-powered boats were anchored in the lee of a curve. Close to the bank, where big wanno trees hung over the water, they were almost obscured by the bushy weeping boughs. Unless you were really looking, you’d never know they were there. Cargo barges, he thought.

He began issuing orders to the corporals, detailing their approach. The other mod-birds were called back, leaving Jostol’s as their sole sentry to avoid alerting the nest of Fallers. The mod-bird circled high, keeping as unobtrusive as possible. The rain was heavy now, making it difficult to see much. Slvasta could just make out several human shapes, along with mod-horses and mod-apes. They also had some terrestrial horses with them.

Four hundred metres from the water, the squads began to fan out. Slvasta along with Corporal Yannrith, Tovakar, Jostol and five other troopers slowed down as they closed on the mooring point, allowing the others to circle round, surrounding the group of people at the boats.

‘Weapons ready,’ Slvasta ordered when they were a hundred metres from the river. He drew his own carbine, using his ex-sight to check the mechanism was working as his teekay pulled back the loader lever.

‘Well, hello there,’ a strong ’path hailed them cheerfully.

Slvasta flinched. He’d known a wholly secret approach was impossible, but even so he’d hoped they might get a little closer first. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

‘Rangers.’

‘What?’ Slvasta was running now. He sent his ex-sight out, perceiving seven men and one woman standing casually under the great awning of an ancient wanno tree, out of the heavy rain. They weren’t carrying any weapons he could detect.

‘Rangers,’ repeated the man standing at the front of the group. ‘We’re from the Erond county regiment reserve. Just doing what we can to help. And who are you?’

Slvasta cleared the last of the trees. The riverbank was twenty metres ahead of him now, with the two long wooden-hulled barges sitting calmly on the water. Smoke was drifting out of their tall iron stacks.

He approached the group cautiously. ‘Lieutenant Slvasta, Cham county regiment. And we’re assigned to sweep this area.’

‘Didn’t know that. We’ve swept as well as we could, of course.’ The man gave him a smile that was on the verge of mockery. He was tall, probably in his late twenties, with a shock of shaggy blond hair and the greenest eyes Slvasta had ever seen. His raincoat was long and brown, almost like waxed suede, but a lot thinner and lighter; raindrops rolled off it easily. The metal buttons were small and odd, somehow. Slvasta hadn’t seen a coat quite like it before. The man’s accent was foreign, too; he drawled each word.

‘Who are you?’

‘Sorry, should have said. I’m Nigel. This is my wife, Kysandra. And these are my grunts.’

Slvasta pushed back his hat’s soggy, sagging brim to get a better look. ‘Your what?’

‘Grunts: soldiers. Under my command.’

‘I need to know if you’re human.’

‘Fair enough, I’ll drop my shell. Pervade away.’

‘No. That’s not good enough. Fallers have the same organs as we do.’

‘Then how do you suggest we proceed?

Slvasta slipped the carbine’s safety on and let the strap hold it loosely at his side. He drew his knife from its scabbard.

‘Ah,’ Nigel said. ‘If you insist.’

‘Cover me,’ Slvasta told his troopers. By now, the entire mooring area was surrounded by the squads, with troopers taking position behind trunks, their carbines aimed at the rangers from Erond. He walked up to Nigel, feeling a slight ex-sight flow questingly over his stump. ‘Your thumb, please,’ he said.

Nigel held his hand up, thumb extended. Slvasta nicked the skin with the tip of his blade. Sure enough drops of red blood came out of the small puncture. He nodded in satisfaction. ‘Faller blood is dark blue,’ he explained.

‘So I’ve been told,’ Nigel said. ‘Nice confirmation. Fool-proof, even.’

Again Slvasta had the impression he was being mocked. But the man’s thoughts were calm and composed. The only emotional content Slvasta could pick up on was of a serene confidence – which was probably where his own notion of mockery originated from. He did his best to ignore it and beckoned Kysandra forward.