CHAPTER TEN
Descent
A gift from Nekantor wasn’t a gift; it was usually a trap.
I’m the Executor of the Pelismara Division. The most joyful declaration he could think of, and now all he could do was prod at the idea like a rotten cave floor, trying to find what cracks Nekantor wanted him to fall into.
Cracks would be there somewhere, no question. Nek had wrecked Lake Club, totally true to form. This wasn’t the first time Nekantor had tried to use him for his knowledge of Arissen, but acting as Executor was a lot more complicated than choosing a bodyguard. It must have something to do with controlling the Division’s functions, which were . . . protecting harvests, and patrolling the adjunct caverns outside the city. Why would you want to mess with either of those? Was there something else? He should have asked Veriga more questions about the Division, and not just the police.
Two things were certain. First, he would have to be ready for the Division to distrust him because of his association with Nekantor. And second, he couldn’t let his own distrust of Nekantor affect his treatment of the Arissen.
Pyaras crossed the gardens toward the Arissen Section, passing the Medical Center on his right. His footsteps crunched in the gravel. His Jarel followed far more quietly, attentive to threats as always. She was on guard, and that meant he could let himself smile at the idea of being with Arissen every day.
Maybe that was Nekantor’s motive—to hide a cousin’s inappropriate interest in Arissen by making it official so the Family couldn’t look bad. And maybe that was why, when it came to telling Father he’d been promoted, he’d hesitated.
If that was it? Well, fine.
At eleven, hearing stories from a real Arissen had been the most exciting thing ever, but now he could walk right up to the Arissen Section itself: a large square stone building of two stories which housed offices for the Division, the Police, the Firefighters, and the Eminence’s Cohort. It had been built at least a hundred years after the much fancier Residence. An engraved plaque announced ‘Division’ above the south-facing bronze door.
Pyaras pushed the plate-sized handle in the center of the door, and entered. Inside was a large hall with a woven-fiber mat on the floor, metal benches along the stone walls, and a steel cross-beam ceiling. The panels between the ceiling beams were painted, which seemed incongruously artistic.
An older man with sunmarks on his face emerged from a door straight ahead: Arissen-red uniform, diagonal strap of white leather leading to—yes, there was the handle of the Division soldier’s blade peeping from behind his shoulder. And where the front of the strap crossed his line of buttons, a narrow rectangular plaque held rank pins . . . one, a silver circle with a band of gold across the center, that was the Division pin, and then the other, a silver circle with crossed gold bands, for the rank of . . . Pyaras almost grinned, but managed to keep his face sober so he wouldn’t look like a fool.
“Commander?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. My name is Tret,” the Commander replied, with a forced smile. Smiles probably didn’t visit his face very often.
“I’m Pyaras of the First Family, and this is my manservant, Imbati Jarel. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“And I you, sir. Let me show you to your office.”
The office was very easy to find: the door in the center of the left-hand wall had a plaque above it engraved with the title Executor in fancy serif script. Tret led him into a space that was ridiculously plush compared to the sturdier decor of the entry hall. There was a green silk carpet, a large steel desk and padded chair. There were also three uncushioned metal chairs: one for Jarel, and two facing the desk for Arissen to sit in. There were tables in the corners: one of glass and brass, and one with a floor-length cloth draped over it. The walls were hung with large paintings of surface scenes which he could have studied for hours—forests and fields, all in fine detail, all featuring Arissen busy working.
“Please make yourself comfortable, sir,” said Commander Tret. “You may further decorate the space as you wish. Come find me if you have any questions.”
“Thank you.”
Commander Tret saluted, a chop of his right hand to his left shoulder, and left them.
“Jarel, feel free to have a seat if you like, while I figure this place out.”
“Yes, sir.” She sat down in her metal chair.
Pyaras almost clapped his hands, decided not to challenge his painkillers, and took a deep breath. This place was a lot fancier than the Cabinet Assistants’ office. Exploring, he found a door that led to a private bathroom. He peeked under the table with the cloth and discovered a tiny refrigerator containing juice, cheese, bread, and mushroom cakes. Finally, he sat down in the chair at the big desk, and opened the top drawer.
It contained nothing but a stack of white paper and a pen.
“What?”
He checked each of the three drawers on the left side, but they were totally empty. The drawer on the right, which should have contained files, had a single folder in it.
“Jarel, do you see this?” The folder contained what looked like one-page report summaries. “Is this how Arissen keep records?”
“Sir,” said Jarel dryly, “I would call that the absolute minimum of information necessary to give a report before the Eminence’s cabinet.”
Pyaras snorted. “Makes Imbati look like archive masters.”
She hummed, almost a chuckle. “Yes, sir.”
But then, in the topmost drawer, he found a handheld ordinator. It was exactly like the one Father used, to keep from getting bored during long helpless hours. Ugh! He slammed the drawer shut.
Varin’s teeth.
He looked around the room again. This was a fancy, cozy, totally self-contained play space. It had essentially nothing to do with the work of the Division—there wasn’t even a door into the spaces where Division business was conducted. He even found himself distrusting the paintings. What did artists know about Arissen, anyway?
The Division didn’t distrust him because Nekantor had appointed him; they distrusted him on principle. They didn’t welcome an Executor. They didn’t want him here at all.
Was this what Nekantor had intended?
No, couldn’t be. Nek was all about big secret plans, not about office decor. Plus, he usually tried to avoid thinking about Lowers unless he needed to control them.
How could anyone do this job, when the Division didn’t want him to do it?
Pyaras sighed through his nose. If he could talk to Tagaret, Tagaret would advise him—but Tagaret had run off to Selimna. Father would surely have advice—but because he’d been keeping secrets, Father didn’t even know he was here.
On the other hand, he knew exactly what Lady Selemei would say. Stick with it. Figure it out. Selemei had been unwelcome in the cabinet—in every place men were expected to wield power—but she kept going. It was why she’d kept her influence as long as she had. It was impressive.
“All right, Pyaras,” he muttered. “Figure it out.”
He took the pen from the top drawer, along with a piece of white paper, and sketched out everything Veriga had ever told him about the Division. Commander was at the top. Then Captains came next. Below that was Captain’s Hand, and then came the cohorts, which were also called eights, each soldier ranked First through Eighth. They would be on the surface, in the adjunct caverns, in offices, and possibly in other places as well.
It was time to start asking questions.
“Jarel, I’m going out.”
She stood up from the chair. “Yes, sir.”
“Actually, I’m guessing you might prefer to stay here while I go talk to the Commander?”
Jarel didn’t immediately answer. At last she said, “If you insist, sir.”
“I mean, Highers are a big hassle, right?”
Jarel’s mouth twitched into a subtle smile. “Yes, sir.”
Pyaras smiled back. “I shouldn’t be long.”
He took the pen and paper with him. The entry foyer was empty, but he pushed through the door out of which Commander Tret had initially appeared.
Whoa.
This room was many times larger than the foyer, and full of uniformed Arissen. Some worked at desks arrayed in lines like a maze, while green interlinked text climbed their ordinator screens; some strode about as if on urgent errands. Farther in, the space was closed off and divided into smaller sections with panels of metal and glass. Pyaras stopped a pale young woman whose cheeks were sprinkled with sunmarks. He could get away with calling her just Arissen, but with everyone else around he’d rather do better, so he looked at her rank pins. At the center of her jacket, there was the plaque with the Division circle, and then another circle with a hand in it. Captain’s Hand.
“Hand,” he said. “I’m Executor Pyaras of the First Family. Please take me to Commander Tret’s office.”
The young woman saluted. “Yes, sir. Follow me, sir.”
Heads turned. Arissen eyes tracked him as he followed the Captain’s Hand down between the desks toward one of the glass-framed enclosures, which had a metal bench sitting outside it. Nobody was waiting there to see the Commander, fortunately. When the Captain’s Hand stepped aside, Pyaras knocked on the Commander’s door, and leaned it open.
Commander Tret looked up from his work in surprise. “Executor Pyaras?”
“Please, don’t get up, Commander,” he said. “I’m sure I’m interrupting, but you did say I should ask questions.”
“Ah. Yes. I did say that.”
“I hope you can fill in some of the blanks in my understanding.” Pyaras set his sketch in front of the Commander. “And could you please introduce me to some of the workers here?”
“Truth be told, sir,” said the Commander, “it’s not worth your time. None of these people will be here tomorrow.”
It felt like a slap. Pyaras swallowed. Was Tret lying to put him off? No; stick with it. If Tret was telling the truth, why would none of these people be here tomorrow?
“It’s their rotation day,” he guessed. “So they’re about to head up onto surface duty?”
Tret raised his eyebrows. “Yes, sir, they are. The ones currently on adjunct duty will be coming here tomorrow, and the ones on the surface are on Descent tonight.”
“Well, I’ll wait to be introduced to people tomorrow, then,” Pyaras said. “But I’d appreciate it if you could help me fill in my understanding of the rotation schedule, and the duties your cohorts are assigned to.”
“Yes, sir.” Commander Tret gestured past him. “Hand, bring that chair over here for the Executor, and then you may be dismissed.”
“Sir.”
Pyaras sat down beside the Commander, but Tret didn’t refer to his rough sketch. Instead he opened a file drawer of his desk, sorted through it, and extracted a paper, which he unfolded across the other things he’d been working on. It held a far larger, impressively precise diagram of Division organization.
Pyaras grinned. “Excellent. I can see I’ve got some studying to catch up on.”
Pyaras banged on Veriga’s steel front door—ow—shook his hand out, and banged again with the other one. “Come on, Veriga, be home. Don’t be off Arissen-ing around town right now . . .”
Behind his shoulder, Imbati Jarel murmured, “You could have sent me ahead to check, sir.”
He turned to look at her, then huffed out a sigh. “I know.”
The Imbati woman hinted a smile at one corner of her mouth. “You just didn’t want him to refuse you.”
“No.” He frowned. “That’s not it at all, I just wanted to get away from—argh, never mind.”
He turned back to bang again, and the door opened. Veriga’s iron hand stopped his fist in mid-air.
“Hello, Grobal Pyaras of the First Family,” the Arissen said, without smiling. “You here to apologize for skipping our jog?”
Oh, mercy. He’d been so busy this morning, getting himself to the Executor’s office . . . “I forgot, I’m sorry, it’s entirely my fault.”
Veriga grunted. “Yes, it is. I’m surprised; you usually send Imbati Jarel rather than trying to break down my door yourself. Ah, but I see she’s here, too. Good evening, Imbati.”
Jarel inclined her head politely. “The heart that is valiant triumphs over all, Arissen, sir.”
“Veriga,” said Pyaras. “I know I missed this morning, but I’m free tonight, so let’s go out.”
“Sorry, no.”
“What? No?” Veriga couldn’t be going to work; he was out of uniform, wearing fitted knee-length pants of Arissen red and a sleeveless white shirt that showed his gnarled shoulders.
“No, sir. I’m already going out, and you can’t come.”
Stung, Pyaras shook his head and hid his health bracelet with one hand, though Veriga had surely already seen it. “Wait a minute, why can’t I come? Where are you going?”
Veriga leaned against the doorjamb, scowling, arms folded. “Descent. Arissen only.”
“Descent,” Pyaras echoed. Then he placed it. “Wait, Descent, that’s what Commander Tret said.”
Veriga lost his scowl. “Commander Tret? You mean the Division’s Commander Tret?”
At that moment, Veriga’s tunnel-hound burst past him onto the sidewalk. She rubbed her head on Pyaras’ knees, wriggling gleefully. “Aw,” Pyaras said. “Hi, Evvi. Hi, pup!”
“To me, Evvi,” said Veriga. Then he sighed. “Come in, Pyaras, don’t stand around outside.”
Pyaras did. Veriga’s house was more welcoming than he had been. It smelled like childhood escapes—chalk, rope, shoe polish, and tunnel-hound. The hound in question ran circles around the rug-and-pillow floor until Pyaras had finished putting his shoes on the shelf by the door. When he sat down, she flung herself on him, climbing up to rub her broad, sensitive snout against his ears. She made the most adorable crooning sounds in her throat. The smell of hound was musky but wonderful—almost sweet—and her fur was softer than velvet. Her head was totally smooth where another animal’s eyes would have been. The hard nubs of her foreclaws pressed through his shirt and jacket.
Tunnel-hounds are not pets, young nobleman, Veriga had told him a thousand times. He was right, too—she was more. Kartunnen doctors had allowed Veriga to survive, but Evvi had brought him back to life.
She’d also taken over the house. Three walls of this room were her playgrounds, criss-crossed with interconnected ramps of steel shelving to climb, and decorated with toys including three pumice wheels to keep her foreclaws from growing as long as his fingers. The fourth wall was Veriga’s. Besides the doors into kitchen and bathroom, it was fastened all over with colorful polymer handholds. Veriga used them to climb to the loft where he slept.
It was a wonderful place.
Pyaras held Evvi’s head against his shoulder, and stroked her—the first sensation his fingers had really loved since he was shot. “Yeah, so I should explain Commander Tret,” he said. “It’s been the weirdest day. Thank the Twins for you, Veriga, honestly. Nekantor appointed me as Executor to the Pelismara Division—that’s where I was instead of meeting you—and I’m actually thrilled, but nobody wants me there. If it hadn’t been for the things you taught me, I wouldn’t have known where to start. And then tonight, after everything my father’s said about you, he starts telling me how I need to be the best Executor in history? I mostly just don’t want to be useless. I’m glad you taught me enough that I can ask decent questions.”
Veriga folded down nearby and leaned on one elbow. “Questions are good. Listening to the answers is even better.”
“Well, I’ve been listening. When I was talking with Commander Tret, I remembered duty rotations just in time.”
“I’m sure the Commander appreciated that.”
Pyaras ran his thumbs along Evvi’s head from snout to ears. “Blessing of Sirin, I hope so. I wish I could get a tunnel-hound. I know, I know, tunnel-hounds aren’t pets, they’re responsibilities.”
Veriga didn’t say it with him. Pyaras looked over and found the Arissen shaking his head. “I don’t get you,” Veriga said. “Sometimes you behave like an utter nobleman, and other times I could swear you care.”
“What?”
“Want to know what happened at the Lake Club?” Veriga didn’t wait for him to answer. “You should. It happened because of you. That’s the thing, Pyaras; you walk into things and never think about what you’re doing, or what consequences you might bring to others.”
Mercy, this wasn’t about jogging at all. Pyaras let his hands fall, though Evvi continued to nuzzle them. He whispered, “Nekantor had the employees arrested . . .”
“Your stinking cousin only waved his hand. Who do you think actually had to arrest them?”
Police. Oh, Mai strike me. A wave of cold sank into his stomach, and his mouth felt dry. “You?”
“Oh, I insisted.” Veriga stabbed one finger into the rug between them. “A lot of my friends get way too happy when they have a chance to break up an unlicensed brothel. I had to take charge, to make sure no one got seriously hurt. Bad enough they’ll be accosted and fined—I can’t have anyone shot just because my idiot friend can’t tell what kind of club he’s walking into.”
“Wait,” Pyaras protested. “It was a brothel?”
Veriga waved a hand at him in exasperation. “I thought you knew! That place had a good look, but everything it was made of was cheap. Not near fancy enough to warrant the entry price. How else do you hide your sex fee? We went there twice, and you were about to be two for two, still thinking it was Sirin’s luck? Gnash it, you’re good-looking for a Grobal, Pyaras, but you’re not that handsome. Just for a second, just think.”
If it had been anyone but Veriga, he might have stormed out. Being dumped unceremoniously into reality made him feel dirty all over. “You had to arrest Rivai because of me.”
A muscle flexed in Veriga’s jaw. “I did. Evvi, up up.” The tunnel-hound went to him immediately, snuggling in, allowing him to lay hands on her while she laid her head against his chest. She made a gentle warbling sound. “Good girl.” He took a deep breath. “Pyaras, back at Lake Club, you knew the caste of everyone I showed you the minute you stopped pretending. I could tell. And that means you know why Rivai deserved better.”
Oh, he knew. Why one could dance, why one seemed to understand him . . . “One was born to the Grobal Race,” he said brokenly. “A member of the Great Families, until one was chosen by Mai the Right. And then one Fell.”
“You’re blasted right. Same person, born to the Arissen, wouldn’t have had to Fall. One might have worked as police or Division, or trained as an arbitrator. Born to the Imbati, same—one could have trained as a servant of the Courts. Now? Who knows where one landed, or how one will earn the money to pay the fine? The Grobal see justice’s favor and throw it away—I’ve never understood it.”
“I’m sorry.” The words were for Rivai, but he had no idea where one even was. And even if he had, words wouldn’t have helped. Pyaras shook his head.
“I’m sorry, too. Those arrests are Nekantor’s doing, not yours, but I couldn’t let you think you had no part in it.”
Pyaras sighed. “You probably want me to leave now.”
“Nah, you should stay.”
After all that? Pyaras looked at Veriga sidelong. “Maybe I’ll use your bathroom,” he said, and excused himself. He sat on the closed toilet, studying his partially healed hands. After the shame eased a little, he used the toilet and washed his hands, watching the water chase soap bubbles off the pink skin.
Did he want to go home?
Did he want to go out?
Actually, he wanted to hold Evvi.
When he came back out, Veriga was gone. Probably up in the loft, because Evvi was running up her shelves, claw-nubs clattering on the metal. The only one still down here with him was his Jarel, standing by the front door.
Who had just watched all that. Pyaras grimaced.
“My heart is as deep as the heavens,” Jarel said quietly. “No word uttered in confidence will escape it.”
“Thanks. Maybe we should go.”
Veriga’s voice called from above. “Hey, young nobleman. How strong are you?”
Pyaras shook his head in confusion. “Uh . . .”
“Maybe I should have you climb my wall a few more times; what do you say?”
“Sure, but—what are you up to?”
Veriga’s hands appeared at the edge of the loft, and then his head. Though his tone just now had been playful, his scarred face was deadly serious. “If I teach you a lesson, young nobleman, will you listen?”
His stomach squirmed a little. “Um, not like the last one . . .”
“Oh, not at all.” Veriga’s gaze intensified, and he shook his head. “This one will be much worse. I protected you during the last one.”
Pyaras opened his mouth to stammer some kind of refusal, but before he could get out anything coherent, Veriga said,
“You said you wanted to come with me to the Descent, didn’t you?”
Holy Twins.
“Sir,” said Jarel behind him. “I would strongly advise against that.”
He glanced at her, than back up to Veriga. “What’s a Descent? Didn’t you say Arissen only?”
“It’s a Division thing, but any Arissen can go. You could call it a party, to let off steam when you come down off surface duty alive. Frankly, I’m not sure you can handle it.”
“That sounds like a dare.” Veriga knew him too well; already he wanted to prove him wrong. But Arissen only meant no Jarel. It also meant something else. Pyaras glanced over his shoulder again. Behind Jarel’s head, a line of handkerchiefs hung from clips beside the front door. Because they were vivid rust-red, the regulated color of the Arissen, any one of them could serve as a castemark. Veriga kept them there so he’d always be legal to go out, even if he were summoned at midnight on an emergency. “I would have to—” He licked his lips before saying the distasteful word. “Crossmark.”
“And if you get caught, I won’t protect you.”
“Sir.” Jarel leaned her head to one side. “Please, sir.”
Pyaras looked at her. “Your oath of silence on this, Jarel.”
The Imbati didn’t immediately respond. At last she said in an expressionless voice, “My heart is as deep as the heavens. No word uttered in confidence will escape it.”
“Get up here, then, you fool,” said Veriga.
Pyaras climbed onto the wall, and made it up in seconds, though his hands hated him for it. Fortunately, Evvi had been trained not to greet climbers too enthusiastically. She butted him only after he’d achieved hands and knees at the top. He leaned his cheek against her shoulder, then got up and walked to where Veriga stood by his steel wardrobe. The Arissen glanced at him, tossed a pile of white clothes into his face, and chuckled as he scrambled to catch it.
“So,” Veriga said. “Rules.”
“I get it.” Excitement grew in his stomach. He started changing out of his beryl-green silk suit. “This is a lesson. Lessons always come with rules.”
“One. Don’t drink anything but yezel, and even that only if you get it directly from me, or from uniformed monitors—rank pins the Monitors’ gold diamond, and a number of whistles.”
That was easy. “All right.”
“Two: no pills or powders.”
Pyaras paused, stepping into the short white pants Veriga had given him. “Easy enough, since I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Three. And this is the hard one, young nobleman.”
“All right . . .”
“If anyone tells you no, to anything, you have no right to insist. Forget this one, and you better be ready to get your face broken by several people. In fact, if you don’t want to be questioned you should consider yourself ranked at Cohort Eighth, and that means doing exactly as the monitors tell you.”
“I will do as I’m told, I promise.” He pulled the shirt on, carefully avoiding the sore areas of his head. When he emerged he found Veriga frowning at him skeptically. He flushed. “Crown of Mai, Veriga, I promise.”
“Give me that shirt back,” Veriga said, tossing a different one at him. “We’d better cover your shoulders.”
The new shirt had elbow-length sleeves. Pyaras caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and shivered. His nose, though not as obviously noble as Tagaret’s, was still a bit too Grobal, and he just wasn’t muscular enough; the clothes, while not baggy, didn’t fit him like they fit Veriga.
But his hair was perfect.
“This works,” he said.
Veriga looked him up and down. “Close enough. Though . . . someone might ask why you’re wearing your dress shoes.”
When they climbed back down, Imbati Jarel stood blocking the front door. She bowed herself in half.
“The heart that is valiant triumphs over all, Veriga, sir. In the name of Eyn the Wanderer, please bring him back safe. Or I’ll never work again.”
“Like he was my own little brother, Imbati,” Veriga said solemnly. “You’re welcome to stay here with Evvi and wait for us.” He plucked a handkerchief from one of the clips and tied it around Pyaras’ neck.
Pyaras tried not to look at Jarel as he walked out. In the light of street lamps, the cavern roof was a dim looming presence overhead. Excitement had expanded into his limbs, a little too close to fear; he took deep breaths. But it would be fine. Veriga would bring him back safe. Like a little brother.
“Pyaras, one last thing.”
“Yeah?”
“If you get found out for any reason, remember I’m not going to be the one arresting you.”
They walked all the way up to the first level. Pyaras was grateful for his many hours spent jogging, but well out of patience with machine-hewn limestone steps, by the time they passed through the last upward tunnel. The scale here was awesome: a vast, mostly dark space crossed by columns of reinforced rock, and pierced by bright silver shinca trunks. Away to the left floated an island of orange lights and buildings, strangely framed by solid black. The air smelled musty, of water and plants, yet very unlike the gardens of the Residence. Pyaras turned his head and sniffed.
“That’s field smell,” Veriga said. “Venorai territory, for farming—the safe kind. The kind you don’t need firefighters or Descents for.”
They started along the road toward the lights. A faint, regular thudding sound grew in the air, too prolonged for rockfall. Skimmer headlights flashed long shadows along the smooth stone ahead of his feet as vehicles full of Arissen hummed along the road past his ear, one after another. The left side of the black framing pulled slowly back from the illuminated area as they drew closer; it proved to be an enormous intruding curtain of cavern wall. The lighted district featured many long, single-story buildings with dimly lit translucent roofs. The view of the right side had been cut off by the side of a building, a giant black cube so tall that only a narrow band of shinca-light showed there was still space between it and the cavern roof. The thumping sound emanated from there. At this angle, he could see neon red words splashed across the front of it: PLIS’ PLAYGROUND.
The closer it loomed over him, the more the thumping tugged at his heartbeat. Pyaras licked his lips. Holy Plis, do teach me a lesson, but please spare some favor from your warrior Arissen to give this nobleman a bit of extra courage.
The entry to the giant building was through a smaller cube with a front wall made entirely of woven rope, each strand as thick as his arm. Uniformed Arissen—monitors, because they wore the uniforms and rank pins Veriga had described—hailed them out front, raising voices above the thumping.
“Veriga!” one called. “Checking weapons tonight, seni?”
Pyaras didn’t hear Veriga’s response, because a monitor built like a stone column was approaching him.
“Checking weapons?”
“No—” he snapped his mouth shut before he could call her ‘Arissen’ and give himself away. Raised his voice a bit more forcefully. “No, sir.”
“Remember the rules. No needles, no fighting.”
“Yes, sir.”
She waved him forward. Pyaras hurried to Veriga’s side as the thumping grew even louder. “Veriga, I didn’t ask you about—”
The thumping stopped abruptly, and he found himself half-shouting into the low crowd murmur, “—money!” He flushed, and held out both hands. His expense card was back at Veriga’s, in the pocket of his silk trousers, and chances were Arissen would want real orsheth anyway.
Veriga laughed. “I got it, don’t worry.” Then the thumping started again, a different rhythm this time, and Veriga raised his voice again. “Do you have a watch?”
Pyaras held out his wrist.
“Take that off. Put it in your pocket.” As he obeyed, Veriga handed him a plastic ticket. “Meet back here in an hour.”
That would be half past nine. “Got it.”
“Now—drinks!”
Veriga pushed ahead. Pyaras moved forward into the converging mass of Arissen bodies. Bare sweaty shoulders pressed against him, hips bumped, and hands pressed on his back. A monitor loomed up and took his ticket.
They passed under the rope wall.
Inside, under red lights, there was barely room to move. The Arissen were a famously large caste—the Division alone numbered four thousand—but this felt like it was every last one of them. Pyaras sidestepped around two shirtless women, one pale, flushed by the lights to tourmaline pink, the other darkly sunmarked, with muscles that looked carved in garnet. He caught up with Veriga just as the police officer reached the long drinks table. Veriga leaned across it, raised two fingers, and yelled, “Yezel!” at a helmeted monitor.
Veriga received two plastic cups from the monitor, handed him one, and then knocked his own cup against it.
“To life, Pyaras!”
“To life, Veriga!” He took a swig. Cold, cold yezel, a brew sharper and more sour than he was used to, but marvelous in the heat of the pressing bodies.
Veriga grabbed his arm and pulled him forward. Here were swinging doors, flanked by monitors. A flashing white light strobed over their heads as the doors opened, and Pyaras stumbled forward—into the incomprehensible.
He was inside the beating drums. Wild whistle notes pierced the throbbing air. The space pulsed and flashed, pulled at his nerves, his heart, his breath. He almost froze, but Veriga dragged him forward. The floor was soft; he stumbled and fell to one knee before scrambling up again into a swinging wall of pale hair that stung his face. A woman’s body collided with his, and her hands grabbed him; he shoved her away and spilled yezel over his own arm. Bodies, hard as stone, converged from either side to crush him, then spun away.
Pyaras panted. Keep moving, keep moving, we’ll get through this—
But what did ‘through’ even mean?
He didn’t realize Veriga had stopped until he ran right into the police officer’s back. Veriga turned and yelled into his face. “You all right?”
“Yeah?” He struggled to think through the noise. It felt like he’d been tumbled through rockfall. His clothes were wet in places, and his cup of yezel was gone. This wasn’t ‘through,’ but there was enough of a gap among the moving Arissen to get his bearings. He scanned around for landmarks. He hadn’t seen any walls since they entered, but above the crowd he could see a pole just beyond Veriga. He followed it downward, and his mouth fell open. A bald, naked man was tied to it with ropes. His face was ecstatic; a woman in sleeveless shirt and short pants had mounted his bent knee, her hands tangled in the ropes above his head. She thrust him against the pole in time with the drums.
“Oh,” he breathed. “Oh gods.”
Veriga glanced over his shoulder and broke into a lascivious grin. “Want to leave?”
Pyaras gulped sweaty air. The drums stopped again, for an instant—this time he could hear screams, shouts, moaning. He was hot and cold, and hard, and terrified. He clenched his fists. “No.”
The drums resumed. Veriga started moving forward.
Now he didn’t have to be pulled. Getting free of this wasn’t the point; being in it was the point. Push, breathe. Now he recognized the rhythm of the movement—the crowd was a lover’s body. Push, breathe; push, breathe; push, deeper in. He stumbled, and fell into a pit of multicolored foam cubes, crawled across it and out. Here was a writhing pile of human bodies. There, three men of markedly different ages were wrestling each other, or having sex, or both. Over there, the air flashed strangely with light and shadow; a group of at least fifty people stood, body to body, faces turned up toward a luminous cloud of real wysps.
A hand tugged at him, and when he turned, offered what looked a tiny plastic bag full of powder.
No powders.
He shook his head and pushed the hand away.
Not far ahead, a shinca-trunk glowed, and the space seemed less full; he slid diagonally toward it. As he arrived, a rolling body smacked him in the ankles. He looked down. An Arissen, gender and age uncertain, gazed up at him with mouth open like a laughing child, and started petting his calves with both hands. He allowed it by pretending the contact was Evvi, at the same time looking to find where anybody could have rolled from.
The ceiling over his head ended within two body-lengths, and in the flashes of light he could see a sloping expanse: a rope net, wider than a room. People were climbing up and down it. It was much less crowded than the floor—he should tell Veriga they should go up.
Where was Veriga?
Fear flashed inside him, then vanished into the pounding of the drums. Veriga wasn’t Jarel, bound to his left shoulder. He’d been warned this was a lesson about being unprotected. He should be able to handle himself.
Pyaras pulled his legs free of the petting person’s hands and stepped onto the net. Gods above! The farther he went, the more its slope increased, and beyond the edge of the partial ceiling, the white light of three shinca revealed nets webbing everywhere—some slanted, some flat, layering upward through beams of colored light to a gulf of dark ceiling. Way up there, a man was flying—how could he be flying? Pyaras climbed, leapt the gap to another net, rolled and climbed again, trying to reach the top. A shinca trunk beckoned ahead, silhouettes moving around it; he passed through the edge of the group, and on the other side, found himself in a forest of ropes strung from somewhere on the ceiling above. Panting, mouth open, he wove between them with his arms outstretched. They twanged against him. His mind beat with the heated sound. A woman with one lower leg missing zoomed out of the air and flew down on him. She was going to knock him down—he opened his arms and braced to catch her, but when she landed her face pressed to his; her mouth sucked him into a kiss. Liquid heat melted down him from lips to hips.
“Life!” she shouted, and shoved off him, crouching and then sitting down, removing something from her foot. When she stood up again she pushed a handful of straps into his hand and dived into a roll down the expanse of net.
Wow.
He panted, still tasting the flying woman, scarcely able to comprehend this thing that now pulled at his grip. Looping straps, metal rings, and a cord tugging up into the darkness. No way to ask. He searched among the people in the rope forest and realized someone was detaching a similar set of loops from a hook on the net, stepping into them, like trousers. How could straps be like trousers? The tugging cord attached at the waist, and the loops went around his legs? Suddenly someone was helping him—Veriga? No, not Veriga, but a grinning young man scarcely old enough to drink, who directed his feet into the right loops, then tightened the straps around his waist and thighs.
The young man pressed a rough cheek to his and shouted in his ear. “First Descent, seni? You’re enjoying it, I see.” He pointed to Pyaras’ erection, made all the more obvious by the tight harness, and then ran a hand appreciatively over his own parts. “Want company?”
“Uh—no . . .”
The young man nodded. “Can I launch you?”
“Like, fly? Yes?”
“Life!” the young man cried, seized the harness at his waist and dragged him into a crouch, then flung him into the air.
Pyaras screamed. He clutched at the rope that pulled him up into the darkness, then screamed even louder when gravity captured him again. He hit the net, knees buckling as it rebounded; he clung to it, heart and lungs like to explode. The ropes were hard and slippery in his hands—or was that the sweat? At least it didn’t hurt at all. He scrambled to his feet and leapt again, this time under his own power. By the time he lost count of his leaps, he could no longer tell if he was screaming or laughing. Lights and bodies wheeled around him. This was the ecstasy of the gods in their orbits!
But now, coming down, he found too many people below. He tried to aim for a gap, spun out of control, caught his feet on someone’s shoulder and sank into the crowd like a knife into meat. The drums stopped.
“Sorry!” he shouted, into an awful silence.
The drumming started again. Rough hands grabbed him, unceremoniously stripped the harness off, and flung him. Pyaras curled to protect his head, rolled, and found the net so steep he couldn’t stop. Several spinning seconds later, he lost his tuck and slammed out flat on his back. A shinca wavered and whirled in his eyes, directly in front of him; beating drums and vibrations in the net slid him toward it. He tried to get up. Hands pulled at his arms and got him standing, but standing was worse. His stomach lurched and his knees wobbled. Arissen running from behind him bumped him farther down the slope. The shinca was almost close enough to touch, radiating heat, its silver glow pricking light from beads of sweat that ran down the converging Arissen bodies.
Someone in the crowd in front of him jumped, then dropped out of sight.
What?
He got closer, and a woman came running in from the right side, leapt onto the shinca, and shot downward like a stone. They were all doing it, from all sides, sliding down the shinca trunk like grains of sand through a funnel.
“No!” he shouted. “No!”
But no one heard. His toes hit the edge of the net, and the crowd momentum shoved him forward. He grasped desperately for the shinca, and just barely got his arms around it. Its surface was hot to the touch, slicked with sweat, and offered no friction at all. He hurtled down in one long throat-breaking scream. An eternity later his feet punched into foam, and his grip broke. For a second he blinked, too stunned to move.
Oh, Heile help me, someone’s going to land on my head!
He struggled down the enormous pile of foam cubes until he found real floor. He crawled out onto it. Solid, thank heavens—yet it was a long minute before he stopped feeling it moving.
He had to get out.
Panting, he dragged himself to his feet, searching for an exit. No sign of one—only the wanton chaos. He picked a direction and fought his way into surging crowds, while panic tightened his throat. A uniformed monitor loomed up. He pushed until he reached him.
“Where is the exit?”
The monitor scowled.
Oh, holy Twins. What was he doing wrong? Descent, Arissen only . . . “Where is the exit, sir?”
The monitor pointed.
Pyaras moved in that direction as fast as he could manage, but it took two more pointing monitors before he got back to the strobe light over the swinging doors. He pushed through into the room with the drinks, but it was even more tightly packed than before. He kept going, across a floor slippery with spills, out past the rope wall and into the night.
Cool air, and quiet.
He stood for a moment, breathing. Slowly, his ears began to recover from the noise, and the quiet resolved into the low throb of drums, overlaid with the talk of Arissen who were still arriving in droves, checking their weapons with the monitors. He looked down at his hands, sure that they must be bleeding, but the stickiness appeared to be only sweat.
Carefully, he put his hand in his pants pocket. His watch was still in it. He fished it out—Veriga wouldn’t meet him for another twenty minutes. In other words, forever.
No way was he going back in. Veriga’s lesson—learned.
A monitor approached him. “Picking up a weapon?”
“No, sir.”
The monitor nodded and turned away toward one of the new arrivals. “Checking a weapon this evening?”
Pyaras stepped away to one side. There was still ringing in his ears, and his body felt battered, but there seemed to be nowhere to sit. A pair of Arissen women had chosen to sit on the ground with their backs against the rope wall of the Playground. They were kissing playfully; one of them had her leg crossed over the near leg of the other, who kept sagging forward as if she wasn’t quite sober, and wanted to dive into the first one’s bosom. Then, in a breath, they both looked up and saw him.
Plis help me, I hope I look Arissen enough. His throat felt dry, but the last thing he wanted was yezel.
“Police Eighth, are you, Handsome?” one of the women shouted. “This your first Descent?”
He didn’t answer, but edged away from them, farther toward the darkness. I’m not here. Don’t notice me. The woman didn’t shout again.
His heel tipped on a curb. He nearly fell backward into the street, where a straggling crowd waited to be approached by the monitors. He caught himself before the nearest Arissen could try to help him, decided this was the best seat to be had, and sat on the curb with his feet in the gutter. That put his face right at the level of at least three weapon holsters.
He glanced away toward a wysp drifting along the sidewalk, and shivered. I wish Jarel were here. Who knew what Veriga was doing right now? He didn’t want to know.
“Eminence’s Cohort is the best!” A shout arose out of the murmurs of the waiting crowd. The speaker was a big man who meandered closer in a group of friends—easy to pick out because his shirt was orange instead of red or white.
Pyaras’ stomach turned to stone. That guy had better not be a Residence guard . . . what if he recognized him? He angled his head away.
“You would say that, you hound’s anus,” one of the friends remarked.
“We are,” the Cohort man insisted. He sounded drunk. “We have the good faith of the Eminence! Herin! Himself!”
“For what a Grobal’s faith is worth,” scoffed a woman. “Till he falls apart and dies.”
The group burst into laughter.
“Gnash you! The Heir got that Melumalai collector off my ass; you can’t say as much.”
“Wow, what for?”
“Being brave, slime-ass. We’re the bravest.”
“Tell that to the cohort on Descent,” another voice snapped. “Tell that to someone who’s faced wysp fire and survived.”
Pyaras sighed, and glanced at the drifting wysp again. It looked so pretty and harmless here, but the surface was different. Tagaret told stories—Lady Tamelera and her Aloran had taken him up there once, and he’d seen the danger with his own eyes. Who would travel, after that?
“I laugh at wysps,” the Cohort man declared, weaving closer. “The Cohort laughs. Kill one and everyone bows down.”
“Plis’ balls! Kill one, are you crazy?”
Movement by the rope wall caught his eye. The less sober woman had slumped over sideways, but the other had gathered herself into a crouch, watching with an intensity that sent alarm racing down his backbone.
“You’re jus’ not a good enough shot, Figo. Plenty in the Cohort’ve done it. Hit one juuuust right . . .”
Pyaras glanced back toward the rope wall; the woman was on her feet now, eyes ablaze, tensed like a cave-cat ready to spring.
“Get it wrong and die, seni,” one of the others said sourly. “Along with everyone within twenty feet.”
It was like being doused in ice. Twenty feet? Good gods, and him here within arm’s length? Adrenaline buzzed behind his ears. Was the man just bragging? Would a drunk Arissen actually try to shoot a wysp?
Plis knew, the pride in that man’s voice was too familiar—too much like his own words to Veriga: That sounds like a dare. And the holstered weapon was now inches from his face . . .
The Cohort man shook one finger in his friend’s face. “I told you, you’re jus’—not—a good ’nough—shot.”
Gnash this! Pyaras snatched fast, freed the holster strap and yanked the weapon out, just as the man’s hand swung down.
The Cohort officer pulled at nothing and aimed at the wysp; when he found his hand empty, he roared, “Figo!!!” Then he saw Pyaras, and his eyes turned murderous.
Pyaras dropped the weapon and scrambled backward.
A figure flashed between them—the woman from the wall. Her elbow smacked the Cohort man straight across the face, snapping his head sideways, and he staggered. His friends erupted in outrage as they leapt to break his fall. He landed heavily in the road.
“I am Specialist First Melín; Division cohort on Descent under Captain Keyt!” the woman shouted, cutting them off. “It’s a thirty-foot fireball, and unless you’re suicidal, you’d better be grateful he’s knocked out. Monitors!!” She waved over the officials.
Pyaras sat mute and frozen.
The woman plucked the weapon from the ground near his feet and handed it over to the monitors as they arrived. They called her Specialist. She explained things to the nearest one, who scowled and nodded.
His breath came quick and shallow. Oh holy Mai cast down your eyes—don’t let them arrest me!
But the monitors joined the Arissen group in carrying the Cohort man away. The Specialist walked up—buckled black boots—and reached down to him. Her arm was strikingly sunmarked, jingling with copper bracelets. What could he do but take it? She pulled with such force he was on his feet in an instant. As strong as she was, he’d have sworn she should have been taller.
She looked up, evaluating him, keen brown eyes in a brown face sprinkled with darker sunmarks. Sirin and Eyn, she had holes in her ears, with rings in them!
Her full lips curved into a smile. “You’re a sharp one, Police Eighth. That was well done. I like a man who thinks ahead about as much as I like lives saved.”
Pyaras tried to turn air into something like speech. It took a couple of tries. “Varin’s teeth! Who wants a thirty-foot fireball? Have you seen one, Specialist?”
“Felt one. Lost my eyebrows and most of my hair. Seni, did you get shot recently?”
“Uh,” he said. “Yes.”
“Bad luck.” She grinned. “But hair grows back, right? That’s not news.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I’d sure like to kiss you. How would you feel about it?”
He stared at her. “What?”
“Kiss you. You look like you’d be good. I’m up for bed, too, if you’ll tap. It’s Descent night, and a rock roof’s safer than a blanket.”
He flushed hot from head to foot. Just look at her—could it be that simple? He swallowed hard and offered his bracelet. “Yes.”
She pushed up her copper rings, tapped, and when the lights flashed, broke into a wide smile. “To life! Come here, you.”
Pyaras bent down. Next thing he knew her hands had seized him shoulder and backside—she closed on him, mouth, breasts, hips, grinding her muscular body against his. Pleasure exploded through him, burning away all pain, all sense of the eyes around. He fought to match her, and for several seconds, entirely forgot to breathe.
She pulled back with a throaty chuckle. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
He couldn’t even form words. Mouth open and incredulous, he gulped a breath and dived back in. The sheer power of her—she erased the entire world. He found handholds, at her waist, her bottom, and took a step forward, but it was she who climbed him. He staggered.
She spoke in his ear. “I have a place close by, where we can go.”
“Go?” he panted, still grasping her, convulsively. This wasn’t right. Veriga—oh gods, what if Veriga saw them? “Where?”
“Come on.”
He followed her away from the Playground, in among the low buildings, around a corner or two, and in through steel double doors. Whatever this place was, it had no internal walls, only lines of lockers, and steel-framed beds all along its length; but whoever should have slept here must still be at the Descent.
Walking ahead of him, she stripped off her shirt, jingling. The sunmark spots on her dark arms and neck faded into her golden, densely muscled back—magnificent, even in the low light. He ran to touch her; she stretched back, looped a lazy hand around the back of his neck, and slowly turned against him. His heart raced. He found himself fascinated by the gradient sunmarks at her collarbone.
“Distracted tonight?” she asked, pulling off her jingling bracelets.
He said, hoarsely, the only words he could think of. “Sirin and Eyn, you’re beautiful.”
Her mouth pulled to one side, then opened into that irresistible grin. “Get your clothes off.”
Pyaras woke to a hand on his neck, caressing slowly downward. Neck, shoulder, chest, stomach . . . leg. His body roused faster than his mind; just as he recalled who the hand belonged to, it moved upward again, grasped and pulled.
He moaned; his hips thrust upward involuntarily.
“Oo, hoo,” she chuckled. “You are fun.”
He turned his head. She was watching him in near-darkness.
Courage surged in him along with desire. “Kiss me again, then.”
Her breath escaped, almost like a laugh.
“If you want,” he added, or tried to—she pulled again, and the words gasped apart. He reached for her with arms and mouth, found her, thrust his tongue in deep. Her tongue pushed past his, curled behind his teeth, and sneaked under his upper lip.
He tried to pull her closer.
“Hang on,” she said.
“W—hang on?”
She pulled herself higher against him, so her lips were just above his ear. “Melín.”
He stroked down the arch of her back. “Mmm, Melín,” he murmured.
“You?”
“Pyaras.” Only when the word was out did panic hit. Oh gods, he’d told her his name! But how could he not? She’d have known he wasn’t being honest. She might already know something was wrong; he’d soon see.
He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for Sirin’s luck.
“Pyaras,” she echoed, thoughtful. “Pyaras—isseni, I want to have you again.”
He should say no. He should leave, now, before she had time to connect that name with the latest news of leadership changes in the Division. She edged downward, into another kiss that left him gasping. Her hand rubbed up his side, and her leg swung over him. Soft damp hairs tickled his stomach.
He grabbed her hips, and lost the world again.