Chapter 13

The ruins of Errm were a sprawling deconstruction site where the broken bones of ancient buildings lay in regular lines. Though men and women scratched at the dirt with a hardware store’s catalogue-worth of tools, they worked with the careful precision of archaeologists unearthing delicate fossils.

Several Murrai were dotted about the site, looking like fathers wondering what they should be doing with their kids on their one weekend a month together. We walked narrow paths lined with ropes that bordered carefully cut pits with steps going down through time. It felt like navigating a maze by walking on the top of the hedges.

At the centre of the bustling dig site, we stopped at tables laden with carefully labelled shards of pottery that suggested the ancient city had experienced an outbreak of stampeding bulls in the crockery quarter.

Around each of the tables, a hunched huddle of people armed with soft brushes delicately swept the last stubborn grains from the cracks. Drakeforth looked around for someone to verbally assault.

It took me a moment to find the right person. Some things are universal. In any organised work activity, the one you want is the fellow with the clipboard who isn’t actually doing anything.

“Could you tell Professor Bombilate we are here?” I said.

“I’m sorry?” he lifted his clipboard to his chest like a shield.

“Professor Bombilate: we’re his two o’clock.”

“I…”

“Yes, we are late. Getting through city traffic is like herding cats. Best not to keep him waiting.” I stared at the man while practicing the katas of Qualtagh in my head.

“You had best come with me,” he said.

The man hurried to a tent that gave off the odd cooked smell of old canvas in the hot sun. Like two blue-plate specials moving from the oven to the warming drawer of a busy restaurant kitchen during the dinner rush, we followed him in.

Clipboard was a shadow in the gloom as he approached a table and whispered to a larger shadow seated behind it. Following their brief exchange, he whimpered and hurried into the light, leaving us alone with the darkness.

“What do you want?” the silhouette in the gloom asked with a woman’s voice.

“We’re here to see Professor Bombilate,” I said, as if it weren’t obvious.

“Why?” the woman asked.

“If you want to be paid for your help, you should have just said so,” Drakeforth replied and stepped forward, his small note pad flicking open like a wallet.

“I don’t want payment. I’m just not going to bother the professor over nothing important.”

“Oh, it’s no bother,” Drakeforth countered.

“Last week we had a fellow come out and demand to speak to the professor about some Arthurian nonsense.”

“I see,” Drakeforth nodded. “I can assure you, we have no interest in Arthurian nonsense.”

“That’s unfortunate. From a scholarly perspective, the Arthur­ian philosophy has some really interesting elements.”

Drakeforth gave a derisive snort, and said: “You’ll find more interesting elements in a cup of seawater.”

“I’m Charlotte, this is Drakeforth,” I announced.

“Geddon Withitt,” the woman replied.

I opened my mouth to say there was no need to be rude, when Drakeforth spoke up.

“May I enquire, Ms Withitt, if the professor is actually here?”

“Yes, you may,” she nodded.

“Consider this a promissory note.” Drakeforth said, holding up a blank scrap of paper.

“Why do you want to see the professor?” Geddon asked.

“Flaming fluorescence,” Drakeforth muttered. “Never mind, we will seek our own answers.”

“We were asked to find him,” I said, as Drakeforth tried to find the gap in the tent flap.

“Who sent you?” Geddon asked.

“If I understand the local economy correctly, then we should trade information to achieve an equitable outcome.”

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Is that important?” I held the woman’s gaze, wilfully ignoring the angry muttering and canvas-slapping noises behind me.

“You tell me,” the woman replied.

I pushed one hand into the bag I carried on my shoulder and drew out the paperback guidebook.

“There’s nothing of value to me in that nonsense,” the woman said, though her eyes flickered back to the book.

“Maybe not to you, but think what you could do with it.”

She seemed to consider this, as a shadow moved within the shadows behind her.

“Drakeforth…” I whispered.

“The exit was right here…” He continued to bat at the canvas.

“You need to see this. At least, tell me if you see this.” The strange woman came into view, emerging from the darkness the way yeast raises bread: slow, unstoppable, and quite spooky. Her hair floated in the gloom as if we were in a shampoo commercial.

The instant stretched to breaking point and I watched, transfixed, as the dark-haired woman leaned down and whispered in the ear of Geddon Withitt. Geddon gave a relieved sound and relaxed, her head slipping forward to her chest as the stifling heat of the tent turned icy cold.

“Drakeforth!” I whispered, loud enough to get his attention.

“I’m busy,” he snapped back.

“I think Geddon is dead.”

Drakeforth’s struggle with the tent canvas ceased. He stepped past me and checked the slumped woman’s neck for a pulse.

“What did you do?” he asked.

“Me?! I didn’t do anything. It was that weird woman with the fantastic hair.”

“There’s no one else here, Pudding.”

“I didn’t kill her!”

“Shhhh!” Drakeforth waved me to silence. “We have to get out of here.”

“Great idea.” I walked to the canvas wall and started searching for the flap. “Who in the hegemony designed this thing?” I froze at the sudden sound of shouting from outside. “They know,” I whispered.

“Don’t get in a flap, Pudding,” Drakeforth warned. “Things are intense enough already.”

“I’m sure there is a time for puns, Drakeforth. Not now, of course. Not even in living memory, but I’m sure there is a time when they are appropriate.”

Drakeforth joined me at the canvas and closed his eyes. With hands outstretched, he took a deep breath and jabbed. His fingertips slipped into the hidden edge of the tent flap. As he pulled the canvas aside, the interior flooded with the harsh glare of the afternoon sun. Drakeforth stuck his head out and jerked it back a moment later.

“How bad is it?” I whispered.

“I suggest you assume the faecal position,” he said, his face pale.

“What is that? A squat?”

“There’s a mob outside, and from the look of them, they are looking for someone to hold responsible for whatever it is they are angry about.”

“We really need to get out of here,” I said, and looked around for another exit.

“Wait…” Drakeforth found the hidden laces for the tent and trussed the cloth door shut. “That should hold them for… a few seconds.”

We crossed the tent floor; avoiding the slumped corpse seated behind the table, we examined the remaining walls for openings.

“We should just go under.” I crouched and tugged at the hem of the tent. It turned out to be part of the floor, effectively trapping us in a large canvas sack.

“You can’t hide in there all day, Bombilate!” an angry voice shouted from outside the tent.

“They think the professor is in here?” I asked the obvious quest­ions and had the satisfaction of knowing the answer to some­thing for the first time all day.

“Apparently, Pudding, there are people who know less about what is going on than we do.”

“That is reassuring.” I stepped back from the tent wall. It was as solid as a heavy-duty canvas sheet could be.

“You are challenging forces you cannot hope to understand!” the same angry fellow shouted from outside.

“Story of my life,” I said.

“I wonder what he is talking about.” Drakeforth stopped searching for an alternative exit and cocked his head to listen.

“We’ve told you before, Bombilate! This place is best left undisturbed!”

Drakeforth went to Geddon’s table and started shuffling through the papers and pottery shards.

“Ha!” he said, and held up a gleaming knife.

“Great. Cut a slit and let’s go.”

Drakeforth hesitated. “When we get outside, we need a plan. We can’t just go running off into the desert.”

“That’s exactly what we should do,” I nodded with enthusiasm.

He thought for a moment.

“Okay.”

With a quick swipe of the knife, Drakeforth slashed open the canvas wall. We slipped outside and tried to look casual.

“Drop the knife,” I muttered out of the corner of my mouth.

Drakeforth did, and then kicked sand over it.

“In light of where we have just come from, I suggest we act like we have no idea what just happened.”

“I can do that,” I said, with no trace of a lie.

With our blank expressions firmly in place, we wandered around the perimeter of the tent and stood watching a group of highly agitated people yelling at the front of it.

“In other circumstances, that would be funny,” I said after a moment.

“It would be funnier if the tent was trying to reason with them,” Drakeforth said.

“We should slip away while they are otherwise occupied.”

“Yes, we should.” Drakeforth stepped forward, his arms raised. “Excuse me. Excuse me! I would like to know what you are so upset about!”

The mob turned with military precision and regarded us in silence for a moment. Then it erupted in a cacophony of shouting and fist-waving.

“Really? Well, that is interesting. I see. Indeed, yes, they should. What did you say to him? It’s an idea, perhaps you should discuss it with the others? Yes. I understand. No, it doesn’t work like that. Seriously, ask the cats. Where else would it go? I wouldn’t have expected that either. I know, but what other colour would go with that?”

The crowd subsided into silence as Drakeforth seemed to not only hear, but listen and reply to each of their individual ranting concerns.

“Well, that’s great.” Drakeforth smiled at everyone. “I think we made a lot of progress here today. We’ll regroup next week, okay? Great.

The mob dissolved into a loose amalgam of confused people looking embarrassed at being angry in public.

“Finally someone is listening,” one of them said.

“Yeah, we might actually get them to stop,” a comrade agreed.

“It is good to get someone in charge to pay attention,” the first continued.

“Yes, terrific,” Drakeforth enthused. “Now return to your homes, or places of employment, or wherever it is you hide from the utter futility of your existence.”

Increasingly, surprise was becoming a thing that happened to other people. So I felt completely unfazed when the mob shrugged their collective shoulders and started to dissipate like morning dew in the few seconds after sunrise in the desert.

“Glad you got that sorted,” I said. “Now we can get back to escaping the scene of a possible murder that we will definitely be blamed for.”

“Odd bunch. They’re members of the Knotsticks and are conv­inced that the digging is going to reveal something that is currently unknown.”

I kicked the tyres on Drakeforth’s last comment a couple of times. “Mass hysteria?” I suggested.

“The unfortunate thing about mass, Pudding, is that once they overcome their inherent inertia, the momentum can make large groups believe things the individual would never entertain. Or, to put it another way, the individual is less dense than the mob.”

“Archaeologists dig things up.” I waved at the tableau of digging figures laid out before us. “It’s their mission statement. Their reason for getting up and going to work in the mornings. It is, I would suggest, their thing.”

“Yet, there is a vocal group of locals who believe that things under the sand should remain under the sand.” Drakeforth shaded his eyes and stared into the shimmering horizon.

“Did they say why?”

“Explanations vary; it’s the way of mob mentality. As near as I can tell, however, the general consensus is that digging things up will mean they are discovered.”

“Wow.” I took off my hat and fanned myself with it. “Do you think we should tell the archaeologists? I mean, what if they discover something? It would be terrible.”

“An admirable effort, Pudding. The question we should be considering is: Why do the vocals have such odd concerns?”

“Voc—? Oh, I get it.”

“If I remember correctly, the middens were over there…” Drake­forth marched off in the direction of a dig site where labourers swarmed like flies.

Landfills are not the invention of modern civilisation. For the archaeologists unearthing (or, more specifically, unsanding) the ancient city of Errm, the city’s trash heaps were the go-to spot for finding all kinds of interesting things. Here were tangible examples of the trite wisdom that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Especially after the trash has spent a thousand years under desert sand.

We watched the careful examination of the ancient rubbish recovered from the dig. It made the perfect advertisement for recycling. Mostly because the idea of anyone going through my bins hundreds of years in the future made me cringe.

“I never really think about it. What happens to the trash after it’s gone in the bins, I mean,” I said.

Drakeforth gave a snort. “Considering legions of city planners, council employees, waste disposal engineers, and environmentalists lie awake at night thinking of nothing else, perhaps you should?”

“It’s not my fault,” I snapped.

“Then why so defensive?”

“It’s creepy. Personal things ending up in a landfill only be to be dug up and examined by people…”

“More than a thousand years later, Pudding.”

“Embarrassment has no half-life, Drakeforth. Those moments when we wish the ground would just open up and swallow us are always there, and having them brought up again is the same as living them again.”

The fascinating thing about embarrassment,” Drakeforth said, actually paying attention for once, “is that it is one of the few times people actually experience time as it truly is.” “How can embarrassment reveal the truth about time?” I immediately regretted asking the question. Drakeforth would give me an answer anyway. Telling people he knew things was more important to him than sharing knowledge.

“Time does not exist, at least in the passing sense. The entire scope of all things, all the Universes, all the dimensions, all the stuff. It’s all happening all at once. You just perceive it as a matter of moving from event to event. Except, each event is static. Only your perception shifts.”

“Ah, so perception is time.” I wasn’t going to let Drakeforth win this one without a fight.

“Sure. And a slice of bread is a sandwich.”

“I don’t find your analogy very palatable, Drakeforth.”

“Run,” Drakeforth said. Which, at the time, seemed like a poor attempt at avoiding acknowledging my cleverness. Then I noticed the knot of people gathering and whispering outside the tent.

“Do you think they found her?” I whispered. “Drakeforth? Wait for me!”

The new mob formed rapidly and gave chase. We fled across the narrow paths between the carefully excavated pits, men and women in hot pursuit under the desert sun.

I scrambled up a dune at the far side of the excavation and rolled down the other side. The disappointing part was realising that simply falling down didn’t make it any easier to escape, and I had to climb up another dune, my feet digging deep into the imprints left by Drakeforth.

At the top of the second dune and breathing hard, I raised my hands and turned around. There was no one there to accept my surrender.

“Pudding!” Drakeforth popped up like a meerkat that had stepped on a Lego brick. “Keep going!”

“Do I have to?” The stifling heat made me sound whiney.

“No, I suppose not. You should have no issue at all explaining the circumstances of how you came to be in the presence of a woman now dead. The Pathian justice system is like a maze.”

“I hope you mean that it is complicated.”

“Well yes, and once you find your way through the labyrinth of courts the result is always the same.”

I narrowed my eyes further against the glare that even my dark glasses couldn’t eclipse. “What is the result?”

“You need to experience it for yourself. Words could not do it justice.”

I glanced back the way we had come. The mob crested the ridge behind us, howling for blood. I sighed and stumbled down the dune. The acoustics at the bottom of the sandy valley were quite good, so I sighed again for dramatic effect and headed up to meet Drakeforth.

The sand avalanched around me, threatening to send me slid­ing into the valley for a premature burial. Drakeforth peered over the edge, and I am sure his silhouette bore an expression of extreme disappointment.

“Will you stop mucking about?” he snapped.

“Come on in, the sand is fine!” I shouted back.

Shadows fell across the dunes in a chilling pattern like long hair floating in a calm sea.

The shouts from behind me rose in pitch. The mob were waving and wavering. I squinted into the sun to see the cause of the distraction. A braided rope of hairy leather dropped in a neat circle around me and then jerked upwards. I was upside down in seconds, the cord drawing tight around my ankles. As I lifted off the ground, Drakeforth swung past, ensnared in a rope of his own. Under different circumstances, we might have made an extraordinary circus act.

“Saucer-heels!” Drakeforth yelled as he swung past.

“What?!” I yelled back.

“Sosha-goes!” Drakeforth shouted as we arced through the air.

“What the foucault are you on about?!”

Drakeforth pointed upwards.

Ohh, sausages.