> Beyond the Lapis seas, the endless waste of G_d,
> a greater sea of grass, where great Menander trod.
> He clove the leaves and turned the roots and bent them to his name.
> the cattle knelt and crooked their necks, the rivers did the same.
> The rivers red with salmon ran, still silver in the night,
> the mountains split to crown his head with crimson rays of light.
“And how would you know?” Datra mumbled. He crushed the page into a coarse, yellow ball and tossed it across his office. The poem flew past his toes and hit a tower of papers. The foundation held strong, but ten or twenty reports lurched sideways and littered the floor like leaves. Datra rolled his eyes and rocked back in his seat, reaching for the decanter behind him. He refilled the chalk-white horn, chair balanced on two wooden legs; and even as purple droplets ran down his knuckles, Datra kept his heels off the varnished surface of his credenza.
He plucked the next manuscript from the bundle and lifted it into the light. He was only a few lines in—something about the Scouring of the Archives—when he heard a familiar tromp of feet. Datra kicked himself upright and tucked the poems under a pile of receipts, giving the accounts his full, brow-furrowing attention as the visitor knocked twice and turned the handle.
The door creaked open, and from under his brow Datra saw two legs step over the threshold, pale at the knees, toes almost as brown as the cords which bound them. The fallen reports crunched under the woman’s sandal, and her second toe, longer than the first, confirmed her identity. Datra hunched over that month’s food bill, but Anya’s heavy brow and sandy hair gazed up from the polished wood beside it. He searched her face for some sign of intent, but a fresh stack of papers slammed over the reflection.
The sergeant turned to leave, but Datra grunted and she stopped. Without looking up, he fanned the papers across his desk, took two forms—dossier pull and request for new construction—then scooped his hand under the rest and slammed them together like a deck of cards. He slid the stack forwards, and Anya had it before it reached the lip of his desk. She made a second try for the exit, and Datra peeled back the balance sheet, eager to return to his manuscripts, but while the door squealed shut, he did not hear it latch.
Datra looked up to see the door held ajar, Anya’s fingers curled around the frame. Footsteps and broken chatter echoed through the gap:
What do you mean?
Did he say?
Just go in.
The door swung open, and Anya stepped in with a girl of about eighteen: shorter, no baton, dark hair stuck to her neck with moisture.
“Sir,” Anya said, “another outbreak.”
Datra leaned back and folded his arms with exaggerated sternness. “What is that, four?”
“Five,” said Anya.
“Oldtown?”
She turned to the rankless, who seemed unaware she was allowed to speak. “Y-yes. It happened in Clade J. Three people died.”
Datra topped off his drink. “The dead were residents of J?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And since you have a number, I take it everyone else is latched down and safe?”
“Yes, sir. We think so, sir.”
Datra nodded and took a long, slow sip. Anya looked impatient, so he took another.
“I’m glad you’re keeping me informed, miss…”
“Dana.”
“Dana. Casually sharing news is a good habit, and I’m glad you thought to tell me, but this is not a casual room, and that is not a casual door. From here on, go to your superior unless it’s an emergency. Tremaine can fill me in over dinner.” Datra glanced at the clock, its glass tube nearly three-quarters full. “Or in the pool, or at breakfast. If it’s urgent, he’ll let you know.”
The girl nodded and turned to leave, but Anya grabbed her elbow. “Tremaine sent her,” she said.
Datra cocked his head, peeking around Anya as if she were made of marble. “Why?” he asked. Dana only stared. “He needs more men? More supplies? Barlow?”
“No, sir. He just, just wanted you to know.”
Datra took a deep breath and rubbed his face. “So, he sent you away from the outbreak to tell me everything’s fine?” Datra drained his horn and flipped it onto his coaster. It landed off balance and settled with a low, ceramic ring, the point wagging like a tutor’s finger.
“Um—”
Datra’s chair screeched across the floor. He squeezed out from the credenza and opened a floppy leather satchel: paper, matches, half-bottle of quine. He added the stack of poems and tucked his head under the strap. Anya stepped aside, and Dana scurried down the hall as Datra marched through the doorway, snatching a wool greatcoat off a nearby peg. He spun it around his shoulders as they emerged from the short corridor. Behind him, Datra listened for the click which proved Anya had locked his office.
They stepped into the common area, and Anya returned to her desk in the corner, picking through memos as if nothing had happened. Datra strode along the massive, central table and tugged open the doors at its head. He held them for Dana, but the initiate was standing between her two superiors, staring in circles. Datra jerked his head, and Dana hurried to his side.
“Don’t run,” Datra said.
“Sorry.”
Datra fumbled for his keys and dipped into a storeroom. “Running means someone’s hurt or about to be. Walk fast, but walk.”
Datra’s baton clacked against barrels and thudded cheese as he weaved through the lopsided piles, stopping where an ironmesh grate broke up the wall of shelves. Datra opened the padlock and uncovered row after row of spring-stoppered bottles. He tucked one into his satchel and tossed a second to Dana—the vial glowed with a hint of white as it arched under the skylight, then fell clear as it returned to the shadows.
Dana flailed after the bauble, almost dropping it several times. Lucky for her, it fell down her sleeve and slid past her armpit, settling against the crook of her sash. Datra walked past and shot his hand into the folds of Dana’s robe, plucking out the vial and dropping it into her pocket. “Better place for it,” he said with a pat. Dana flinched—too slow to matter—and Datra shoo’d her from the storeroom. On his way out, Datra filled his own pocket with a bottle of grappa.
They stepped into the antechamber, a long, bright room connecting the polished brass entrance to the (vacant) reception desk: much like Datra’s credenza, but longer and without the wings. He stood on the seal in the center and turned to face a flat span of wall. The city sprawled across it, white enamel on dark, leathered stone. Crosshatched bureau streets balled against the front gate like the yolk of an egg, split by an anemic waterway which carved a spermy path through Ze, breaching where the wall sagged in to avoid the delta. A tomentose web of canals shattered the remainder like an ancient riverbed, each mottled gray shard labeled with a bold capital letter. In the Northwest quarter, three X’s broke the pattern, scribbled in bright red chalk.
“So,” Datra said. “Where is our goodly fere?”
Dana leaned back on her heels and squinted. “I’m sorry. I can’t figure out which bridge we went through.”
“How did you leave the bureaus? Clade A, Customs, or Palace District?”
“Palace.”
“Come on,” Datra said. “I’ll get us close. You’ll find him.”
----------------------------------------
They took the path towards Market District, following the inner curve of the outer wall: brown, chipped face draped in the shadow of aqueducts, topped by frayed banners which twisted in a breeze Datra could not feel. Still, the moist air ran cool on his shins, and Datra fastened his coat. The square loomed ahead, and Datra pulled Dana into the web of courtyards and alleys which grew around it, shortcutting the market, but not the piss stink of opium which wafted out from it.
The Seir ran fat and slow under the weathered stone bridge. Upstream, a crescent of blue-orange sky crept under the gate’s arched peak, outline marred by rooftops and the teeth of a rusty portcullis. Across the water, an outer rim of townhomes gave way to a ring of blocky apartments and offices. In the center, the gray spires of the Old Palace towered above all.
Datra took a few steps onto the bridge, then passed through a gap in the handrails, sliding onto a long exposed staircase which ran down towards the water. Behind and above him, Datra heard the slap of Dana’s sandals fade, then grow louder as the initiate fumbled back towards her master. He turned and saw the girl with her shoulder to the wall, shuffling down the steps like a bridesmaid, eyes locked on the great foam disks which churned below where mother canals split off towards the clades.
“You didn’t run that time,” said Datra. “Well done.”
“We’re going through the canals?”
“I am. You’re welcome to join me.”
Dana hesitated on the bottom step, her foot in the air a half-second too long; but she stepped to Datra’s side and walked along the narrow pier which hugged The Maine’s shore for as far as the eye could see, disappearing with the water behind a long, slow bend. Underfoot, gaps in the plank showed burdens of stone and sand heaped up to the water’s surface, choking the once-mighty Seir like a miser’s aorta. Datra bounced his fist against the retaining wall as they moved on from the splitters into waterfront proper.
“S’nocte, don. S’nocte, bella,” a voice called from around the corner. Datra turned to see a slight, round-eyed man scribbling on a tablet. Datra returned with “s’nocte, prim,” and the two exchanged tense, forced smiles—Simon battling a frown; Datra, a smirk. The factor nodded and returned to his roster, brass ring flashing in the late-day light as he pecked at the wax with his stylus.
They walked past the blocky headquarters of Customs and Mercantile, similar to Irrigation’s in all but locale, flanked on all sides by numbered storehouses. Boats and barges sat high in the water, and their crews milled on deck; they ate, coiled rope, played cards, did everything a sailor might do except leave the boat.
In front of building twenty-three, the few remaining longshoremen brigaded from the bay doors to a galleon too broad to let another like it pass. Up top, youths in roughspun tunics loaded barrels onto wooden guides; down below, a crew of longshoremen stood ready to guide the rolling kegs into the factory behind them. Datra waited for a break in the action, said “come on”, and marched under the planks. He looked up towards the deck, and got a facefull of white powder. He coughed and rubbed his brow, scraping damp clumps of flour from the corner of his eyes.
“You okay, sir?” Dana asked.
“Best to keep an eye on them. Accidents have been known to happen.”
“I think I’ll just go around, sir.”
Datra wondered about stepping on Dana’s robe and knocking her into the water, but he let the comment pass and crossed over a drawbridge to the North side. They continued downstream, exchanging the odd greeting with passing bureaucrats, or merchants who waved through cabin windows. A few thousand steps on, they reached a break in the wall, an outlet where turbulent plumes of greasy, dark water plunged out into the slow, clear Maine. On the bricks, a dull brass plaque read “KD2”.
Datra tested his weight on the scaffold and beckoned for Dana to follow. The chatter behind them faded as they worked into the fat of the city, replaced by creaking footsteps and the gentle waters below. At the next junction, Datra turned up an even smaller canal, cutting straight to the other side of J. As they worked inland, the hilly ground sank and leveled out around Datra’s shoulders, or Dana’s eyes; and between the iron pikes of the canaltop fence, glimpses of clade life came into view.
Black trees coiled through the grass of an orchard, and a group of girls ran through them, bare save for the off-white subungula twisted across their hips. They screamed and rolled and swung round branches, heedless of the dark-skinned pickers above or the lone male of their number, who seemed to be “it”. He chased the closest playmate through a row of planters and behind a trellis of grape, where she conked heads with a rival who’d had the same idea. The girl righted and fled as she’d come, but her pursuer flashed past and tore at the loose end of her garment, flapping in the boy’s wake as he dived through a cluster of bushes: thorned and heavy with bright red berries.
Defeated, but not deterred, the girl screamed and bolted for the edge of the brambles. In her haste she ran under a ladder and barged it with her shoulder. The picker up top kicked and flailed for a branch as apples fell and split against knurled roots. The girl ran on, but a single, shrill word—too distant to make out—stopped her. She hesitated, gazing after her predator-turned-prey, but the call came again and she trudged to the center of the grove, where three women in trim chitons sat on a blanket. One leaned over to scold while the others nodded and the girl stared at her toes. The mothers returned to their wine and the player returned to the game, slowing to make big, theatrical circles around the ladders in her path.
Datra snorted in the chill air. “Past time for that sort of thing.” The boy reemerged from the thorns, waving the strip of cloth like the banner of a fallen keep, then darting away when its owner gave chase. “And not a father in sight.”
Dana did not respond. Datra turned to see her trailing her hand along the guardrail as she stared in the distance, eyes scanning hills and houses.
“Not that it’s anyone’s fault,” he concluded.
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“I’m not from the clades,” said Dana.
“Really? Taskmasters like to send kids my way, but you’re too pale and polite. Bureaus?”
“I was never the best student.”
“Glad to hear it. I have no use for scholars. Half this job is knowing when to shut up. Do that and you’ll have a rank before you’ve learned our names.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Not bad for finding a husband, either. If you’re so inclined.”
They continued upstream, walls waving up and down as the scaffold stayed flat over the water. The meagre hills gave way to blocky stone offices, then the trim, slanted roofs of a middle-class neighborhood—close but not touching, with room for chickens and cobblestone yards. Datra ducked under a squat footbridge and got a mouthful of fabric as he stood back up—an enterprising clade-dweller had ran a clothesline between the fences. Datra spat out a frill of yarn, slid out his baton, and swung for the nearest string. The line snapped and sank into the water; sad, silky undergarments twirling against the dark current like jellyfish.
“And these do come in handy,” Datra said, offering the rod to Dana. She ran her thumb over the silver threads which wrapped up the handle then faded into the black lacquered body. Behind her, Datra noticed movement in a top-floor window. He looked up, and a pale face dived behind a curtain. “Come on, we’re nearly there,” he said, taking back his baton.
“Smoke,” said Dana.
“Good,” said Datra, although the smell made him suspicious—too clean and woody, more a matchstick than a pyre. The supports creaked as Datra stiffened their pace, and before long they reached an old wrought-iron ladder. He waved Dana up, then followed, locking the gate as they stepped onto the path which ran beside the border fence. There were a few scattered houses along the canalfront, some with residents staring out dark windows, but the streets were abandoned.
Datra fumbled for his bottle of quine and splashed it over his sandals, wriggling his toes to work it into the crevices. Dana copied him, hissing when the bitter liquid touched the skin between her toes.
“This works, but try not to rely on it,” Datra said as he kicked away the excess. “Can you find him from here?”
Dana nodded, and Datra signaled to lead the way. The initiate wove through curved alleys and forked roads which swept in towards the interior. A gray haze floated up before them, and the oily burn grew stronger.
“Just a bit father,” Dana said. “At the end of the square.”
“I know it now,” said Datra.
They passed a squat hill with a communal garden carved into the base, tin planters circling an ancient coop. The birds clucked and bobbed as Datra cut across the cobblestone path, squeezing though the gap between the hut and the wall. He bumped the coop and a rotten leg gave out. The hut slid off kilter and a rush of brown water splashed to the ground, a shiny black dart landing in the center.
“Shit,” Datra yelled as he jumped back.
The fly extended its wings, and a metallic shriek rang out as it buzzed in useless circles across the puddle’s surface, sending a wave of muddy spray along the bricks. It broke free of the grime and zig-zagged along the cobbles, getting off the ground in bursts as it dried its wings. A few crazed loops more, and the creature was airborne, gaining speed as it arced towards Dana.
The young woman scrambled for her quine, but Datra scrambled for her, seizing Dana by the waist and pulling her flat to his chest. She squirmed to twist away, but Datra hooked her arm and squared her up just as the fly reached them. The beast sunk its barb deep into to the top of her breast, twitching to pump in the venom. Datra craned over the girl’s shoulder and lined up his fist. For a moment, he had a clear, still view of the anselfly—shiny black carapace, crimson stripes, huge phosphorescent wings—but he ended it with three sharp blows, his knuckles smashing into the soft fat of Dana’s ribs. The bug turned to goop, and Dana crumpled to her knees, whimpering. She sucked in the chill air and pattered along the cobbles until her arms gave out. She gave a final, wormy thrash, then fell still and silent.
Datra staggered off to lean on the wall—chest thumping, heart on fire. He pulled at the neck of his robe as he stared at the miserable wreck of a coop, the splintered rot so plain when viewed from below. He thought of the locals who managed the garden, and the bureaucrats who managed them: neither would be getting a fine.
Datra shook his head and creaked upright, balling his hands to stop their shake. He stooped towards Dana, sprawled out on the cobbles like a wet pile of laundry, robe twisted about her thighs. He flipped her face-up and untangled her limbs, getting the girl into a half-dignified position before he retied her sash. Datra glanced from side to side, checking for eyes or movement in the few nearby windows. Satisfied, he looked down at Dana’s face, where a rootstalk of muddy tears ran down from each eye, tracing the frozen grimace she’d made in her moment of pain.
Datra leaned close and whispered, “first time?”
Dana’s jaw clacked and strained. “You… you…” she said, gasps and spittle between each word.
“I… have more stings than you have skin,” said Datra. He hooked an arm around her waist, cradled her head, and heaved the girl over the crook of his shoulder. He straightened the hem of her robe, took a deep breath, and set off towards the smoke. “What’s faster, anyway? This, or you carrying me?”
Dana tried to answer, but her words died out in a whimper. Datra laughed.
“If nothing else, you’ve got a story for the baths. Feel free to embellish. I promise I won’t correct you.”
Again, she whimpered; again, Datra laughed.
A smell turned his stomach, stronger with every step—sulfur, blood, and a misty sweetness which almost seemed edible; all bound together in a haze of fart. Just around the corner, victims rested in a damp, gray line, hidden by a great white sheet, sopped brown and black where it clung to their stomachs. A few inches from his sandal, a hand stuck out on the cobbles, nails caked in blood. A fly crawled out along the fingers, then scuttled across the bricks towards the pyre, where it marched straight in until its wings turned black and fell off, followed by the legs and head. Datra choked down bile and kept walking. He felt Dana squirm, and a mouthful of warm liquid splashed down the back of his calf.
The square came into view, houses on three sides with the fourth touching a canal. Piles of cookware littered the space, mostly copper, although Datra did spy a set of ceramic drinking horns, stacked point-up into a wobbly tower. A team of Irrigators milled about them, flipping over pots to look for the stamp, or interviewing residents through window nets. A few noticed Datra, pausing to nod or wave, but none stopped working, and one young member took up an armful of logs and tossed them onto the pyre, burying a small corpse which had nearly crisped down to a skeleton.
In the center, Lieutenant Tremaine sat on the rim of a cement-filled fountain, rubbing his temples with long, spidery hands, the orange light showing every divot of his lean, gaunt face. Upon seeing Datra, the young man jumped up and ambled over like a heron.
“Chief, you’re here.”
“Where else ought I be?” Datra let the question hang, then slapped Dana’s hip. “I think this is yours.”
“Yes, sir. It is—Michael, O’sa!”
Two rankless broke free of their corporals and rushed towards the fountain. Dana slid into their arms, and the men laid her out by the gear piles, folded greatcoat for a pillow. Datra hey’d for their attention, tapped his chest, and held up a single finger. One man nodded, and the other went for a knapsack, setting out a dull copper kettle, stamped “BOI”. He pushed it into the pyre while his senior tugged at Dana’s neckline, exposing the bright-red lump.
“We’re about half done,” said Tremaine, waving across the square. “This is the third outbreak in J. The others were K and Q, which border either side.”
“Very true.”
“So, since we kno—probably know where they’re coming from, we’re doing deep searches from now on, every place they’ve been sighted.”
“I follow. I follow.” Datra said, his shoulders growing heavy.
The worker attending to Dana pulled a rag from his pack and dragged the kettle from the coals. He dipped one end in the water and shook it at arm’s length, steaming. He pinched the damp fabric, let go, then pinched again, just a moment longer. He kept this up until he could almost bear to hold it, then dropped the rag on Dana’s chest and pressed down with his palm. Dana blinked and whined, her voice barely eking out over the fire.
“We do need to go back for a few houses,” Tremaine said. “Tomorrow I’m going to the edge of the clade. There’s a neighborhood right next to the bridge. If you trace lines between the outbreaks, it’s right in the center.”
Tremaine stopped to make way for two Irrigators carrying the next body. They worked past Dana and gripped the dead man’s wrists and ankles, counting to three before they swung him onto the coals. Acrid smoke hissed out and the shroud curled black around the man’s shoulders. Datra’s bowels twitched, and water filled his mouth. Tremaine pressed on.
“If that doesn’t work, we’ll…”
“Lieutenant,” said Datra.
“Yes?”
“Would you like some advice?”
“Of course.” Tremaine leaned in with an enthusiasm which Datra could not appraise as true or false. The young man’s straw hair and sweaty, pock-marked face glistened in the twilight fire, deep shadows running along his eyes and cheekbones.
“These people,” Datra gestured from the houses to the sizzling corpse. “Don’t want to end up like that, any more than you do—perhaps a bit less. Thank the residents for their time, then wrap up and go home.”
Tremaine’s eyes bugged further. Anger and disgust welled up in Datra’s breast, but cooled into pale disappointment, fatigue at the sheer waste he was responsible for. He took a final look at Dana, who was straining to wriggle her toes; then Datra walked off towards the canal. He followed the clade’s edge upstream until the light and smoke of the square grew faint, then slipped through a gate and climbed down to the scaffolds, resting against the ladder while the familiar smell of piss and algae washed away the stench. As Datra’s stomach settled, he closed his eyes and thought.
Datra saw Headquarters, his office, the city map. He saw the red crosses which marked the outbreaks, and the white outlines of clades. He traced the pale gray arc of JK1 along the clade’s Northern face, where it ran past the tiny square of the ladder. Having gathered his bearings, Datra looked out at the canal and imagined it moving backwards, uphill—sucked from the ocean and back towards The Maine. Satisfied, Datra stepped in with the fictional flow.
He reached a fork and checked the other branch. It split off towards Q, past one of the other outbreaks. Datra kept going. He passed a three-way split which put him upstream of K’s Southern edge and an access canal in J. Most of the sites were now behind him, but not all.
He crossed a small outlet and paused—that was it; every outbreak happened downstream of where he stood. Datra crept forward, eyes out for anything unusual. He passed a lone outflow pipe running down the wall, pale lead covered in years of white powder. Datra made a note to have it replaced, but moved on—there were sure to be dozens more like it.
Datra kept moving, but found nothing between there and the next junction: a fat arterial which fed almost half the city. He returned to the pipe and wondered who might be on the other end. Either they were the problem, or it was back to Tremaine’s searches.
Datra ducked into an arched alcove, dragging a dusty crate towards the mouth. He fished a candle from his bag and wedged it between two chipworn bricks, then cut the seal from his grappa and took a long sip, savoring the warmth in his tired legs. A moment later, he had the stack of poetry in his lap, a lone drop of alcohol picking up ink as it ran down the paper. Datra read, drank, and waited.
Datra heard running water. His ears perked up, but it never rose above a trickle. Out of obligation, he leaned over to look at the pipe and saw a stream of yellow liquid pouring from the mouth. Two poems later, he heard the same sound and didn’t bother. Around the time Chur’s tail rose above the rooftops, a bigger stream hit the canal. Datra started to rise, but the steadiness of the drip discouraged him: someone was bathing. Later, much later, when the constellation had nearly peaked, Datra heard a surge of water—sudden, then silent.
Datra crept out to the scaffold, arriving just in time to see the turd surface, followed by a smattering of red-brown orbs which looked like swollen peppercorns. The pods bobbed as they spread out along the water, then settled into a dead drift. Datra clenched his teeth and waited. One of the orbs shot sideways in three short bursts, skittering across the canal like a water strider. It stayed still until the ripples had long faded, then jumped again. A second pod “woke up”, then a third, then a forth. Soon, the turd was surrounded by an entourage of jittering balls, including a few latecomers which popped free from the waste as it drifted into the canal’s main current.
So far, nothing out of the ordinary, but there was time for that to change, so Datra sneered, packed his satchel, and started the long, slow pursuit.
Datra followed the waste downstream, walking the same scaffolds for the third time that day and smelling the dirty ash of Tremaine’s dead pyre. The growing moonlight eased his path and lit up larva twirling in the current like salmon. The canal split and merged a half-dozen more times, and his companion was arching back toward The Maine when Datra heard a sharp crack. Rings of light rippled away from the turd as it twitched and bulged. A hump rose up in the center and split, pierced from inside by the lacquer-black nose of an anselfly. The hatchling walked in small circles and lifted the covers from its wings, which buzzed and threw flecks of gunk into the water below.
Datra looked up to the stars. It hadn’t even been an hour; closer to thirty minutes. Mystery solved.
He picked up his pace and posted up on a bridge which spanned the next junction. Datra reached for his bottle, unstopped the cork, and held it ready with his thumb on the hole. As the turd drifted below, he poured out a narrow stream which splattered right under the ansel’s face, misting it with foul liquid. The creature hissed and beat its wings. A metallic screech echoed through the brick walls around them.
Datra leaned on the rails to watch it twist and die. He swapped bottles, breathed, and took a big sip. A welcome burn warmed his tongue, followed by an acrid, life-draining taste which set his stomach to spasm. Datra choked and spewed quine across his wrist. Far downstream, the fly screeched and beat with newfound vigor, churning up a ball of mist with each buzz of its wings. Datra’s heart sank as the turd veered off down a narrow outlet.
Datra clenched his eyes and tried to see the map, but each cough and sputter blurred it, so he gave up and ran. There was no catching up to the ansel, but they were nearing the end of the line: every path ended in one place. He ran down the scaffold and leapt over a narrow gap, the chains and supports slamming taught as his sandals hit the grate. Datra caught himself on the wall, slamming his hand on a bolt as he scrambled into a long, arched tunnel, running East towards The Maine.
Datra’s lungs burned before he was halfway through, and his left knee began to throb. He saw the glint of light on the water, and steeled himself, ready to sprint down the pier; but Datra burst free of the tunnel and stopped in his tracks. Where he had hoped for a dingy or two, the anemic river was packed, with squat barges for as far as he could see. Why were there boats this far down? Did the whole empire drop in for a chat?
“S’nocte, don,” wheezed an old-timer from a nearby deck. Datra waved, and droplets of blood ran down his wrist. Datra stuffed his hand into the folds of his robe and marched downstream, doing his best to avoid eye contact. He weaved through linens, glass, oil, and endless barrels of wheat, trying to strike a balance between speed and dignity. In his mind’s eye, Datra slid a fly-shaped tack across the city map while his own marker moved up to intercept it: the results were not encouraging.
Datra ran without running, reaching the final cluster of ships just as he heard the hum, distant but growing. He passed the window of a cabin. Inside, an old man was reading by candlelight. Datra considered yelling “put that out”, but thought better and jogged away, then he heard a screech and ran.
Datra reached the outlet just as the fly came into view, kicking up mist as it floated around the bend. The hatchling buzzed, held its wings straight out, then buzzed again, waiting longer each time. Datra ran up on the stout iron bridge and readied his quine, smelling the bottle to be sure it wasn’t grappa. Blood ran over his knuckles and he clapped his free hand over the scrape—the last thing he needed was for the beast to smell fresh blood.
The fly passed under the bridge, wings out and ready for its first flight. Datra turned his bottle and let loose a reckless stream of quine—a direct hit. The hatchling shrieked and spasmed across the water, twisting through soiled foam until something from below swam up and tore off a wing. The fly floundered in place until a second mouth chomped it by the thorax and dragged the creature down to the depths.
Datra leaned on the rails and shuddered as he took long, deep breaths. He looked up and saw the old man standing on the edge of his deck, one hand on the shoulder of a cabin boy, the other clutching his candle. The youth looked at Datra with frantic, baffled concern, while his senior stared on with a calm, attentive look which said the man was eager to help, but not so eager he might leave the boat without permission. Datra gave a broken smile and waved, as if he did this every day.
The youth’s eyes jerked down, and the old man pointed towards the water. Datra followed, and saw the turd twist and crack as it twirled out into The Maine. A sharp, black point drilled out of the waste, and a second hatchling squirmed out to where the first had stood. It walked in tight circles, then faced the ship, the merchants, the candle. The beast lifted its wing covers and buzzed three times.
By the first, Datra had laid his belongings—satchel, papers, baton—in a neat pile against the wall; by the second, his sandaled foot was planted on the edge of the pier; and by the third, Datra was in the air: arms raised, legs crouched, quine bottle corked and in his fist. The boggy vapors felt chill and refreshing as they rushed past Datra’s head, and he was emboldened by the disbelieving stares of the merchants, underlit by the candle like kids at a fire.
Datra thrust down his legs and crushed the hapless insect between the weight of the water and sole of his foot. As his shin plunged into the canal, Datra felt a ball of pressure though the flap of his sandal, followed by a sharp pop which ran up his leg. In a moment of optimism, Datra imagined this was the fly splattering under the force of his kick.