Chapter Thirteen

Carza was jerked awake twice. The first time was brief, but it planted a nervous knot in her gut that she doubted would go away until she back in her own bed in her own Court with nothing unfamiliar to be seen or felt. It'd been hours. Long-distance train, but older, cheaper. Apparently some trains came built with beds these days, whole dining cars. None of that had reached ALD IOM quite yet, though. The nearest stations to them were in a region that was apparently considered... moderately uncivilised. And no-one was going to waste high-quality ceramic plates and silver cutlery on an uncivilised region, even if ALD IOM lay beyond it. Anyway. She'd been shaken awake in her seat by something... well, big. The entire train rattled, and the only thing stopping her from panicking was the fact that the four hires were calm as could be, barely grumbling as they shaken out of their own naps. Lirana looked around, huffed in irritation, and stuffed a few leaves into her mouth. Hull and Carza were the only ones who were excluded from this little circle of tranquillity - they glanced at each other, stiffened in their seats, became awake in a matter of seconds. The entire train had shaken, they'd felt it, and keenly. Something had definitely happened, no idea why, but... well, they were going fast, and this entire thing was sustained by a series of explosions, it felt rational to be a little bit nervous about everything. Right?

She wasn't going insane. It was justified being nervous. Hull grunted, and asked what she was afraid to.

"This... usual?"

Cam and Egg were already asleep. Anthan was slowly melding with the glass as his chiselled face slid down it, drooling slightly. Which left Lirana, who had to speak around a few leaves, occasionally pausing to pick her teeth for tiny fragments of plant matter.

"Usual. Yeah. Probably just hit a mutant or something."

Carza's heart stopped. A mutant? They'd hit a mutant? Like an actual, actual, actual mutant? The kind that killed everything in sight and sprayed infected blood everywhere when it died? That kind of mutant? The sort that was completely dangerous and ideally should be kept away from at all times? She remembered that house in ALD IOM when she was a child, the house which seemed to breathe in the summer air, seemed to leak fizzing pools of saliva that trickled down to pool around her feet. Nightmares of contamination. Memories of old... well, colleagues (easier than saying 'other urchins') who'd simply... stopped. Forgot her name. Slowed down as their flesh twisted. She never saw what became of them, but she'd heard stories. Never forgot them. Hiding in wells and sewers, in the spaces between walls, mutating slowly until their minds and memories went away, and all that remained was something that... wasn't even animalistic. Animalistic implied some kind of instinct, some kind of rationale, even a savage one.

Mutants had no method. No rationale. No instinct. They were twitching things that wore the skin of the people and creatures they'd once been.

She'd never seen one in the wilderness.

Her heart was climbing into her throat as she stared fixedly out of the window, wondering if she'd catch a sight of it. No panic in the other carriages, she thought - no sounds of screams, no-one going berserk. Nothing had entered the train. Or it had entered the train and killed everyone inside with such devastating swiftness that not a single scream escaped and she'd only been woken by the thump of a body crashing to the ground, torn to pieces, flesh already crawling with awful, new life, and... and calm down, Carza. It was just a thump. Just something which wandered onto the tracks and was now a fine paste. She checked for her gas mask just in case - quietly, to stop Lirana from mocking her over it. Even if the thing was dead, residue might be hanging in the air outside the train, clinging to the paintwork, and she'd be a fool if she willingly exposed herself to contamination because it was 'the done thing'. Paranoia kept pulsing through her, though. Whether she liked it or not. She stared out of the window...

And froze once more.

There.

Part of it.

A chunk of flesh, lying in a nearby thorn bush. Brutalised by the train, and further shredded by the sharp protrusions it'd had the misfortune of landing on. No head to be seen, just... a leg? Possibly? It looked like something from a cow, maybe... maybe a cow had been the start of it, but that element seemed to have been left behind quite some time ago. There was flesh. There was a limb. That was about all she could say confidently. The hide was somewhere between skin, toughened leather, scales, and something damper and more fluid than both. Even now it wept fat droplets of brown liquid, flecked with gold. The hoof had been degraded. The material had been repurposed - the material had been reshaped. Something like a human hand protruded from the end of the leg, composed of the hoof's remains... two thumbs, seven fingers. All uneven. All still twitching, scraping senselessly at the dirt. Carza's fingers immediately sought out her golden needle. Not for any particular rite - they were private, not to be performed in a train carriage - but just to comfort her. The world had faced things like this for thousands of years, since the beginning of human history and far before that if she was feeling realistic. She could handle this. She was descended from the people that had endured things like this their whole lives, generation after generation. Her grip on the needle tightened as she thought she saw something... else.

The leg was trying to heal.

Trying to live.

She could see ocular fluid weeping from sores, saw white flesh growing like mould outwards, saw a desperate attempt to see, to breathe, to feed... she saw a mouth opening in the palm of the hand-hoof, and tooth-like growths were poking through the skin like the heads of tiny white rabbits burrowing up after rain. It wanted to survive. It didn't have the material for it, but it was making do. Maybe it would succeed - she didn't see it die before the train moved on and it was lost from sight. Maybe it could do it. Crawl away. Stare through newborn eyes. The instinct to survive was simple, all it needed was more flesh and matter to rebuild itself, and enough contamination harvested from putrid springs to assist the growth, the integration of new matter. In the wilderness, it was spoiled for choice - or maybe something else would snap it up. Some foolish animal which didn't listen to its own instincts, and took a nibble. And then that little thing, that little bird or squirrel or scavenger, would find hoof-like growths poking through the skin, would find that its kindred refused to go near it, and would start, slowly, to lose its own thoughts...

She looked away.

The leg was gone.

And the train rumbled onwards. If there were any more mutants out in the wild - and there were - then they were taking care to remain off the tracks. Until the train left, at least. Then they'd be on it in seconds, licking at the residue of their fallen comrade. She tried to put it all out of her mind. Sleep came with difficulty, but... she was surrounded by people used to this, and there was quite literally nothing else to do. It took a conscious effort not to light up another cigarillo, just to calm down a little. The train did, it turned out, have a limited food service. Which meant a steaming container of tea doled out to passengers by a surly-looking young man in a wrinkled uniform. She gladly sipped at her half-rancid cup, letting the heat relax her a little... it took some time, hours really, but she managed to slip back into sleep. She didn't dream, and she honestly wasn't sure if she'd slept at all. Her eyes had closed, her breathing had stabilised, her back had relaxed, but... her mind buzzed, and continued to buzz. There had been no sleep, she'd simply put her consciousness into temporary retirement while the rest of her mental faculties kept going. She had thought, but she had slept, and later on she couldn't say what she'd really been thinking about. Maybe about the gods that rode on the backs of two of her employees, their godly fingers dug deep into the flesh of their necks and shoulders. Maybe the brown teeth of Lirana as she laughed coarsely and muttered something in her native language. Maybe that leg, twitching and mutating, desperate to survive even as nature insisted it didn't. Maybe just the tight wire around her stomach which reminded her of how, in a few hours, she'd gone further from home than she'd have liked.

And the next time she awoke, it was because Krodaw was close.

And she could hear the sharp cracks of gunfire... and the train shook as artillery pounded the earth around them.

* * *

Her eyes snapped open. The landscape had changed. Swampier, definitely. She could feel the heat sweating through the glass, and fat beads of humid perspiration lined every surface outside the train - and slowly, it was infiltrating the inside of the train too. She felt sticky, and ungainly. The land beyond was unfamiliar, and green. Thick grass piled up beside the train tracks, and stiff branches cracked against the metal - grown too fast, and no-one had clipped it back quite yet. Everything had subtly different here - the hills were more jagged and rocky, but studded with huge stands of trees and thick grass. The air buzzed with unfamiliar insects. The sky was a close-set overcast grey, the kind which only made the air warmer and wetter. Her immediate thought was that she'd legitimately prefer an icy mountain to this - and her second thought was: 'how on earth can people live here for longer than a day?' Not because this place was utterly inhospitable, but it was uncomfortable. Sweat was already beading her brow, and nothing quite felt like it was fitting.

And the gunfire.

Endless cracks in the distance, the echoes rolling over the hills until they were swallowed whole by the undulating forest. And artillery fire pounded, rumbling, making the windows rattle.

She glanced at the others. Only Hull looked nervous - but they were all awake, at least, so she wasn't isolated.

Hull coughed.

"...noisy, isn't it?"

Anthan grunted.

"Yep. Sleepless are getting close."

Carza's fingers gripped her knees tightly, anything to stop herself from nervously fidgeting. Her voice still had a quiver to it that she despised.

"Sleepless?"

Anthan gave her a sharp look.

"You... know about Krodaw, right?"

Her intelligence was being questioned. No, not just that, her common sense. Damn it, she should've done her research on Krodaw. She'd assumed it wouldn't be necessary - she was only going to be here for a few days to get supplies, a guide, and deliver a message to the governor. That was it, then she'd be on her way. And... it wasn't like the newspapers reported on cities this far away, they were too busy detailing the goings-on of all the Courts. It took days for information to get from one city to another, there were rumours of a telegram cable being laid between ALD IOM and a few surrounding cities, but none had quite manifested fully. Still. She could project some kind of competence here.

"The Court of Ivory has a mission in Krodaw, and we're only going to be here a few days. If the mission is still around, I assumed there wouldn't be much to worry about - this is just a brief stop before the rest of the journey."

Shut up, Carza. Rambling. Repeating herself in slightly different ways to make her point seem more convincing. Melqua had warned her against doing that for a damn good reason.

Feh.

Anthan exchanged glances with Lirana. Oh, wait, yes - Lirana was from Mahar Jovan, and if Carza was remembering that things correctly, then Krodaw was being run by Mahar Jovan as a colony. To her chagrin, the immediate thing that came to mind was that tobacco advert. Krodaw Tobacco. Because two kings can't be wrong. And if the first thing to come to mind was an advert for tobacco, then she was probably ludicrously uncultured and unsophisticated and... she could buy some very cheap tobacco here, probably. Had to be imported to ALD IOM, but here she could avoid any tariffs... hm... hm...

Moronic addict. Stop smoking. Same impulse that made her chew coca, and just about as unhealthy. More so, probably.

Lirana shrugged.

"Last time I was here was months ago. We'll be fine, the Sleepless don't attack trains. The last thing they want is for other cities to start sending in people to defend their own citizens."

Carza squeezed her knees harder to avoid drumming her fingers on the table as yet another pound shook the earth and send a flight of strangely-coloured birds into the sky.

"And the Sleepless..."

Another shrug.

"Nutjobs. Resistance fighters if you want to be generous. Cult that likes starting trouble if you're not feeling generous. Unlikely to attack us, if that's what you're worried about."

"And why are they called-"

"Like I said. Nutjobs. Supposedly their leader never sleeps - doesn't even blink. The rank and file probably snooze now and again, but... there's something off about them, in my experience. Bad business dealing with them."

"Are they close to the city?"

"Always. Maybe... ten kilometres away, you need an armed patrol if you want to get anywhere."

"That... that sounds like they've already won."

Lirana grinned.

"They have. City just hasn't realised it yet. Don't worry, it'll take them months to realise. We're only here for a few days."

Hull leant forwards.

"But what do they want, exactly?"

Anthan made a displeased noise in the back of his throat.

"Power. They want power. That's all. And they've found a good way of hunting for it."

"Not... freedom, or something along those lines?"

"No. Not freedom. If they wanted freedom for their home, they'd be a hell of a lot nicer to the villages that refuse to join them. But they're smart, they know to keep the trains running. We won't be touched."

Carza hummed nervously, the tapping of gunfire fading a little as the city approached.

"It sounds like a pitched battle out there."

Lirana cut in, smiling sardonically.

"Soldiers need to justify their wages by firing at something, Sleepless need to remind everyone that they're coming, so they shoot a few things, blow up an ammunition depot, hang some scalps... you get used to it. Krodaw's a place where war is peace and peace is war. When I was here last, it took me a few days to start using the artillery strikes to get to sleep - they rocked my hammock real nice, made me feel like someone was rocking me to sleep. You'll get used to it too."

She desperately hoped she wouldn't. Krodaw emerged strangely - it was surrounded by jagged hills, and only after a minute did Carza realise what they were. Craters. Artillery craters - maybe the Sleepless had come very close indeed, or maybe they had their own weapons and were bombarding the city when they had a chance. She felt too embarrassed to ask. The mission would have more information, they'd have piles of research she could sift through. And she hadn't been completely uninformed, she knew, at least, that Krodaw spoke two languages - Mahar Jovan's own language, sometimes called its orthodox civisprach (as contrasted to the coloniasprach dialects spoken at the fringes of its own territory). And a local language which was related to the lands surrounding Krodaw itself, and was fairly poorly-studied. She'd reviewed a small primer on the civisprach, and could now boast that she was able to ask how much something cost, where the library was located, and how to apologise for not speaking better civisprach.

Now she was wondering if she should look up how to say 'I surrender' in the local language of Krodaw. Just in case some mad resistance fighter decided that she looked like a member of the colonial administration.

...oh, crumbs. She was going to be delivering a letter to the governor.

Oh crumbs. She was going to die. She was actually going to die. She was going to be scalped and crucified and tied to a shell aimed directly at the governor's palace.

Hull hummed.

"That's... interesting. Anything we need to worry about specifically?"

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Lirana grunted.

"Well, for you, try not to flirt with any local women. Sleepless don't take kindly to that, and if you go too far they might decide to make an example."

Hull flashed a quick grin.

"Not a problem, us scholars are all sworn to celibacy anyhow. Nothing else?"

"...stick to the parts of town you need to go to, and don't be afraid to rely on guards. Don't wander off alone. That's about it. And if you go outside of town with a guide - obey the guide. Don't go off the path, and don't act aggressive. And don't be too chummy with the governor's lot, that'll piss the Sleepless off, and... that's about it. Definitely. For a few days, you'll be fine. If you were here for longer, you'd inevitably end up on their hit list. But temporary visitors usually get off alright."

Carza shivered as the city approached. There were more and more craters now, scorched and blackened, the older ones filled with huge pools of water from the rains that the charred earth couldn't soak up. Children splashed around in them, content to ignore the gunfire occurring some distance away. It was surreal to see people just... milling about, doing their jobs as usual surrounded by absolute chaos. At least, to her it was absolute chaos. The train station was fortified on all sides with heavy metal-and-stone fencing and twists of barbed wire, and it was easy to see who was new and who was an old hand. The old hands were relaxed, and barely glanced around when they heard another artillery strike nearby. The new ones jumped every few seconds on the platform, and huddled under the heavy shelters which looked like they'd buckle if a shell hit them.

Very few new ones. And very many old hands.

Carza pulled her coat tightly around herself despite the heat, and checked her pockets... and after a second, began to redistribute everything. Anything expensive was for the inside pockets. And she resolved to keep her hands in her pockets at all times, politeness be damned, just to make sure nothing was stolen.

Tickets were stamped quickly by a harried-looking conductor - a foreigner, not a local. And a second later, they were being bustled off. The train was surrounded on all sides by workers and soldiers hauling huge crates from it - it seemed like very few passengers had actually been on board, most of the compartments were simply stuffed with containers. She felt curious... and then it clicked. Sleepless wouldn't attack passenger trains, for fear of killing a foreigner. So it was the safest way to ship what looked like massive crates of ammunition, stamped with a familiar symbol. No wonder the Court of Salt was doing so well - a day by train away, and they had a titanic market for as many arms as they could manufacture. More, probably. Ammunition for the Sleepless, and jellied fuel for the flamethrowers - best way of hurting mutants was to burn them. Most still remembered the fear of fire, and burning didn't produce any drops of blood. Nice and convenient. The soldiers, in long blue coats and bright red trousers, seemed resigned at it all, worn thin by constant attacks. Carza's nervousness was only rising. Needed to get inside, to somewhere safe.

The crates were hauled off in huge quantities, faster and faster, soldiers eager to get it all out and into the battle occurring at the edges of the city. Sometimes a crate was dropped, and bullets like little brass teardrops spilled across the platform... and in one case, a sealed crate fell over the edge of the platform. Scraggly children immediately flocked to it from the undergrowth, dragging out containers of... fuel. Jellied fuel. Soldiers were already starting to notice the lost crate, but the children were eager - a rusty metal tool opened the container, and wine bottles received the fuel which dropped pendulously downwards. Thick chunks that looked like solidified animal fat, cloudy and strange, gleaming oddly in the light of... morning? Was it morning? Most of the fuel was spilled over the tracks... and Carza started walking quickly away, following the example of the others.

Fuel.

Tracks.

A lack of containers.

That felt like a recipe for catastrophe. The shouts of soldiers indicated... nothing. The tenor hadn't changed, they were still trying to get everything shipped off. Maybe they'd written it off, maybe the children were... were spies or something, working for the Sleepless, or maybe they were just being sympathetic, maybe they didn't care... she hoped they'd be alright, but she wasn't going near the children playing with jellied fuel in wine bottles. Not without a lot of protective gear. The train station was surprisingly untouched by conflict, and they were waved through by a beleaguered bureaucrat. The city lay beyond, and the group clung closely together to avoid the rush of people spilling into the city. Businessmen, looked like. No-one was here for leisure - these were the people trying to make good while the city stood. Their suits were sweat-stained, and their eyes had a far-away, dazed quality. Why on earth had the treasury sent them here first? Why wouldn't they have warned Carza that she was going into an active war zone?

She wanted to cling to someone. But... no, no, she was in public, and she needed to retain some air of professionalism. The city was nothing like ALD IOM. Krodaw was... busy, and strange. It was a muddle of two distinct architectural styles. One was clearly foreign to this place. The stone buildings sweated in the heat, the windows were cloudy and matted with dead flies, and the people inside looked like they were about to pass out. They were harried and tired, and most looked like they wanted to get back home as soon as possible. 'Home' here meaning Mahar Jovan, and not whatever dormitory they slept in while here in Krodaw. The architecture was heavy and looming, ornamented with sculpted flowers that clambered up decorative pillars. A bizarre blend of fortress-like size and sturdiness, combined with a genuine artistic sensibility which insisted that things ought to at least be a little beautiful. Weighty delicacy. Ugly beauty. And the other style was clearly local - no windows, but very large openings in the walls of each house, to keep the air circulating no matter what. Usually on stilts of some variety, the underbelly of each structure crowded with random junk and huddled refugees.

It felt less like a city, and more like a village. An enormous, enormous village, with far too many people for comfort. The air was heavy with new smells. Her skin prickled. This was not her home. She glanced around frantically, looking for anything certain. The foreigners were striding around in their sweating suits, and the locals were walking with disaffected calm, a mix of (in her eyes), modesty and scandalousness. They showed far too much flesh above the waist, and their clothes had a breeziness which highlighted their frames with more detail than she really wanted. But their hands were always, invariably, covered. Long gloves that extended up to the elbow, for men and women both. Sometimes they were clearly heavy work-gloves, but most were light and delicate, embroidered with strange patterns. They wore broad, wide-brimmed hats which trailed with odd tassels that seemed to be made from some sort of bark.

"...did the mission say anything about picking us up from the station?"

Hull rummaged in his pocket, and produced a battered piece of paper.

"Well, we have an address... not sure if we're meant to find our own way there."

Carza felt cold terror seeping up her spine. Find their own way? By walking? In a strange city under attack by people that were violently opposed to the presence of foreigners in their land? If they tried that, the next morning would find a city with an abundance of sausages that tasted like a very nervous scholar. Not that she thought Krodaw performed cannibalism, but it was appropriately nightmarish for her current level of fear. Lirana snatched the paper away, chewing another leaf, and studied it carefully.

"Oh, that's not too far. A group of us wouldn't be attacked if we walked."

Carza had to suppress a squeak. So being attacked was on the cards! She was going to be a pickled ham by tomorrow morning, she knew it!

"Is there... something else? Maybe a cab?"

Anthan grunted.

"How much money do you have?"

"...enough?"

"You'll need a few cabs for all of us and our bags, and you'll likely need to pay them extra. They like flogging newcomers for more cash, and you don't want to annoy them. Plus, army's requisitioned most of the horses, so..."

He shrugged helplessly.

Carza felt lost. She glanced at Hull, who grimaced a little... before clapping his hands adn trying to project an image of competence.

"Well, then I suppose we'll walk. We'll carry our suitcases and whatever else we can handle - you four can handle the rest. Shouldn't be too long?"

Lirana smiled slightly.

"Not far at all."

Carza gulped, picked up her suitcase, checked her pockets again to make sure nothing had been stolen... and began to walk. The feeling of being a foreigner in a foreign land was only growing stronger. People gave her and Hull unashamedly curious stares - their tattoos, their style of dress, the language they jabbered to each other in, and the overall air of unfamiliarity that surrounded them. The city was... clean, she had to say that much, but it was brimming with tension. Refugee tents could be seen beyond the bounds of the stone buildings which made up the city centre. Huge numbers of people, locals with their characteristic gloves, hats, and tassels... all of them talking in low voices, getting by with their lives while avoiding the attention of the patrolling units. A mix of soldiers from Mahar Jovan and local auxilaries, according to Lirana. Blue coats, red trousers, boots that rode almost up to the knee, and heavy rifles slung lazily over their shoulders. They chainsmoked constantly, ambling through the streets and making sure no-one was trying to attack the centres of authority. It wasn't that far to the mission - but it felt like miles, unfamiliarity stretching out the distances. Again, Carza pulled her coat around herself, and sweat ran down the back of her neck and clung to her collar. Odd smells. Odd sounds. Insects she'd never seen before were clustered on walls or lurking in the dark. People ate, but none of it looked like it was really meant to be edible - odd colours, and they didn't even use knives and forks. Either heavy spoons or long, thin sticks... the hires strode around casually, knowing this place fairly well, but her and Hull were just trying to not flinch at every odd sound or bark of local language.

She paused.

A poster was staring at her.

Huge. Pasted across a small, abandoned building built in the local style. It was abstract, and depicted something that... might've been human. A thing with a head, and hands, but the rest of the body was shrouded in billowing robes. Enormous bloodshot eyes stared out of a deformed head, and Carza shivered. The script underneath was unrecognisable, and she poked Lirana, asking her to translate.

"It's a warning. Any sightings of the Sleepless are to be reported to the governor's forces."

"It's... very..."

"The governor's daughter is a surrealist. And she's also one of the few artists here that works with the colonials."

"...oh."

Surrealist?

What?

She wasn't going to ask, but... it sounded strange. Maybe she could look it up. The city was strange, and she found herself desperate for her own bed, and a climate which she knew, and streets which she understood. But... no. No. Keep going. The mission was close. It was a low building, build in the colonial style - heavy walls, elaborate stone flowers sculpted into decorative pillars, and a sloping roof that hung slightly outwards to provide shelter from the rain. A sturdy metal door embossed with the image of an eye stared out into the deserted road, where the sound of artillery could still be heard, but fewer and fewer gunshots. Lirana seemed to grow more nervous as the gunshots declined, though, and she huddled into the building slightly - like she was afraid of something raining down from above. The nervousness was contagious, and Carza knocked quickly, while Hull bellowed. It only took a few seconds for someone to stump over to the door and rip it open.

A thin woman. Lazy left eye.

The contact that the treasury had told her about - Marle. She had a tattoo in the centre of her forehead, but she was wearing no robes, nothing to mark her out as a scholar. She dressed like a local, the same loose-fitting clothes, but without the gloves or hat. Her frizzy brown hair dangled behind her in a long ponytail, and her face had an indescribable expression. Her eyes seemed to shine - the sockets were so caked with sweat that they gleamed in the flickering lamps outside, and combining her shining eyes with her shining sockets made it seem like silvery stones had been placed over them, the same sort that they used to place over the empty sockets of the dead. Her fingers were long and bony, and her entire demeanour seemed... thin. Like everything extraneous had been slowly sweated away by long, long hours in this hot building. She didn't even seem to notice the perpetual waterfall of sweat which poured down her forehead and dripped steadily to the ground. She glanced up and down...

"Don't just stand there, come inside."

Her voice was dry and croaky, and she stumbled back indoors. Carza happily followed, glad to be... oh. Somewhere warmer than it was outside, more stuffy, and crammed with mess. She'd imagined a little slice of home, but... this was clearly a rented structure that they were briefly occupying. Even the eye on the door, now she thought about it, made her nervous. Maybe the old door had been broken down, and the new one had been designed to honour the Founder. And if so... what had broken the old one? Would it be back? She set her luggage down heavily, and Marle stumped over with some glasses of lukewarm water. Even so, Carza greedily drank it, as did the others. It was odd - she hated sweating, but already she was starting to get used to the fact that... well, this was a place where people sweated. Propriety was already dissolving, old standards were fading. The interior of the mission was low-ceilinged and dark, only a few small lamps providing illumination. Nothing too bright or hot - it was bad enough in here without constantly burning fires. Marle's hollow face stared at her guests, a little vacant despite their sudden arrival. Bookcases lined every wall, the only furniture were a handful of rickety chairs pocked and scarred by old woodworm infestations, and old tables on which rested book after book after book, some of them open with pages that were damp and clammy in the humid air. Insects whined outside the window, and Carza shivered despite the heat.

Wait.

Rite of greeting.

She bowed at the waist, arms behind her back, until she was almost at a ninety-degree angle. Hull did much the same. People didn't bow in ALD IOM, hadn't done so for a very long time, but... well, tradition. Marle blinked as Carza spoke in a low voice.

"We thank you for your offer of shelter, sister-scholar, and subject ourselves to your mercy. If any act from us is required to fulfil the Founder's mission, then you have only to ask. QUZ AXAXAXA UQLON."

She didn't yell the last part. But the capital letters endured even in her thoughts. Marle stared at the two of them... and then nodded awkwardly.

"You too."

Did no-one else take their valued traditions seriously? Irritation was overpowering fear. Good. Good. Spite was a very powerful motivator for things. She ended her bow. Bowing was for people that deserved a bow. Marle sipped at her drink, winced, and poured something out of an unlabelled bottle to spice up the water slightly. Oh, did they just exile the bad scholars here? The drunks? The disrespectful? The dangerously insane?

...if this place got the bad scholars, then she was legitimately a bit nervous. Because she knew some bad scholars, and they were still in ALD IOM. What the hell had Marle done to get her sent out to this place?

"Journey alright?"

Carza nodded silently, and Hull spoke in her stead.

"It was fine. Bit bumpy."

"The hires?"

"Just lovely."

Marle nodded sharply.

"They can have the guest bunks. You two have your own rooms - it's just me here at the moment, me and a few hires that live in the city. The other scholars are busy doing work outside the city."

Carza paled.

"...outside?"

"Yes. Outside."

Marle spoke slowly, like she was talking to an idiot. Lirana sniggered slightly. Oh, for crying out...

"But isn't it dangerous out there?"

"Yes. But if they weren't content with that, they wouldn't be here at all. If you two weren't coming, I wouldn't be here either. Sorry, forgot - I'm Marle, I study Subterranean Ichoric Geology."

"Carza vo Anka, anthropology and lingustics. My friend here is Hull va Trochi, he does Horn-Era Studies."

"Morning."

Marle nodded a few times, clearly distracted by something else. Ichoric geology... that was related to the contamination that produced mutants, she thought. Odd field. Dangerous field. No wonder she was a bit on the odd side - that subject required you to be a little strange in the first place, and continuing with the subject only increased that strangeness. She drank more from the unlabelled bottle, and hissed through her teeth.

"Alright, fine, get your trunks stowed. You've got something for the governor?"

She was just saying that? There were hires nearby, they couldn't just- Marle paused.

"...see anything good on the way in?"

Shrugs. What was she talking about?"

"Mutant stuff, specifically. Anything good? Spring opened up in the mountains not long ago, I think - should be some migration, at least locally. Anything?"

Hull shrugged again. Carza remembered the leg. Quietly, and cautiously, she relayed what she'd seen - a cow's leg with a hoof splitting into claw-like fingers, trying desperately to survive. She tried to convey a little of the strangeness, the way it was longing to escape despite lacking all the engines to do so. Marle listened, her eyes half-lidded, and she slumped back in her chair with her legs spread wide - the pose of someone exhausted by heat. Fat rendering out, and after the fat was gone, thought followed. Habits followed. She looked like she hadn't slept in days, and she drank heavily, forcing her blood vessels closer to the surface of her skin, anything to jettison some of the boiling heat that was surely rising in her flesh. Never did she blink.

"...hm. Well, a bit vague, but... interesting. Might just be an accident. Probably some escaped cattle from a few farms - the locals prefer to just let them go rather than get someone in to burn the bodies properly, no-one wants to call in an exterminator when the Sleepless are around, hungry for any weapons or resources they can scavenge."

Carza's voice was low.

"Will it survive, do you think?"

Marle tilted her head to one side. The hires had left - filtered away to take trunks to their rooms, to relax, to stretch, to get out of their work boots and enjoy some freedom of motion. Hull was leaning against a bookcase, breathing heavily through his nose and occasionally taking in gulps of air, replenishing any amount of coolant for the gathering heat. The stones of the building didn't really expel heat, they simply soaked it up and sweated out fat drops of moisture, each one lukewarm... and then the heat evaporated the water, and the invisible steam made the room hotter still. They weren't being roasted - they were being braised.

"Of course it'll survive. Mutants never really die. The contamination doesn't die, and it won't leave their flesh once it's been taken up. More mutants will eat the stuff, add the contamination to themselves instead, but the mutant never dies. It only becomes incapable of further motion."

"Will it-"

"Doubtless it will be eaten, rather than recovering. Too much damage to recover before something attacks."

She leant forwards.

"You know that they burrow. Even when they lack brains to think with, they still burrow. They know that there are underground rivers of contaminants for them to swim in - it's instinctual, really. One theory is that the contaminants always want to congeal together in greater numbers, and once the irritating brain is removed, that instinct can be pursued fully. Some say it's just the desire to consume - and without a brain to regulate it, the limb will simply tunnel downwards because the ground is there, and the limb is responding to any kind of stimulus at that point."

She smiled blearily, drinking another glass.

"There's a forest underground. Bone-white trees of foundation stone, and flowing rivers of contamination. A whole underworld, where the air is earth, and the sky is the massed roots of the world beyond. They say the Sleepless Man went down to that underworld once. Interesting, hm?"

Carza nodded silently. Trying not to engage with someone who looked like she'd been drinking for quite some time now. Marle took another swig.

"This place has earthsingers. They say they can hear the sound of the birds in the underground trees. Say that the birds tell them secrets about when it's going to rain. Odd, hm?"

"Odd."

"...well, that's not much for someone like you. But out here, for long enough... you start believing odd things. Very odd things. It's just that sort of place."

She paused, smiling vaguely.

"...you have an invitation, by the way. Governor."

"The governor?"

"Yes, the governor, that's what I said. Dinner this evening. He's holding them constantly at the moment - works in the morning, curfew at dark, he has his dinner just before. Deliver your letter to him when he asks for it, he knows you have something for him. Until then, enjoy the food and drink, and try not to do anything stupid."

Hull blinked. Carza felt pale.

"Surely we can... clean up a little?"

"You're already clean by our standards. Just splash your faces a bit. And wear robes, they like robes."

Hull pushed himself off the bookcase.

"Are you coming?"

"Me? No. Work to do."

She gestured vaguely at the mass of books on her table. Seemed to be from a range of subjects - geology, geography, chemistry... and a surprising amount of poetry. A second passed, and Marle reached under the table to pluck out a dark green bottle with a label in a language Carza couldn't read. It sloshed appealingly.

"Go on, have some to perk you up."

"What... is it?"

"Coca wine. They fortify it with coca leaves."

...no wonder she was so odd. Carza politely declined, even though the bottle had suddenly become ten times as appealing. She needed a bath, she needed to change her clothes, she needed to get ready for a... a... dinner with the governor of Krodaw. She murmured something about finding a guide outside of the city, and Marle promised to find one as soon as possible. Easy enough to find people who could navigate in the wilds, but the problem would be the Sleepless, honestly. If they decided that their guide would be better served with a rifle and machete, thrown against the walls of Krodaw, then... well, damn it, then that guide was going to get requisitioned, no matter what protests were raised. Marle had laughed shakily. The Sleepless were like that. All the land was morally on their side, and anyone who wasn't on their side was clearly morally inferior, and thus deserved whatever they got. She mumbled something:

"They bring me in to look at the roads, you know. They want me to look at the roads, to make sure they're not passing over any underground rivers that might erode it all, or attract mutants. That's what they want. What they all want. So, I help with the roads, I do good things for the Court, I get many thanks and many commendations. I have a medal for my work in bringing food to the villages."

She laughed again.

"Now the Sleepless are marching on my lovely little roads. And I was so careful with them, so very, very careful... all of them are stable, masterworks all. Going to last generations. Sleepless tore up the first few. Foreign muck, they said. Ways of assisting the occupation. They liked severing the hands of my workers. Never touched me, though. Never touched a foreigner who wasn't from Mahar Jovan, they know too much to do that. But the workers..."

She shuddered.

"I don't go out anymore. And they use my roads. Forgot that they hated them a few years ago. Hey, maybe, if things go south, the three of us can barter with my roads, hm? Pay for our way out?"

She paused.

"On second thought, maybe not. They'd want me to build more roads, I think. And I'm done with those. Now, I want to map my rivers, and map my forests, and then I'm going back to ALD IOM."

A laugh.

"I used to be fat. Heat took that away. Boils it all off. My old clothes don't fit, so I dress like a local. Breezy. You two should try it. Not the gloves, though. Foreigners with gloves - insult. Should've seen the governor's sister... she wore these long lace gloves, fashionable back home... they never touched her. Never. But her handmaid got her ears cut off, both of them, and her tongue. Governor's sister stopped wearing gloves after that."

She grinned.

"Welcome to hell, young friends. And enjoy your dinners!"

Her laughter continued as Carza fled, seeking any respite from the heat. Seeking a bath. Seeking quiet. And seeking an escape from that awful laugh, which sounded more broken than anything else. Someone burned out and hollowed away, long-limbed and rendered strange by heat and sweat and violence. The artillery strikes continued, but the gunfire had simply stopped. She wondered why they were still bombing the land if the Sleepless had retreated elsewhere. She wondered what the point was. And the memory again of those children at the train station with their wine bottles filled with jellied fuel.

She slumped down on the bed assigned to her, feeling gritty sheets under her hands.

A few years.

Just a few years.

...she was already thin. The heat wouldn't make her thinner. It would just unmake her entirely.

Could feel it happening already. Parts of her whispering away to join the steaming forest and the sleepless men who mutilated the handmaids of people who wore gloves.

There was a wasp in her room, and it sang loudly.