Village of Hayyam

Krandermore, Survivor’s Refuge

4453.2.15 Interstellar

Janus, Ryler, and Koni left to deal with the pedestal while Mick and Lira stayed back to watch their gear. It wasn’t that they didn’t trust the contract, but just because they wouldn’t steal the team’s gear didn’t mean they wouldn’t tamper with it.

That, and it would allow them to clean up and get some real rest. Janus was looking forward to his turn in the cot.

The air outside smelled of motor oil and decay. An emaciated villager stopped and stared at them. His eyes were vacant, and his lips were stained purple. He just stood there until the garage guard yelled at him to move on.

“Pugarian scum,” Koni muttered.

“How far is the pedestal?” Janus asked, ignoring her.

“About five hundred meters that way,” Ryler said, looking toward the center of the village.

Koni grunted and started walking in that direction without waiting to see if they’d follow.

Janus chuckled and patted Ryler’s shoulder before hurrying after her.

Following Koni through town had all the advantages Ryler had predicted. Koni moved like she was the only person on the road, and people obliged her to the point of crossing the street or rushing into nearby buildings.

“Why does that work?” Janus asked Ryler.

Ryler adjusted his grip on the data cube. “It’s an old tradition, and it’s not often put into practice, but people of any tribe can call on a Verazlan to act as an arbitrator and judge. They’re supposed to be impartial, regardless of family or clan, and once they rule on something, it’s binding, even if the penalty is death.”

“Seriously?” Janus asked.

Ryler nodded.

Janus watched Koni walk, the swing of her shoulders and her ramrod straight back. “I just can’t imagine someone asking Koni to get involved.”

“Like I said, it doesn’t happen often,” Ryler said in a low voice. “But it happens often enough that people know to stay away from a pissed-off Verazlan.”

As they made their way into the village center, the size and the quality of the buildings increased, but so did the security. Janus saw broken glass embedded in the tops of walls and bars on ground floor windows. There was more variety in the people they came across as well, from better-dressed merchants to armed thugs.

He couldn’t tell if the thugs were part of an organized militia, private security, or gang members. Maybe it was a bit of all three. Most of them carried simple weapons—clubs and sharpened sticks or simple knives. Even that would have been unthinkable in Prime Dome, where dome sec were the only ones armed, and they usually carried stun rods.

The number of beggars and addicts also went up. They sat at the corners of buildings or curled up in doorways, out of the rain. One in ten showed signs of illness, often things that could be solved with basic treatment and regular meals. A third of them showed signs of purple staining on their fingers, their lips, or their nostrils.

“Any idea what they’re on?” Ryler asked.

Janus shook their head. “I haven’t seen anything like it before. Mick might know.”

Ryler grunted. “Is he a junkie? I mean, I know he’s reliable, but he seems to put a lot of time toward drugs.”

“I can see how it might look like that,” Janus said.

The truth was, he’d been uncomfortable with Mick’s familiarity with drugs when they’d first met. He’d never really been around Hunters before, and Mick seemed to treat everything like it was a joke. It took Janus longer to realize that Mick’s lackadaisical attitude was the armor Mick wore to protect him from the Void and the cruelty of others.

“I think drugs are a tool for Mick, the same way you or I might use pliers, duct tape, or a voltmeter.” Hunters spent a lot of time alone. They spent time out in the dust, deliberately going after triliths, and when they got to one of the domes or underground settlements, they were often shunned. “He has things to pick you up and others to let you cry when you need to. He has stuff to keep you awake or help you sleep, or help you keep walking through pain… I don’t think Mick is collecting narcotics so much as he’s giving himself options.”

“Options on what?”

“Options for his body to keep going when everybody else’s has given out.”

One of the local addicts called out to them from a doorway.

They hurried past.

Following Koni’s lead and Ryler’s directions, they got within one hundred meters of the pedestal, whose location seemed to coincide with the tallest building in the village.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

“They’re not supposed to build anything near the pedestals,” Ryler said, frowning.

Koni snorted. “You expected Pugarians to do what they were supposed to?”

The center of the village was the most opulent and, finally, Janus saw what he’d expected to see in Pugarian village, despite what he’d heard from Lira and Koni. It was older—maybe centuries old. The street was paved, with good drainage. The buildings were solidly made, and it appeared that, at some point in its history, the village of Hayyam had made a tradition of elaborately carving the top of their buildings with beautifully chiseled cornices depicting farming, trade, and war. There were no bars on the windows or outer walls, and merchants hawked their wares from storefronts and well-made stalls to locals and visitors in clean clothing. But even with all that, there was a corruption to the place, a tightness to peoples’ faces, an ominousness to the darkened alleys between buildings. The citizens’ clothing had obvious patches or stitches. Some of the drains were clogged with trash, and where he noticed damage to plaster or brickwork, there was no sign anyone was trying to repair it.

It made Janus angry. It reminded him of being trapped in Sector Six with his alcoholic uncle and his gifted, underprivileged sister, and him working two jobs just to keep them from exile. It reminded him of how the elites of the Hub had used his people—had used all outsiders—as scapegoats for the systematic failures of the administration. It had a taste to it, like stale air and burning resistors. “This place is dying,” Janus said.

Ryler nodded.

They turned the final corner and saw their destination, a seven-story tower with an elaborately carved exterior that loomed over the entire village.

A crowd had gathered at the base of the spire. They were an even mix of the wealthier citizens of Hayyam, their bodyguards, and a few of the better-dressed commoners. They looked at Janus, Ryler, and Koni expectantly.

“I think they need something from us,” Ryler said.

“I think you’re right,” Janus answered.

***

A single elder and a bodyguard with an automatic shotgun met them at the base of the spire, ushering them inside and out of the noisy crowd.

The interior was a stark contrast to the mess outside. The floor was polished, the walls hung with tapestries and framed documents, and the few elements of technology—mostly terminals displaying records of the settlement’s history—ran quietly. Everything had been meticulously maintained. Even Koni seemed to relax as they were led up a wide, winding staircase that took them to the top of the building, seven stories up.

A wayfinder of the Cult waited by a set of double doors made of beautifully carved, heavy wood, and Janus felt Ryler bristle next to him.

“This way, honored aspirants,” the elder said, gesturing toward the room.

“Janus is an emissary, not an aspirant,” Ryler said.

“I doubt he’s earned that title,” the wayfinder said.

The elder hesitated, glancing first at the wayfinder, then at Janus, “Of course. Forgive me, Emissary. This way.”

The wayfinder’s lip curled in disgust.

Janus looked at Ryler and mouthed, What in the Void?

Ryler shook his head.

The elder opened the doors to a well-furnished room that was something between a conference room and a shrine. Glass-cased displays held ancient weapons, trade goods, or contracts printed on polymer papyrus. Tapestries lined the walls, words cleverly stitched into the fabric in a language Janus’s translator software didn’t recognize. The pedestal was on the far side of the room, underneath an open skylight.

A table stood in the center of the room, surrounded by sturdy wooden chairs, and the elder waited for them all to take a seat.

“Forgive me, honored guests,” the elder began. “With a Verazlan high noble, a wayfinder of the Cult, and an emissary, I’m not sure who to address.”

“Do you require the judgment of Veraz?” Koni said, crossing her arms. “I have seen many things here that could benefit from judgment.”

The elder swallowed. “No, Honored Verazlan. Thank you.”

“Then talk to the pale one,” she said, tossing her head toward Janus.

“I’m surprised you’ve allowed the pedestal to be moved into this structure,” Ryler said to the other wayfinder.

“This village has bigger problems, Abraxxis,” the wayfinder snapped.

Ryler seemed to puff up like a mad jungle cat. “It’s not about—”

“Ryler,” Janus said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Ryler said, backing down.

The other wayfinder looked surprised, but he didn’t speak.

“There was money to be had here once,” the elder started without further preamble. “And there will be money to have here again. You can see why our wayfinder lobbied for the Trials to come through our village. Things have gotten out of hand.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Janus said. “What ‘things?’ The shanty town outside your walls or the fact that your streets aren’t safe?”

The elder waved his hand as if he was shooing a pest. “The indigents outside the walls are no one’s concern, let alone mine. And we can fix what’s happening inside the walls if we can just get another shipment in. We’re this close to being great again, Honored Emissary—to prosperity!” The Pugarian elder’s eyes gleamed as he spoke the word, as if he were speaking of the highest virtue.

Janus choked back his revulsion. “What shipment?”

The elder wrung his hands on the table. “We’ve known things were going wrong for a while. Honest merchants getting robbed, fewer people taking the southern road, and fewer skilled migrants working in the city. Half the housing we invested in along the outer wall is vacant! We’re bleeding capital every—”

Janus stopped him with a raised hand. “You have people living in palm huts with mud floors, and the prefabs inside the wall are empty?”

The elder looked confused. “They can’t afford to pay. Why would we give them anything?” He looked to the local wayfinder for confirmation.

“He doesn’t care about your credits, Hiram. It’s… refreshing.”

A hardness came to the elder’s eyes. “Yes, well, people have been disappearing. The number has been rising, all in the same area. We’ve exhausted our own resources, and now we need help.”

“Why didn’t you ask the Pugarian team?” Koni asked.

“What Pugarian team?” Janus asked, surprised.

Koni smirked. “No Pugarian would ask an outsider to fix their problems without trying to get it from their own clan first. So where are they?”

“They refused to help,” the wayfinder said, looking amused. “We couldn’t pay.”

“The shipment was supposed to arrive today! We should have had more than enough to barter with!”

Koni laughed, and Janus was once again surprised at how deep and full her laughter was. “You can’t pay us, your own people won’t do it, and you expect us to risk our lives for you?”

“If you can just retrieve the shipment, we’ll handle this ourselves,” the elder pleaded. “It disappeared in the same area as the people have, Honored Emissary, so if you care about the people, surely you’ll do this small thing?”

Koni and Ryler looked at Janus.

“You’re going to do it, aren’t you?” the local wayfinder said. “You really are different.”

“We’re going to investigate,” Janus said. “But first, we’re going to update our data cube and inform our team.”

“You’re joking,” Koni said, incredulous. “I told you what would happen if our score gets too high. The other teams will turn on us.”

The elder sagged in his chair. “Thank Profits. I’ll take you to the pedestal.”