Bear, Greg Hegira

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green trees near the trail for a brief rest. The wind whistling through the upper branches made
Kiril drowsy, but Bar-Woten stayed alert. Barthel suggested a short nap, and Kiril agreed, but the
Ibisian stood by the horses looking across the valley. He wanted to avoid more surprises.
After an hour's rest they continued along the farm sideroads until the city was little more
than a kilometer away. Barthel examined the valley walls behind them. There was still that
connection to make -- why were some valleys unlivable to the Faithful? Because the darkness was
too deep in them? Why did this valley fill with light and warmth? Others certainly didn't, no
matter what season.
They made a small camp as night fell. Kiril greeted a few carriages that rolled past them on
the improved roads. They were curious vehicles, orange as a darkling zenith, with glossy lacquer
over wood, carved and embellished with inlaid shellwork and covered with a tapestry-like top
fringed with tied leather ornaments. The beasts pulling them were not horses, but bluish and
horselike with a touch of wild moose. Bar-Woten said he had never seen animals like them. The
carriages rattled past, friendly and unconcerned.
The next morning they entered the city and discovered it was named Mur-es-Werd. It was truly a
city, not a walled hideaway like Ubidharm. Its commerce extended up and down the coast of the sea
for thousands of kilometers. This was the heart and the blood of Mundus Lucifa, then, not the
little patch of mountain communities. Kiril had never heard of Mur-es-Werd, nor of the ocean
beyond, and his ignorance
distressed him. Obviously his life in Mediweva had been extremely insular,
"It's the way with all Obelisk countries," Bar-Woten assured him. "When truth sits in your
midst, why search elsewhere?"
"For sheer curiosity," Kiril muttered. "At least what you learn is interesting and tells you
more about the Second-born."
"The Second-born don't always want to know more about themselves," Barthel said.
Mur-es-Werd began as a series of vineyards and orchards. Varieties of fruit grew here that
they had never seen before. The fields gave way to scattered whitewashed villas and a central
stupa topping a gathering place. These in turn gave way to suburban slums with narrow cobbled
streets winding every which way like worms trailing through wood. The atmosphere was not one of
cleanliness, as in Ubidharm, but of vibrant, rapid life. At times the sanitation was deplorable,
but no worse on the whole than in some Mediwevan cities.
Small rocky hills rose in the center of the city, cordoned by the crumbling walls of what must
have once been an impressive bastion. A few towers, square and imposing, remained in fair
condition. Around these were walled compounds adorned with Lucifan mandalas in stony green and
red.
Kiril found his dialect almost useless, since what little he knew was not comparable to the
northern patois. They had little trouble, however -- tourists were not unknown and not unwelcome
either. The shoreline was something of a resort.
By noon they had decided the neighborhoods along the beaches were more suited to them. Curious
children crowded around, trying to sell trinkets and stale crullers.
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Bar-Woten stopped at a sea wall overlooking the resort beaches. He shaded his eye and looked
across the bay, allowing himself a moment of awe. "The ships!" he said. "Look at the ships!"
Barthel followed the Bey's eye and felt his throat catch. They were huge, as graceful as
seabirds. He had never seen any larger. He looked at Bar-Woten and knew what the next leg of their
journey would be. "I don't even like water, not to swim in," Barthel said quietly. Kiril smiled,
then sobered as he caught the Khemite's meaning.
"Over that?" he asked Bar-Woten, pointing at the unimaginable blue-green. The Ibisian nodded.
Nine
Their Mediwevan coins were welcome, but they were fast running out, and as yet they had no way to
replace their money. There was also the matter of the sea voyage, which Bar-Woten was talking up
more each day. His companions tried to ignore him, but there was no other way to go but across the
water. North lay that way, and their way was north.
Their first step was to purchase a number of small, old dictionaries from a bookstore in Mur-
es-Werd. Bar-Woten found the decrepit shop fascinating. Kiril was less than charmed. There were
dozens of books lying around that he was certain had never come from Obelisk texts -- histories of
Mundus Lucifa, books of maps, and biographies. It was plainly an unorthodox place.
At night, roomless, they slept on the beach. One always sat guard on a small rock above then:
adopted spit of sand. The waves sounded like fighting annuals up and down the coast. Some were as
big as two-story buildings, pouring up between offshore channels of rock and howling across the
turbulent sand. At night, when the waves glowed like graceful ghosts, Barthel hid his eyes from
the sight and concentrated on the light-scattered city.
Their fourth morning in Mur-es-Werd, Bar-Woten woke to the smell of smoke and saw Kiril fixing
a breakfast of fish. A long pole strung with line was stuck in the sand beside him. "I bought it
an hour ago," Kiril explained. "More practical than books, no?"
Bar-Woten had been learning the dialect rapidly, much faster than Barthel, and could speak to
the Lucifans well enough to be understood. As he ate Kiril's breakfast he wondered out loud why
the country was called Mundus Lucifa. Kirl held up his finger to show a pause while he chewed.
"Simple enough," he said. "Lightning comes out of the mountains. Some of the storms are
frightful." But he'd never actually seen one, other than the rainburst they'd passed through
before crossing the chasm.
They made inquiries that day in the shipyards about the need for seamen. The response was
discouraging -- blank stares and shaking heads. There was a glut on the market. Ten men for every
berth. Still, foreign ships coming in frequently had room for new men -- usually because a few had
been lost at sea.
"The foreign ships won't be as picky about taking on strangers," Bar-Woten said. "We might
have a chance with them."
They did odd jobs around the ports, walking from one duster of docks and yards to another.
Kiril had his first taste of heavy physical labor and didn't like it. He resented the Ibisian's
stoic indifference to the work.
They lived this way for three weeks. No foreign ships put into port, and no domestic ships put
out. The season was difficult for trading. Soon big storms would lash the ocean into strips of
wave-wracked lace. Spouts and hurricanes would begin within sight of land and continue unbroken
for hundreds of kilometers. No, this was definitely the wrong time of year to think about putting
out to sea.
There was one exception, but it was an ominous one. A large Lucifan freighter traveling on
methane steam and sails put into Mur-es-Werd in poor condition. It had been at sea for two years [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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