Mercadian Masques

Chapter 3

Gerrard himself dug the new graves. Whoever had stolen Weatherlight had killed three of his sailors-and abducted three more. He wondered if he ought to be digging six holes in the gloaming hillside. It was a solitary penance. Others had volunteered to help him, but Gerrard felt he owed it to these crew members- and to all the others he had lost.

"Dig them deep," came a warm voice in the chill morning.

Gerrard glanced up, flinging another shovelful of dirt onto the mound. Atop shifting soil stood Takara. Her flame-red hair blended with the crimson sky… what was the old saying?-Red sky at morning, sailor take warning.

"Dig them deep, Gerrard. The dead have a way of rising to haunt you."

Gerrard shook his head grimly, and droplets of sweat pattered across his bare shoulders. "Is that what's next? Black magic raising the dead?"

She nodded and smiled. "Yes, black magic. The blackest magic there is. Regret. You've become a master of it."

It was as though she saw right into his soul. With a grim laugh, he said, "I've had lots of occasions like this to practice it."

Takara grabbed a shovel that had been abandoned in the pile of dirt and dropped down into the grave beside Gerrard.

"I don't want any help."

"I know," Takara said, even as she flung a shovelful out of the hole. "But you don't want the others to help because they don't understand what you are doing. They tell you to let go of guilt and regret, but I know you can't. I know you can't because I couldn't either. I survived Rath not by letting go of guilt, regret, and anger, but by clinging to them. They are powerful magic, indeed-black and powerful. You can't get rid of them, Gerrard, so you have two choices- you can let them rule you, or you can rule them."

He paused and stared amazedly at Takara. Rivulets of sweat ran down his back.

She returned his gaze. "Every time I think of Father, of the man I loved, who was stolen away from me by a spoiled and vengeful monster, my hatred strengthens me. Hatred and fury. They perfect me, prepare me to kill that monster." She lifted her hand, fingers forming a trembling claw just before Gerrard's neck. "And when the black magic is complete, I will rip his throat out!"

Gerrard stared into Takara's eyes. They blazed like twin furnaces-steel and fire. "Yes," he said, nodding. "Yes. I have the same score to settle. I will use my anger. I will use it to get back my ship and escape this strange world and defend my own world. I'll use it to kill Volrath."

Takara's eyes narrowed, and she drew back, lowering her hand. "That's right, Gerrard. Take possession of your hatred. It will refine your soul-"

"What's going on?" came a new voice above-Atalla. The lad stood silhouetted against the morning. His homespun work trousers and patched tunic riffled in the breeze. "I thought you didn't want help."

"I changed my mind," Gerrard said, glancing at Takara, "about help, and about other things."

"So, I can go with you to Mercadia?" Atalla asked hopefully. "We're not going to Mercadia. We're going to-what was the name of that forest you spoke of?"

"The Rushwood-land of the Cho-Arrim," the boy replied.

"Right. That's where we march, as soon as I'm done here."

A call came up over the hill. Atalla turned, cupping a hand behind his ear. He relayed the message. "They say there are riders approaching-a whole army."

"Damn," Gerrard said, planting his shovel in the dirt and hauling himself forth. "Sorry about my language, kid." Atalla looked affronted. "I'm not a damn kid!" Gerrard laughed a bit at that. He slipped his waistcoat over sweating shoulders and buckled on his sword belt. Takara's words rang in his head as she, too, armed herself. Gerrard felt anger like a forge fire stoking within him. "Let's go see who's coming."

With Takara and Atalla beside him, Gerrard headed out across the encampment and to the edge of the farm.

Karn stood there, watching the east. Beside his motionless form huddled the tiny green shape of Squee. The goblin clung to one of the golem's great silver legs, cowering almost out of sight.

On the dim horizon stood a strange shape-a gigantic, inverted mountain. When they had first glimpsed Mount Mercadia yesterday-a huge conic stone with its tip embedded in the wide plain-Gerrard had been sure the vision was a desert mirage. It must have been a normal mountain, its image flipped by a trick of the hot air. Tavoot had assured them that Mercadia was indeed inverted, and so were all its dealings. Now, from the shadow of the mountain came a cloud of dust, approaching fast. Within the dust storm rode a large contingent of soldiers.

Reaching Karn, Gerrard stared at the army, shading his eyes against the growing light. "What can you see?"

"There are perhaps two hundred riders," the golem replied. "They are riding Jhovalls, but they do not appear to be keeping a close formation. I cannot tell if they are in uniform or not."

"Mercadians," Atalla said, spitting to one side. "They would have seen your ship when it shot across the sky. They saw it just like the Cho-Arrim. They've probably come to take it."

"They're a little late," Gerrard said wearily. "Nothing left to take."

Atalla shrugged. "They could always take you."

Behind him, Tahngarth sounded a call-to-arms through his cupped hands. The loud hooting rang through the camp. Men and women leaped to their feet and raced to the brow of the hill.

Across the flat, dirt-covered plain, the dark shapes rapidly advanced. They shimmered in the heat rising from the baked earth. There were hundreds against Weatherlight's two score crew.

Tahngarth barked orders. "Form a semicircle here, two lines. Get your arms ready." The minotaur thrust Gerrard and Hanna to one side as he prodded the crew into place, almost tripping over Squee.

Gerrard spoke to them next, his tone soft and confident after Tahngarth's barking roar. "All right, listen. This would be a battle better not fought. We're outnumbered five to one, and we've got more important things to do than bang swords. Don't make a move unless you hear a specific order.

Let's find out if these people are friendly-"

Atalla hid a small smile behind his hand.

"-and if not, let's find out how to make them friendly-"

"-and if not that either," Tahngarth interrupted, "then we fight."

"Just so," Gerrard affirmed.

The faint sound of tinkling harness bells intruded on the conversation. Soon the tintinnabulation was drowned out by the thunder of clawed feet on dry earth. The bounding Jhovalls flung up dust. Grit clung to tawny, matted fur on the beasts' flanks. The six-legged tiger-creatures looked miserable in their cerements of dust.

The riders were little better off. Dust dimmed their saffron-yellow riding cloaks and the red and blue uniforms beneath. Their long, steel tridents glimmered only where sweating hands had grasped them. The lead rider's pennant streamed behind him, its white dimmed to dun, its blue to brown. He and many of the other soldiers were corpulent. Jowls waggled with each bound of their mounts. Almond eyes watered, bloodshot. Noses were red from sneezing and sun. Sloping foreheads and sunken cheeks wore dirt as thick as face powder. As they arrived, the soldiers brought the dust cloud with them, and also a faint stink that did not smell like Jhovalls. The riders, more than two hundred of them, surrounded the Weatherlight party and halted.

Tahngarth hastily directed the crew to bend their line into a complete circle, swords held in a thicket outward.

Gerrard and the bridge crew stood outside the circle, just before the lead rider. As the Mercadians arrayed themselves, Gerrard noted the clumsiness of their maneuver, the unkempt state of their uniforms and animals, and the rust on their weapons. The tridents, Gerrard observed hopefully, were still held skyward.

There was a short silence, and then the leader spoke in a long string of syllables that tripped out unpleasantly.

Gerrard shook his head. "We don't understand you," he said.

The leader repeated his statement with an air of irritation.

"He speaks High Mercadian-I think," Atalla offered. "All the nobles do. They think it's the only language worth speaking."

"You mean, he understands us?"

Atalla shrugged. "I don't know, but you better act like he does."

Takara tugged Gerrard's sleeve. "I think I know what he's saying. Their language is similar to some dialects spoken on Rath."

"Interesting," Gerrard said, his eyes narrowing. "1 wonder what connection the two places have. Can you interpret for us?"

"1 can try," Takara said.

Turning to the leader, she spoke a sentence or two in the same curiously dissonant flow of words, ending in an abrupt crescendo. The leader uttered a reply. They exchanged a few more words, anger rising.

"They claim our ship as property of the Chief Magistrate of Mercadia, gods bless and keep his name in their eternal roll of glory." She couldn't entirely remove the sarcasm from her voice. "1 told him he was too late, that the Cho-Arrim had already taken the ship. He then declared us under arrest and commanded us to lay down our arms and surrender."

"Arrest? On what charge?" Gerrard hissed.

Takara spoke once more to the soldier, who replied with an imperious air.

She translated, "The charges include-but are not limited to-invasion, illegal migration, arms smuggling, trafficking with the enemies of Mercadia, refusal to speak High Mercadian"

Gerrard raked his sword from its scabbard. "Better damned well add resisting arrest! Attack!"

He vaulted directly toward the lead Jhovall. His sword slashed down.

The Mercadian captain hauled hard on the reins. His cat mount reared back, mouth gaping to lunge for Gerrard's head. Before it could, he sliced downward, cutting the beast's halter. Leather traces dragged across the cat-creature's face, yanking it aside. Reins suddenly went loose. The rider tumbled back in the saddle. Gerrard lunged beneath the rearing beast and sliced the saddle strap too. He scrambled out from beneath the Jhovall even as its rider spilled to the ground. "Understand me now, Captain?" Gerrard growled, leaping at him.

He never reached the man. Mercadian troops surged into the gap. Jhovalls hissed and nipped. Tridents jabbed. Dust flew.

Gerrard found himself facing two troopers. They thrust inexpertly at him with their forked pikes. His sword parried the stroke of one guard member, while he caught the weapon of the other and pulled it hard, yanking the soldier off-balance. The man flopped in the dust beneath his Jhovall. The other soldier stabbed at Gerrard again. The master-at-arms beat back this blow too, but pain erupted in his shoulder.

The man's Jhovall sank its jaws into him and lifted him from the ground.

Gerrard roared, thrusting his sword directly into the flank of the tiger-creature. The Jhovall released him and reared away, blood gushing from its teeth. Eyes rolled and ears flattened in pain, it rose again, almost hurling its rider loose.

Gerrard pursued. "Mean puss, aye?" He stabbed the feline's heart.

With a magnificent roar, the Jhovall crashed lifeless to the ground, its rider pinned beneath it.

Protected on one side by the fallen creature, Gerrard knelt to rip loose a hunk of shirt and stanch the blood flow from his shoulder. There was no question these Mercadians were poor fighters. Their weapons were badly tended and poorly wielded. Nonetheless, their sheer numbers had broken Weatherlight's line, and these Jhovalls were fierce beasts.

Even now, Karn the pacifist wrestled one of the tigercreatures. It was not fighting. The silver man could not have been truly injured by the monstrous feline, nor would he do anything to hurt the beast. Even so, he wouldn't allow teeth and fangs to tear his friends apart. It was an impressive tussle, solemn and quick like cats rolling in an alley. Matted fur and gleaming silver entwined. Razor claws screeched across impassive metal. Vast, stubby fingers clutched masses of hair. The Jhovall gnawed hopelessly on Karn's head. For Karn, this tumbling match was play, but the cat meant to dismantle the silver man. Karn made himself a distracting-and maddening-cat toy.

Despite his efforts, the rest of the crew had their hands full.

Tahngarth was doing the best of any of them. His curved blade slashed one Mercadian, dropping him at the minotaur's feet. He caught a second with a swift elbow to the eye and bulled a third onto his craggy horns. Tahngarth lived to fight. He would say he lived for honor and loyalty, but for Tahngarth, honor and loyalty invariably led to fights. A fourth Mercadian found that out when Tahngarth butted heads with his Jhovall. The tiger staggered and slumped. The minotaur charged on, clambering up the beast's neck and attacking the man in the saddle.

If all Gerrard's crew could fight like Tahngarth, they would win. Takara and Sisay came damned close, with three fallen Mercadians at each of their feet. Hanna did her best with a trident she'd wrangled from her single victim. Squee darted about, tripping any Mercadian he could reach. But the rest of the crew were falling like grass.

Gerrard suddenly remembered the dry grass thrashing at the edge of the graves he had dug… How many more graves after this hopeless fight?

"We surrender! Stop the fight! Ground arms!"

The guard captain barked out similar orders.

The combat quickly faded. Swords froze in the air. Tahngarth let the latest Mercadian slump from his horns. Karn released the Jhovall, who backed away, hissing and spitting, its pelt standing all down its back. In moments, Gerrard and his crew were surrounded by grim troopers, their weapons bristling. He looked around for his interpreter.

"Takara!" he called.

The woman emerged from beside a pile of dead. Her eyes glowed with the same fiery light as her hair. She wore an angry grin and wiped her bloodied blade lazily on one of the dead Mercadians. "Do you think they'll be more likely to listen now that we've killed some of them?"

"Perhaps not, but the fight was hopeless. They wouldn't have listened if we were all dead."

Gerrard drew her to his side and directed her attention to the guard captain. The man was even dustier after his fall from the Jhovall, but there was no blood on his saffron robes. He had never rejoined the fray.

Gerrard said to Takara, "Tell him we submit. We'll lay down our weapons and go with him on condition that our sick will be treated-well treated-and our dead buried with proper ceremony."

Takara translated.

The captain bowed his head in acceptance. In the common tongue, he said, "You honor my master, the chief magistrate, with your decision. Order your folk to disarm."

Brow furrowing, Gerrard said, "Do as he says."

Most of the crew flung down their weapons with alacrity and raised their hands. Tahngarth was more reluctant. His curved crystal sword was one of a kind, and the assortment of daggers in his belt had taken years to accumulate. He flung each to the ground, where they stuck and shuddered angrily. The sound almost covered the minotaur's curses.

Meanwhile, Mercadian soldiers unpacked lengths of shackle and chain. They carried the shackles among their prisoners, fastening them over wrists. One whole set was wrapped about Karn, his arms bound to his sides and his legs connected so he could take only short steps. The crew members were chained in pairs to whomever was closest, so that they could ride jhovallback in tandem.

"You have killed just enough of our folk to each have a ride to the city," the captain said biliously as a soldier handed him the ring of shackle keys. He hung the ring on his belt and said with a flourish, "A fair payment for your fighting prowess. For my losses, I confiscate your weapons, to be kept or sold, as I will it." He gestured to another soldier, who gathered the swords and knives from the ground. The man scurried especially quickly as he snatched up Tahngarth's blades. He bundled them all together with rope and stowed them atop the captain's saddlebags.

Sitting aback their respective Jhovalls, the crew at last received medical aid. Gerrard's shoulder was bandaged, a cut over Hanna's eye was cleaned and dressed, and Sisay's dislocated shoulder was reset rather brutally. Squee claimed to have gotten foot fungus from one of the soldiers he had tripped, and two Mercadians assiduously checked over his feet.

Gerrard watched them quizzically. He spoke over his shoulder to Takara, who sat behind him on the same Jhovall. "They seem eager to live up to their end of the bargain. Look how they treat Squee."

"There's something else going on," Takara replied. "Look how they treat the dead." She nodded toward the bloody ground.

There, teams of Mercadians unceremoniously dragged away the dead-soldiers and sailors and six-legged cats. The workers grabbed whatever appendage presented itself and pulled. Heels, hips, backs, and faces rubbed the rocky ground as the bodies were dragged to a nearby ravine. The corpses were flung or rolled or kicked down the steep bank.

"What are you doing!" Gerrard roared at the guard captain. "I said due ceremony-"

"In Mercadia, we do not bury our trash, we dump it," came the bland reply.

"They aren't garbage! The deal is off!" Gerrard shouted, struggling against his chains. A trident jabbed beneath his neck, piercing shallowly. Gerrard stilled to keep the points from digging deeper.

"The deal is off?" the captain sniffed. "Your shackles would say otherwise. No, the bargain is good. The wounded are treated. The dead are disposed of. There is no more cause for delay. Off to Mercadia."

The procession wound across the land to the north. In all his travels aboard Weatherlight, Gerrard had never seen a place so utterly barren. There was no water anywhere, and what plants survived in the bare, hard ground grew in the myriad dry cracks that crisscrossed the land. It was as if a great plague had blasted almost every living thing from the soil. For hundreds of miles, the land stretched out flat. Only the distant wedge of Mount Mercadia broke the horizon. Throughout the afternoon it had loomed, dark and impossible against the lemon-colored sky.

Then a dust storm rose, obscuring the view. Similar clouds could be seen in the distance, moving with slow majesty back and forth across the hard, flat ground. This one roared straight for them. The guards did not hesitate, only lifting yellow hoods, buttoning cloaks, and veiling faces before they rode straight into the brown eddy. The riders were quickly obscured. The storm grew thicker and darker. The chain leading back from them dragged Gerrard's Jhovall into the dust storm.

Gerrard shielded his eyes and looked back. Takara sat just behind him, and blind Starke hunched against her. A chain led back to the next Jhovall, where Hanna and Sisay rode. The navigator was bent almost double in her saddle, her hand pressed against her eyes. Her blonde hair was turning a dirty gray. Beside them strode Karn, who was forced to march forward with short, shuffling steps. This storm could well freeze his joints with grit. On the third beast rode Tahngarth. He used his great white bulk to shield Squee. The rest of the crew stretched out across the prairie, armed Mercadians riding in columns to either side.

The maelstrom thickened until Gerrard could see only the beasts beside his own. Gritty winds hissed and sighed. Tan ghosts swirled in the air. Dust drained the breath from his lungs, scoured his face, packed his pockets, trickled down his collar, up his sleeves, and beneath his bandages. It was maddening.

Gerrard shouted over his shoulder to Takara. "How is your father?"

She shook her head. "We must find shelter soon."

Gerrard motioned to the guard riding alongside him. The man reluctantly guided his Jhovall up beside Gerrard's. "How far to shelter? We'll die in this storm."

Takara translated and then listened to the man's shouts. "He says there's no place to shelter here and that we will be at our destination soon."

That wasn't possible. They had ridden only a dozen miles from the farm. Before the storm, the inverted mountain of Mercadia was at least forty miles distant. "He's lying."

Takara shrugged. "Does it matter? We've no other options."

Even as she spoke, the wind diminished. Gerrard felt a large presence looming before him. He looked up.

A vast shadow rose out of the wind and dust to blot out the sky-the mountain.

Gerrard stared, rubbed bloodshot eyes, and stared again. It was still there, still impossibly there-Mount Mercadia. He leaned back in his saddle and looked up through clear air. The mountain was at least five miles wide at the top but barely half a mile wide at the bottom. It was perfectly balanced, like a gigantic spinning top frozen in place.

"How could it stand there? And how could we have gotten here so fast?" he wondered hoarsely.

Takara leaned up against him. "You've been to Rath. You've seen the Stronghold floating within a volcano. You've rescued me and Sisay, seen Tahngarth transformed, and Karn turned into a meat cudgel, and then you've flown out of that hell into this one-and still you wonder how it can be?" A smile twisted onto her face. "We're on a different plane, Gerrard. The same laws of physics don't apply here. For all we know, gravity works differently."

Gerrard could think of a thousand possible consequences of that statement, none of them very heartening.

The mountain shielded them from the wind now. Suddenly Gerrard wished the breeze would return. A gagging stench rose from the shadow of the mountain.

"What's that smell?" Gerrard wondered, gagging.

"It seems to come from beyond that wall."

A high, thick wall circled the base of Mercadia. It was an amazing earthwork, thirty feet high, thirty feet wide, and five miles in diameter. Here and there, tall, conic towers stood. Roads converged on it, and there were numerous gates through the wall. It must have taken decades, if not centuries, to build, but whatever lay beyond smelled too rotten to deserve guarding.

The soldier escort led the prisoners up onto one of the main roads, crowded with travelers. Carts, barrows, pedestrians, and riders all converged on the city. Many were Mercadians, with their sloping foreheads and small, high ears. Others wore turbans and desert garb and had swarthy skin. Still more were not human at all-giant rat creatures, men with the heads of boars, women with the heads of eagles, grimy giants carrying crates, shambling slaves whipped by their masters. All of them walked toward a vast gate in the wall. Gerrard could make out no more, his eyes watering. "This is worse than the dust," he said, wiping away tears and gagging slightly. "What could possibly lie beyond that wall?"

"I'm beginning to think the stench doesn't lie beyond," Takara said into his ear. "It's the wall, itself." She pointed toward the cliff-edge of the inverted mountain. Gerrard looked up.

Something dribbled from the edge of the city. Globs of dark material plummeted. A few items flashed in the cascade. There was foul liquid and tumbling bits of paper-?

"Garbage?" Gerrard asked, his throat clenching. "That's a wall of garbage?" Even as he spoke, he saw more filth tumbling down in brief showers all along the perimeter of the city.

"The captain said they knew how to throw away their refuse. Perhaps this is what he meant," Takara said. Some runnels were clearly sewer mains.

There was no more talking as they approached the mound of garbage. In waves, the stench grew worse. Someone had thoughtfully inserted long black pipes that vented gases from below and burned them away in constant blue flames.

Miserable, Gerrard and his crew rode on toward the archway. That stonework gate was meant not to keep enemies out but to prevent filth from landing on those who walked the road. It piled atop the arch instead. A few of Gerrard's crew members leaned over the sides of their mounts to retch. Similar spots on the ground told that this was a common reaction from visitors. The prisoner caravan marched along beside merchants and slaves and slavers, all passing beneath the putrid gate.

Within the wall, the stench was somehow more diffuse- either that, or the crew's sense of smell was well nigh dead. The caravan continued onward, and after about a mile along the crowded main road, the stink had become only a pervasive sourness.

Gerrard looked at Takara and the others. All the crew were attempting to brush and clean themselves of the dust, which had swept into their every cranny and pore. Tahngarth was quietly cursing to himself in Talruum-quietly for a minotaur. As they drew nearer to the mountain, the crew saw that the base was the site of complex activity. They passed through a low brick wall with mounted guards stationed along it at regular intervals.

Ahead stood the base of Mount Mercadia. It was hewn with doors, evidently leading to storerooms. Folk constantly passed in and out, some carrying boxes and bundles. From this mass of people rose a constant hubbub. Clusters of small booths dotted the area, taking up all available space, and the competing cries of merchants rose into the air.

"Best pressed tralana!"

"Morkrain! Ground morkrain! Get it before it's gone!"

"Come now! Who wants some nice, fresh kava berries?"

Gerrard listened to the cries for a moment before something struck him. He turned to Takara. "I can understand them!" Though the barkers had a strange predominant accent, their words were perfectly recognizable.

She nodded. "Yes. The language the guard speaks must be unique to the ruling class of the city. To them, it is evidently a mark of distinction."

Gerrard looked around in some awe. In Benalia and Jamuraa he had often passed through city marketplaces. Among the Benalish infantry, with whom he'd trained, such places were extremely popular. Soldiers on leave could purchase food, drink, or more exotic diversions. The great market town of Triven Fralli in Benalia had always seemed to Gerrard a circuslike experience. Yet, had that fabled market been dropped into the middle of this scene, it would have been immediately swallowed up. This market extended in all directions around the mountain as far as the eye could see.

"Tell him-" Gerrard jerked his head toward the captain of the guard- "we're impressed with the size and wealth of the city."

Takara spoke a few halting sentences to the guard, who looked at Gerrard in some surprise and burst out laughing. He dispatched a long reply. Takara questioned him further before turning back to Gerrard.

"He says this isn't the city at all," she reported. "It's merely the outskirts. A camp." "Then where is the city?" The red-haired woman pointed silently upward. "Up where? You mean on top of the mountain?" Takara nodded yes.

"But how are we going to get up there?" Gerrard asked, craning his neck.

Before Takara could reply, a bellow came from Tahngarth. "They have strivas." He pointed emphatically toward a booth that contained a variety of steel-edged weapons. Short, intricately carved swords spread in a fan against the dark cloth that formed the backdrop to the booth. "Strivas!"

Gerrard gave the minotaur a blank look. He shouted back, "What are they?"

"It is the chosen weapon of the minotaurs of Talruum. Why would they be for sale here?"

That question was ringing in Gerrard's ears even as another question formed. He was watching a group of five goblins strutting between the stalls of the market. They wore long, flowing robes and carried slender golden rods in their hands. Their stance was proud and upright, and they glared menacingly at those foolish enough to cross their path, yet there was no mistaking their essential kinship with Squee. The goblins spotted Weatherlight's cabin boy, sitting before Tahngarth. Clearly they were equally amazed. They exchanged glances. Then the largest one, fully as tall as Gerrard, bowed low to Squee and passed on. The others followed suit, leaving the crew to gape after them.

Gerrard felt his own jaw dropping and collected himself. He, along with the other members of Weatherlight's crew, stared at Squee, who smiled uneasily and ducked his head.

Between the booths was a path that wound its way along the mountain base. Here and there, vast columns of stone extended down from the cliffs above. Some were smooth, as if the mountain had turned liquid and dripped onto the ground, while others were pitted and twisted like old tree trunks. Gerrard even saw a few pillars that supported stairways winding upward, vanishing into doorways high above the ground.

The Jhovalls shouldered through the thick crowd. The Mercadian guards herded them along successfully, and the thronging buyers and sellers parted easily before them.

At last, the beasts drew up next to an area where there were no booths. Long lines of people waited, chattering among themselves. The soldiers made their captives dismount, tied the beasts to nearby posts, and led the prisoners through the throng.

They reached a series of cages resting on the ground. Each could comfortably accommodate forty people. Surrounding each cage were four slender metal columns that extended upward toward the looming cliffs. Just now, an attendant slammed shut the door of a crowded cage, throwing a locking bar across it. Those within continued their chatter unperturbed. The attendant stepped back. The cage emitted a gentle whir as it rose swiftly up the shaft.

Gerrard watched openmouthed as the folk soared out of sight into the jutting slope of the mountain. He turned to

Takara, hoping for an explanation. The red-haired woman made inquiries of the captain.

"He says they are 'lifts.' They will take us to the main city."

Two more cages became available, and the soldiers herded their captives within. Twenty chained crew and twenty soldiers occupied each. The doors clanged closed. There was a violent jerk. Gerrard felt his stomach plunge. He saw the ground suddenly drop away beneath him.

Hanna was nearby. She examined the device as best she could in the cramped space. "Wires," she said. "There may be wires in the supports that control the cage. Though how they're powered…" She shook her head. "It takes a lot of force to lift this many people. Pretty clever, though. This is obviously how they control access to the city. Unless you have an airship, it makes the top of the mountain practically impossible to invade."

Gerrard spotted the second cage ascending at roughly the same speed. He looked around at his companions. Some of the sailors were pale and nervous.

Hanna watched them too. "Well," she said to Gerrard and Takara, "it can't take very long at this speed."

It was taking long enough to suit everyone, thought Gerrard. Tahngarth appeared to be frozen in fear, as if this close confinement brought back memories of his imprisonment in the Stronghold. Gerrard looked for Squee, but the little goblin was nowhere in sight.

Even as they ascended, Gerrard found himself staring at the panorama unfolding before him. Farmland spread out on the east side of the mountain, intersected by stone walls that marked complex patterns on the land. To the west, clouds of dust rolled across the land. Far away, Gerrard could see the black stain of the Rushwood and a long black line that marked the dry course of the riverbed. To the south, the land was broken by a series of jagged canyons, punctuated by red and gold spires of rock. Those must be the Deep Lands Tavoot referred to, he decided. To the north, the dusty plain stretched to a far horizon obscured by yellow haze that merged land and sky.

Above them the sky glowed in brilliant orange and red. Thick clouds raced across it. Gerrard passed his hand over his eyes. How long was it since he had slept? It seemed a lifetime. Images rose unbidden before him: his battle with Volrath in the Dream Halls of the Stronghold, his flight to the Gardens. But overwhelming all the other memories was the recollection of Mirri the cat warrior in her final battle with Crovax, whose mad eyes turned red as he tore out her throat.

Those unwanted dreams were banished, though, when he glimpsed nearby an unexpected face-impish beneath black tousled hair. Gerrard smiled slowly at the lad.

"What are we going to do now?" Takara asked.

Gerrard leaned close to her. "I'm thinking about making an escape."

She smiled conspiratorially. "An escape? Why have you waited so long?"

"The chance only just presented itself," Gerrard replied. "We have a friend in the crowd. A young man who tailed us on his own Jhovall, through storm and garbage and market, all."

Takara looked about the cage and smiled a sharp-toothed smile. "Atalla."