The Stone Sky Page 6

  You’re surprised into a chuckle, but it’s weak. The questions Tonkee’s raised are good ones, of course, and some of them you can’t answer. You think about them for a long time that night, and in the days thereafter.

  Rennanis is nearly into the Western Coastals, just past the Merz Desert. Castrima is going to have to go through the desert to get there, because skirting around it would drastically increase the length of your journey—a difference of months versus years. But you’re making good time through the central Somidlats, where the roads are decently passable and you haven’t been bothered by many raiders or significant wildlife. The Hunters have been able to find a lot of forage to supplement the comm’s stores, including a little more game than before. Unsurprising, since they’re no longer competing against hordes of insects. It’s not enough—small voles and birds just aren’t going to hold a comm of a thousand-plus people for long. But it’s better than nothing.

  When you start noticing changes in the land that presage desert—thinning of the skeletal forest, flattening of the topography, a gradual drawing away of the water table amid the strata—you decide that it’s time to finally try to talk to Ykka.

  By now you’ve entered a stone forest: a place of tall, sharp-edged black spires that claw irregularly at the sky above and around you as the group edges through its depths. There aren’t many of these in the world. Most get shattered by shakes, or—back when there was a Fulcrum—deliberately destroyed by Fulcrum blackjackets at local comms’ commissioned request. No comm lives in a stone forest, see, and no well-run comm wants one nearby. Apart from stone forests’ tendency to collapse and crush everything within, they tend to be riddled with wet caves and other water-hewn formations that make marvelous homes for dangerous flora and fauna. Or people.

  The road runs straight through this stone forest, which is bullshit. That is to say, no one in their right mind would have built a road through a place like this. If a quartent governor had proposed using people’s taxes on this dangerous bit of bandit-bait, that governor would’ve been replaced in the next election … or shanked in the night. So that’s your first clue that something’s off about the place. The second is that there’s not much vegetation in the forest. Not much anywhere this far into the Season, but also no sign that there was ever any vegetation here in the first place. That means this stone forest is recent—so recent that there’s been no time for wind or rain to erode the stone and permit plant growth. So recent that it didn’t exist before the Season.

  Clue number three is what your own sessapinae tell you. Most stone forests are limestone, made by water erosion over hundreds of millions of years. This one is obsidian—volcanic glass. Its jagged spikes aren’t straight up and down, but more inwardly curved; there are even a few unbroken arcs stretching over the road. Impossible to see up close, but you can sess the overall pattern: The whole forest is a blossom of lava, solidified mid-blast. Not a line of the road has been knocked out of place by the tectonic explosion around it. Beautiful work, really.

  Ykka’s in the middle of an argument with another comm member when you find her. She’s called for a halt about a hundred feet away from the forest, and people are milling about, looking confused about whether this is just a rest stop or whether they should be making camp since it’s relatively late in the day. The comm member is one you finally recognize as Esni Strongback Castrima, the use-caste’s spokesperson. She throws you an uneasy glance as you come to a halt beside them, but then you take off your goggles and mask, and her expression softens. She didn’t recognize you before because you’ve stuffed rags into the sleeve of your missing arm to keep warm. Her reaction is a welcome reminder that not everybody in Castrima is angry with you. Esni is alive because the worst part of the attack—Rennanis soldiers trying to carve a bloody path through the Strongbacks holding Scenic Overlook—ended when you locked the enemy stone eaters into crystals.

  Ykka, though, doesn’t turn, although she should easily be able to sess your presence. She says, you think to Esni, though it works for you as well, “I really don’t want to hear any more arguments right now.”

  “That’s good,” you say. “Because I understand exactly why you’ve stopped here, and I think it’s a good idea.” It’s a bit louder than it needs to be. You eyeball Esni so she’ll know you mean to have it out with Ykka right now, and maybe Esni doesn’t want to be here for that. But a woman who leads the comm’s defenders isn’t going to scare easily, so you’re not entirely surprised when Esni looks amused and folds her arms, ready to enjoy the show.

  Ykka turns to you, slowly, a look of mingled annoyance and incredulity on her face. She says, “Nice to know you approve,” in a tone that sounds anything but pleased. “Not that I actually care if you do.”

  You set your jaw. “You sess it, right? I’d call it the work of a four-or five-ringer, except I know now that ferals can have unusual skill.” You mean her. It’s an olive branch. Or maybe just flattery.

  She doesn’t fall for it. “We’re going as far as we can before nightfall, and setting up camp in there.” She nods toward the forest. “It’s too big to get through in a day. Maybe we could go around, but there’s something …” Her eyes unfocus, and then she frowns and turns away, grimacing at having revealed a weakness to you. She’s sensitive enough to sess the something, but not to know exactly what she’s sessing.

  You’re the one who spent years learning to read underground rocks with orogeny, so you fill in the detail. “There’s a leaf-covered spike trap in that direction,” you say, nodding toward the long-dead grass edging the stone forest on one side. “Beyond it is an area of snares; I can’t tell how many, but I can sess a lot of kinetic tension from wire or rope. If we go around the other way, though, there are partially sheared-off stone columns and boulders positioned at points along the edge of the stone forest. Easy to start a rockslide. And I can sess holes positioned at strategic points along the outer columns. A crossbow, or even an ordinary bow and arrow, could do a lot of damage from there.”

  Ykka sighs. “Yeah. So through really is the best way.” She eyes Esni, who must have been arguing for around. Esni sighs, too, and then shrugs, conceding the argument.

  You face Ykka. “Whoever made this forest, if they’re still alive, has the skill to precision-ice half the comm in seconds, with little warning. If you’re determined to go through, we’re going to have to set up a watch/chore rotation—the orogenes with better control, I mean, when I say ‘we.’ You need to keep us all awake tonight.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Why?”

  “Because if any of us are asleep when the attack comes”—you’re pretty sure there’ll be an attack—“we’ll react instinctively.”

  Ykka grimaces. She’s not the average feral, but she’s feral enough to know what will likely happen if something causes her to react orogenically in her sleep. Whoever the attacker doesn’t kill, she very well might, completely by accident. “Shit.” She looks away for a moment, and you wonder if she doesn’t believe you, but apparently she’s just thinking. “Fine. We’ll split watches, then. Put the roggas not on watch to work, oh, shelling those wild peas we found a few days back. Or repairing the harnesses the Strongbacks use for hauling. Since we’ll have to be carried on the wagons tomorrow, when we’re too sleepy and useless to walk on our own.”

  “Right. And—” You hesitate. Not yet. You can’t admit your weakness to these women, not yet. But. “Not me.”

  Ykka’s eyes narrow immediately. Esni throws you a skeptical look, as if to say, And you were doing so well. Quickly you add, “I don’t know what I’m capable of now. After what I did back in Castrima-under … I’m different.”

  It’s not even a lie. Without really thinking about it, you reach for your missing arm, your hand fumbling against the sleeve of your jacket. No one can see the stump, but you’re hyperaware of it all of a sudden. Hoa didn’t think much of the way Antimony left visible tooth-marks on Alabaster’s stumps, it turns out. Yours is smooth, rounded, nearly polis
hed. Rusting perfectionist.

  Ykka’s gaze follows that self-conscious touch of yours; she winces. “Huh. Yeah, I guess you would be.” Her jaw tenses. “Seems like you can sess all right, though.”

  “Yes. I can help keep watch. I just shouldn’t … do anything.”

  Ykka shakes her head but says, “Fine. You’ll take last watch of the night, then.”

  It’s the least desirable watch—when it’s coldest, now that the night temperatures have started to dip below freezing. Most people would rather be asleep in warm bedrolls. It’s also the most dangerous time of the watch, when any attackers with sense will hit a large group like this in hopes of catching defenders sleepy and sluggish. You can’t decide whether this is a sign of trust, or a punishment. Experimentally, you say, “Can I have a weapon, at least?” You haven’t carried anything since a few months after you left Tirimo, when you traded away your knife for dried rose hips to stave off scurvy.

  “No.”

  For rust’s sake. You start to fold your arms, remember you can’t when your empty sleeve twitches, and grimace instead. (Ykka and Esni grimace, too.) “What am I supposed to do, then, yell really loud? Are you seriously going to put the comm at risk because of your grudge against me?”

  Ykka rolls her eyes. “For rust’s sake.” It’s so much an echo of your own thought that you frown. “Unbelievable. You think I’m pissed about the geode, don’t you?”

  You can’t help looking at Esni. She stares at Ykka as if to say, What, you aren’t? It’s eloquent enough for both of you.

  Ykka glares, then scrubs at her face and lets out a mortal sigh. “Esni, go … shit, go do something Strongbackish. Essie—here. Come here. Rusting walk with me.” She beckons sharply, in frustration. You’re too confused to be offended; she turns to go and you follow. Esni shrugs and walks away.

  The two of you move through the camp in silence for a few moments. Everyone seems keenly aware of the danger that the stone forest presents, so this has become one of the busier rest stops you’ve seen. Some of the Strongbacks are transferring items between the wagons so as to put essentials onto those with sturdier wheels, which will be less heavily loaded. Easier to grab and run under pressure. The Hunters are whittling sharpened poles from some of the dead saplings and branches near the camp. These will be positioned around the perimeter when the comm finally sets up camp, so as to funnel attackers into kill zones. The rest of the Strongbacks are catching naps while they can, knowing they’ll either be patrolling or made to sleep on the outer edges of camp when night falls. Use strong backs to guard them all, says stonelore. Strongbacks who don’t like being human shields can either find a way to distinguish themselves and join another caste, or go join another comm.

  Your nose wrinkles as you pass the hastily dug roadside ditch that is currently occupied by six or seven people, with a few of the younger Resistants standing around to do the unhappy duty of shoveling dirt over the results. Unusually, there’s a brief line of people waiting for their turn to squat. Not surprising that so many people need to evacuate their bowels at once; here in the looming shadow of the stone forest, everyone’s on edge. Nobody wants to get caught with their pants down after dark.

  You’re thinking you might need to take a turn in the ditch yourself when Ykka surprises you out of this scintillating rumination. “So do you like us yet?”

  “What?”

  She gestures over the camp. The people of the comm. “You’ve been with Castrima for the better part of a year now. Got any friends?”

  You, you think, before you can stop yourself. “No,” you say.

  She eyes you for a moment, and guiltily you wonder if she was expecting you to name her. Then she sighs. “Started rolling Lerna yet? No accounting for taste, I guess, but the Breeders say the signs are all there. Me, when I want a man, I pick one who doesn’t talk so much. Women are a surer bet. They know not to ruin the mood.” She starts to stretch, grimacing as she works out a kink in her back. You use the time to get control of the horrified embarrassment on your face. The rusting Breeders obviously aren’t busy enough.

  “No,” you say.

  “Not yet?”

  You sigh. “Not … yet.”

  “The rust are you waiting for? The road’s not getting any safer.”

  You glare at her. “I thought you didn’t care?”

  “I don’t. But giving you shit about it is helping me make a point.” Ykka’s leading you toward the wagons, or so you think at first. Then you move past the wagons, and stiffen in surprise.

  Here, seated and eating, are the seven Rennanese prisoners. Even sitting they’re different from the people of Castrima—all of the Rennanese being pure Sanzed or close enough not to matter, bigger than average even for that race, with fully grown ashblow manes or shorn-sided braids or short bottlebrushes to heighten the effect. Their prangers have been put aside for the moment—though the chains linking each prisoner to their set are still in place—and there are a few Strongbacks standing guard nearby.

  You’re surprised that they’re eating, since you haven’t made full camp for the night yet. The Strongbacks on guard are eating, too, but that only makes sense; they’ve got a long night ahead of them. The Rennies look up as you and Ykka approach, and that makes you stop in your tracks, because you recognize one of the prisoners. Danel, the general of the Rennanis army. She’s healthy and whole, apart from red marks around her neck and wrists from the pranger. The last time you saw her up close, she was summoning a shirtless Guardian to kill you.

  She recognizes you, too, and her mouth flattens into a resigned, ironic line. Then, very deliberately, she nods to you before turning back to her bowl.

  Ykka hunkers down to a crouch beside Danel, to your surprise. “So, how’s the food?”

  Danel shrugs, still eating. “Better than starving.”

  “It’s good,” says another prisoner, across the ring. He shrugs when one of the others glares at him. “Well, it is.”

  “They just want us to be able to haul their wagons,” says the man who glared.

  “Yeah,” Ykka interrupts. “That’s precisely right. Strongbacks in Castrima get a comm share and a bed, when we have one to give, in exchange for their contribution. What’d you get from Rennanis?”

  “Some rusting pride, maybe,” says the glarer, glaring harder.

  “Shut up, Phauld,” says Danel.

  “These mongrels think they—”

  Danel sets her bowl of food down. The glarer immediately shuts up and tenses, his eyes going a little wide. After a moment, Danel picks up her bowl and resumes eating. Her expression hasn’t changed the whole time. You find yourself suspecting that she’s raised children.

  Ykka, elbow propped on one knee, rests her chin on her fist and watches Phauld for a moment. To Danel, she says, “So what do you want me to do about that one?”

  Phauld immediately frowns. “What?”

  Danel shrugs. Her bowl’s empty now, but she runs a finger around its curve to sweep up the last sauce. “Not for me to say anymore.”

  “Doesn’t seem very bright.” Ykka purses her lips, considering the man. “Not bad-looking, but harder to breed for brains than looks.”

  Danel says nothing for a moment, while Phauld looks from her to Ykka and back in growing incredulity. Then, with a heavy sigh, Danel looks up at Phauld, too. “What do you want me to say? I’m not his commander anymore. Never wanted to be in the first place; I got drafted. Now I don’t rusting care.”

  “I can’t believe you,” Phauld says. His voice is too loud, rising in panic. “I fought for you.”

  “And lost.” Danel shakes her head. “Now it’s about surviving, adapting. Forget all that crap you heard back in Rennanis about Sanzeds and mongrels; that was just propaganda to unite the comm. Things are different now. ‘Necessity is the only law.’”

  “Don’t you rusting quote stonelore at me!”

  “She’s quoting stonelore because you don’t get it,” snaps the other man—the one who liked
the food. “They’re feeding us. They’re letting us be useful. It’s a test, you stupid shit. To see if we’re willing to earn a place in this comm!”

  “This comm?” Phauld gestures around at the camp. His laugh echoes off the rock faces. People look around, trying to figure out if the yelling means there’s some kind of problem. “Do you hear yourself? These people haven’t got a chance. They should be finding somewhere to bunker down, maybe rebuild one of the comms we razed along the way. Instead—”

  Ykka moves with a casualness that doesn’t deceive you. Everyone could see this coming, including Phauld, but he’s too stubborn to acknowledge reality. She stands up and unnecessarily brushes ash off her shoulders and steps across the circle and then puts a hand on the crown of Phauld’s head. He tries to twitch back, swatting at her. “Don’t rusting touch—”

  But then he stops. His eyes glaze over. Ykka’s done that thing to him—the thing she did to Cutter back in Castrima-under when people were working themselves into an orogene-lynching mob. Because you knew it was coming this time, you’re able to get a better handle on how she does the strange pulse. It’s definitely magic, some kind of manipulation of the thin, silvery filaments that dance and flicker between the motes of a person’s substance. Ykka’s pulse cuts through the knot of threads at the base of Phauld’s brain, just above the sessapinae. Everything’s still intact physically, but magically it’s as if she’s chopped his head off.

  He sags backward, and Ykka steps aside to let him flop bonelessly to the ground.

  One of the other Rennanis women gasps and scoots back, her chains jangling. The guards glance at each other, uncomfortably, but they’re not surprised; word of what Ykka did to Cutter spread through the comm afterward. A Rennanese man who hasn’t spoken before utters a swift oath in one of the Coaster creole languages; it’s not Eturpic so you don’t understand it, but his fear is clear enough. Danel only sighs.