The Stars Were Right

Chapter 1-1

ONE

I blew into town like the murmur of a warm sigh. The air was muggy and hot—high summer in Lovat. Clouds churned above the city like cake batter, promising rain. The island caravansara buzzed with activity as I led my party through its gates and into the open courtyard. The smells of grilled meat, dust, sweat, and animal dung competed for the attention of my nose. I could hear someone playing music, the rumble of discussions, and raised voices arguing.

I was home.

Other road-weary travelers swarmed around us, moving in and out of the caravansara, slipping past the ponderous cargowain. I looked over my shoulder at the ridiculous thing. It was enormous, slow, bogged down by the massive crate that dwarfed its frame. The oxen pulled slowly and the large wheels creaked along. The crate was made of fresh pine the color of whiskey and a brand for Wilem, Black & Bright, the crate's owners, blazed on the side.

This had been my charge. Normally a trip across the Big Ninety would have taken us a week, but with the laden cargowain behind me the trip had lengthened three times over. I was exhausted, covered in road dust, and hungry. Pierogi sounded good right now.

"By the Firsts, we made it. Another trip complete; more money in our pockets," mumbled Wensem dal Ibble, my partner in Bell Caravans. I looked up at the lanky maero. He smiled a wrinkled, crooked smile, his small dark eyes shining.

"That we did," I said, reaching up and clapping him on the shoulder. "What do you say we sign off on the delivery and go get our money?"

"Sounds good to me," agreed Wensem.

The driver of the massive cargowain dropped down from his seat and walked across the hard-packed earth to where my partner and I stood. He was a scrappy fellow with a rough tangle of white hair that stuck straight up. He pulled the goggles off his face and squinted up at me.

"Well, we're here," he said, swatting a fly away from his bulbous nose.

I grinned. "We are, and I'll need to have your signature confirming delivery."

He shook his head. "My signature won't mean a damn thing to the bosses. You'll need to get the cargo master's sign off. Wilem, Black & Bright have an office on the second story, right over there. See them."

He pointed.

I nodded, trying to hide my annoyance at being sent scrambling to get a simple signature. A few of the travelers who had accompanied my caravan approached me, shaking my hand, dropping extra lira in my palm to thank me for my guidance and protection.

Don't tell anyone but, truth be told, the Big Ninety isn't that dangerous. It begins somewhere East of the territories, cutting West like a lazy river between the mountains. For me, the open road begins and ends at Syringa, the trade town to the East. From there, I guide caravans west across the open plains and through the lofty western mountains before descending towards Lovat itself. There's something open and free about that big road that gets into my blood. Makes a roader crave its expanses. If you have the itch, it's easy work. The Lovat Municipalities and the Syringa Nation do a decent job at keeping companies moving between the two cities: armed militias mean raiders and thieves aren't generally a problem. The route's fairly straightforward as well. Sure, there's some knowledge needed in crossing the Grovedare Span, and there can be some confusion when you get to the mountain passes, but it's not like crossing the continent or trying to get behind the walls of Victory. Still, I graciously accepted their thanks, took their payment, and shook their hands, playing the part of a dutiful caravan master.

That duty finished, Wensem and I crossed the courtyard of the caravansara melting into the crowd as we made our way to the second story office of Wilem, Black & Bright, Import and Export.

The office was small and cluttered with papers and crates bearing the brand and documents explaining where the various objects were due to be shipped. It was located in an external corner of the building. I tried to see the fabled Lovat skyline, but the layers of dirt that clung to the office's windows like moss prevented me from even seeing the time of day. I guessed they hadn't been cleaned in a hundred years.

"I can't pay you," explained the cargomaster, a surly kresh. His fleshy, V-shaped mouth chewed on a musty cigar. "We don't keep cash at this office. Not allowed. We're strictly for receiving and shipping. I'll sign a proof of delivery and services rendered, but you'll need to go to the main office to receive payment."

Wensem frowned and rolled his eyes. He was as eager as I to get paid and get into the city. I was just excited to be back in civilization, but Wensem had a more noble purpose: to see his newborn son.

"I was really hoping I wouldn't be required to run all over the city just to get paid for services rendered," I explained, trying to sound professional. I probably failed.

The kresh looked at me unabashed through clouds of pungent blue smoke. "Welcome to Wilem, Black & Bright. We like our protocol."

"Clearly."

He gave a bitter smile and scratched out a proof of delivery on official-looking stationery with a boney claw. "You'll find the main office in Pergola Square. Know the Hotel Arcadia?"

"I do," I mumbled. It was partially true. The hotel was too elevated for my kind: seventh level, extending up through the eighth and ninth until its upper floors touched the sun itself.

"They like their protocol as well. Roaders aren't allowed in, but show this to the doorman and he'll let you in. He won't like it, and he'll sneer down his nose at you, but he'll let you in."

"Thanks," I said, taking the slip of paper and tucking it into a chest pocket.

"Might want a shower first," the kresh added as we left, letting the old door swing shut behind me. We said brief goodbyes to the rest of our party. I settled accounts with the men and women of our company: Hannah Clay, my go-to scout whom I would undoubtedly see again on our next caravan; Eli Pascal, one of our occasional caravan guards; and a few others, doling out three weeks' wages from my billfold to each of them.

The trip had to have been excruciatingly boring for them, spending most of their days languishing along the road as the caravan fought against the slow pace of the cargowain. I gave each a healthy bonus which cleaned me out of most of my money. I told some to keep in touch because I was planning on leading another caravan out of the city in a month's time. A good crew can be hard to come by.

"Let's get paid," I said to Wensem, feeling a slight wave of déjà vu that rolled over into annoyance. "I'm nearly broke. Remind me to have a stern talking with August. I appreciate the numbers behind this job but all this running around is a bit ridiculous."

Wensem nodded in agreement, repeating the kresh's line about Wilem, Black & Bright liking their protocol. I gave him a sarcastic smile.

* * *

The caravansara sat on an island close to the mainland. In ages past it undoubtedly had been a place of residence and business, but as the waters had risen after the Aligning most of those were swallowed up by the sea. In this era it was significantly smaller, serving only as a port of call. Twin floating bridges lead away from the island, through a tunnel, and into the mighty city of Lovat beyond.

We began to cross one of the massive floating bridges. Bits of old buildings half-submerged and rotted stuck up from around the edges, eventually fading into the murk as we passed over deeper water.

We moved among the thinning crowd heading into the city. Motor-coaches and fourgons passed us, belching the black smoke that followed the rich around like a noxious perfume as they made their way to more elevated levels. Fuel was hard to come by, and as a result, expensive; only the ultra-elevated burned it over trivial matters like personal transportation.

The silhouettes of Lovat now dominated the skyline. Nine levels stretching skyward. Five hundred meters high at its apex. Each level housing buildings of various sizes sagged on the backs of buildings below. Thousands of sodium lamps twinkled in their recesses.

Lovat was the oldest and largest city on the coast, and it showed its age by the haphazard mess it had become. Roads rose and dipped, elevators and staircases criss-crossed, and floors would end and then begin across the city leaving large empty spaces between levels.

The lower levels of Lovat were darker, shadowed by the more elevated levels. As residents were fond of saying, "Sunlight doesn't shine in the depths." Smoke from fires and cooking stoves hung around the city like a permanent fog. You could see the sunlight from the seventh, eighth, and ninth levels, but rarely did it penetrate the murk. Down here, life was lived beneath sodium and neon."

* * *

The bridge deposited Wensem and me on the eastern side of the Fourth Level warren known as Frink Park. Frink Park sat one level above the only dry land in central Lovat: an island known as Broadway, named after the central street that ran its length.

The streets of the warren were lined with modest apartment blocks, small restaurants, commercial vegetable gardens, bars, a gym, and a few pool halls. The residents had taken to draping colorful lines of flags from the roofs, which gave the neighborhood a festive feel. It was a quaint, quiet warren, safe enough but not totally free from the street gangs or pitchfork dealers operating out of broken telephone booths.

"Have you decided on a name?" I asked Wensem as we made our way along Cherry Street toward Pergola Square. We passed by a group of teenage maero playing squares on the corner and took care not to disturb them.

"Considered my father's name," said the maero in his soft tone, stepping around one of the teens. Wensem was big and strong, but his voice had a surprisingly soft quality—almost delicate. It always took people by surprise.

We were moving away from the residential buildings and into the more commercial area of Broadway Island. I looked up and couldn't see a single hole into the upper levels. No sunlight penetrated this deep. Just the soot-blackened cement of the buildings above and the slowly spinning fans of air circulators.

"Ibble dal Ibble?" I asked as Cherry Street came to an end and James Street began.

Around us the streets were lit with the yellow glow of sodium lamps, occasionally broken by the vulgar bloom of neon. The bright colors hawked all manner of goods and services: food, tailoring, liquor, weapons, loans, entertainment, barbering, and cheap s*x.

The air was heavy with exhaust, grease, and sweat; odors came and went as quick as a breath. Hawkers filled the streets with their carts shouting at passersby in crude calls like angry crows. Nearby street musicians strummed on out-of-tune guitars and shabby beggars pleaded for a spare lira, dirty hands extended to hurrying pedestrians.

Wensem chuckled and shook his head at my mistake. "Ibble dal Wensem. In maero culture our father's name becomes our follow name—er—last name as you humans put it. Dal means 'son of.'"

I sighed and I wondered if I was blushing. "Ah, yeah sorry," I mumbled.

My embarrassment was forgotten as the smell of spiced meat filled my nose. Food. Real food.

"Hold up," I said, and stepped up to the cart. A handsome dimanian with two red horns growing from his cheeks smiled at me.

"What will it be?" he asked, waving his hands over the grill before him.

"Chicken skewer," I said, handing him half a lira.

He nodded and removed one of the hot skewers of meat from the grill, wrapping the lower portion with a wax-coated paper before handing it to me. In the yellow lights it glazed, sticky with some mystery sauce. My stomach rumbled.