The Stars Were Right

Chapter 1-2

Knowing dimanian cooking the meat would be on the spicier side. Possibly paprika and chilies, often a thickened curry. The scent wafting from the meat made my mouth water.

I generally try to hire a decent chuck but the fellow we parted with back at the caravansara had been terrible. The food he prepared was bland and overcooked. Ingredients on the Big Ninety are sparse even with a dedicated chuckwain; no matter how well we stock, half our trip always ends up consisting of dry hardtack.

I bit into the chicken, letting the juice run down my chin. It was utter delight. The meat was fresh and perfectly grilled. The heat from the spices (chili, I was right) burned my mouth. I regretted not buying a second skewer.

"It's a wonder you're not enormous," said Wensem as we continued to walk.

"What makes you say that?" I asked through a mouthful of chicken.

"You're eating. All the time. I'm shocked you didn't buy a bowl of noodles at the caravansara. I saw you eyeing those vendors."

"I hardly eat on the trail. Besides, I didn't want noodles; I really want pierogi," I said. It was true. Eat too much and it makes you slow, and it's never good to be slowed down out on the Big Ninety.

"That," he pointed to my half-devoured skewer, "isn't pierogi."

I ignored him. "Anyway, the vendors at the caravansara aren't very good. You buy there, you risk a sour stomach. You know that."

Wensem chuckled in agreement as he walked beside me.

We continued to make our way toward the Arcadia Hotel. The city grew taller around us, the ceiling above us rose, and we could see a few spaces through which the upper levels were illuminated.

Pedestrian traffic increased as we moved closer toward the center of the city. A used-suit salesman stood on a small crate near one corner and shouted at passersby in a rough, thickly accented language I couldn't understand. Just down the street another hawked broken radios from a folding table.

Lovat buzzed with life, and I was glad to be home.

* * *

A gruff-looking doorman in a sharp black suit stood next to the gilded doors of the Arcadia Hotel. The first floor of the Arcadia rested at Level Seven and rose upwards beyond Level Nine. It was one of the tallest buildings in the city: sixty stories and elevated well above the lowest levels of Lovat.

"We have business here," I said, hastily wiping my greasy hands on my trousers. It wasn't my finest moment.

The doorman wrinkled his nose and, without a word, took a step back from us.

"Look," I said, pulling the proof of services rendered from my pocket and handing it to the doorman, "We have business with Wilem, Black & Bright. We'll go on up, conduct our affairs, and then bugger off."

The doorman studied the note for a long moment before handing it back and stiffly opening the door. Wensem and I walked inside.

* * *

The interior of the Arcadia Hotel was overwhelming. Chandeliers of crystal and glass hung from a baroque ceiling of cream and burgundy. The walls were papered with hand-painted linen. Ornate tables squatted around the room holding up enormous bouquets of fresh flowers. Waist-coated bellmen moved trollies of luggage around the main floor through doors and into elevators.

The luxury washed over me, caught me in its tide. For a moment I felt adrift.

My father was a wheelwright, and I had grown up a wheelwright's son in the small town of Merritt on the outskirts of Lovat. We didn't have much: a small bedroom I shared with my brother, a narrow single bed. Our house smelled of my mother's plum bread and my father's favorite tobacco. His workshop had been equally small and was filled with the scent of wood being cut and soaked before it was bent into wheels. A decent life.

I met all types in my father's shop: Reunified Road Priests, beggars, traveling salesmen, wanderers, mercenaries, and of course roaders and caravaneers. Living along the Big Ninety is what led me to caravaneering. Now I couldn't imagine not sleeping under the stars or being without that bustle.

The dense bustle of Lovat. The smells of its market, the flavors of King Station, the sounds of a couple fighting in an apartment above. Food carts and dim sum, antique dealers and used clothing. The Arcadia Hotel, with its eight-course dinners, cloth napkins, diamonds, and custom-tailored anything, was not my Lovat.

We approached the front desk. The clerk behind was a young girl with golden hair and a face caked with makeup. She smiled at me, her eyes betraying the greeting. I felt out of place. Under her gaze I could feel the road dust plastered to my shirt, the mud that stained the cuffs of my pants, the brambles that lodged themselves in my hair.

"Can I help you?" she asked with a strange pressed tone.

"Wilem, Black & Bright?" I requested.

"Ah," she began, the smile wavering. Her hands played over a brass autodex with faded yellowing cards. "Wilem, Black & Bright, yes. They're on the fifty-first floor. West side of the building. I'll ring them and ah...tell them you're both on your way."

"I'd appreciate that," I said with my own, fixed smile. Damn this protocol.

"The elevators are around the corner," she explained. "Here is a token."

"Token?" I asked, taking the odd-shaped plastic disk.

"Yes, you'll need it to operate the elevator. Keeps the homeless from wandering the halls."

I nodded and we left, making our way to the elevators, eager to find Wilem, Black & Bright.

* * *

The ancient lift's doors clattered open at the fifty-first floor. We were far above Level Nine's streets. Bright sunlight flooded through windows at either end of the hallway. I could see other towers that stretched away from the jumbled mess below reaching for the sky. Squinting after the low light of the sublevels, I shielded my eyes as we walked toward the west side of the hotel.

"I don't like this place," said Wensem coolly.

"Me neither. Let's find the offices and get out of here."

We found the offices easily enough. Near the end of the hall, an elegant frosted frosted glass door with hand-painted letters led to a smartly decorated waiting room. Square leather furniture ran along a wood-paneled wall and detailed etchings depicting scenes from some distant past hung in extravagant frames. A receptionist sat behind an antique desk, the value of which could probably feed a brood of anur for their entire lifespan.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" asked the dauger from behind the desk. Her mask was reflective, with a sheen of cobalt that matched the eyes that moved behind the slits. It was impressive, elevated, and had the intriguing effect she desired.

"Yeah. I'm here to get paid for a delivery."

"Ah, the caravan master. I got the telegraph an hour ago. Bell Caravans, was it?"

I nodded.

"Mister Black will be quite pleased."

She tilted her head to one side, a motion I took as a smile despite not being able to see her mouth. I returned the expression.

"Just doing our job. Sorry it took longer than we had expected, that crate was heavy and with the summer thaw at the pass, things were slow going."

"Well, the estimate was a month," she said. "And you beat it by a whole week. Better than we could have hoped for and better than your competitors' bids."

"Well, I suppose I did say a month, didn't I?"

She ignored me. "Here, let me fetch the coinbox."

The dauger disappeared behind a door, leaving Wensem and me standing awkwardly in the middle of the reception area. A man in a dark red jacket walked in and took a position behind us, forming a short line.

I had the dull realization that I had probably tracked dusty footprints across the lush carpet, but decided it was better if I didn't look down and check.

The dauger receptionist returned in the flustered breeze of the perpetually busy, a gray metal box in her hands. She glanced at the newcomer and said she'd be with him in a few moments. He took a seat in one of the waiting chairs.

"Ah, here we are. Three thousand, correct? Are Lovat liras acceptable?"

"Three thousand is correct and, yes, ma'am, liras are fine," I said, smiling politely. I watched as she laid out the bills, counting them twice.

A window occupied the wall behind her desk. As she counted, I watched the rich of Lovat play on their Level Nine terraces, the midsummer sun baking down on them. Laughter, wine, and cuts of meat sizzling on outdoor grills.

In the distance massive cargo ships and ferries pulled in and out from terminals, heading out into the world towards the distant island city of Empress and parts unknown. Cargo cranes littered the skies like pigeons, raising more towers and cramming as much life as possible into this small corner of the world. It was a lovely view, an expensive view.

The receptionist spoke, snapping me away from my skyline reverie, saying: "Mister Black has authorized a five hundred lira bonus. He wants to thank you for your hard work and prompt delivery. He's sorry he cannot thank you personally, but he's a very busy man."

"Well, that's very kind of him, ma'am. Tell him thank you," I said. I had expected the bonus. I had also expected the trip to only take three weeks. Telling the client it would be four had set me up in a position to bonus. It was an underhanded trick but I had a feeling Wilem, Black & Bright could spare the extra five hundred lira.

"Receipt?" she asked.

"We'll be okay," I said, thanking the receptionist and shaking her hand.

* * *

"It's about time I go see my son," stated Wensem. He was getting fidgety. I couldn't blame him, when we had been told we'd have to come all the way to Pergola Square he had deflated. I forked over his portion of the payment, plus a little extra from the bonus. It left me with a little over fifteen hundred lira in my pocket. A decent wage and it would easily hold me over for the month I planned to stay in the city.

"You take care of yourself, Wensem, and that little man of yours."

"Little maero," Wensem corrected with a grin that followed the crooked line of his jaw. We started walking north. I was heading south, but figured I'd walk with my partner a little longer.

"You settled on a name?"

"Honestly? I was thinking Waldo, after you. Waldo dal Wensem," said Wensem.

I sucked in a gasp, then beamed. "Are you sure?"

"I spoke about the naming with Kitasha before we left. She felt it was an honor. You and I, we built Bell Caravans, and you're as much a member of my clan as any of my brothers. It would be an honor to give my son your name."

"Well," I said, taken aback. "I'd be honored, my friend."

"It's a good name: rare, noble," said Wensem as we walked down a caged stairwell from the ninth to the eighth level of the city. "The kind of name that a maero should feel pride in wearing."

"Don't know how noble it is."

"You make it noble," stated Wensem.

We got in an elevator and dropped to the city's fifth level, passing out of the light and re-entering the murk of the sublevels.

When we stepped out of the lift and in between two small buildings on the fifth level Wensem extended his big hand. I took it and we shook, his small black eyes flashing.

"See you in a month," I said.

Wensem nodded.

"Telegraph me if you get bored," I chuckled.

"Hardly. I'll probably be unreachable for most of the time. I intend on spending as much time as possible with him and Kitasha before I drag my ass back out onto the Big Ninety. We have a family ritual to perform, a bonding between father and son. It's long overdue already."

"At least invite me over for dinner before we head out again. Let Waldo dal Wensem meet his namesake."

Wensem grinned. "I'll see what I can do."

I laughed and slapped his shoulder. "Get out of here."

Wensem departed, moving in his long stride, arms swinging at his side as he disappeared down an alley and headed north.

The smell of the street vendors was alluring. My stomach rumbled again. I needed a snack.