The Silk Map (32 page)

He could not feel the breeze, but one corner of the carpet slapped the dust.

Now a girl lit a candle and held a tube of paper over it; the paper rose into the air. It kindled a vision in his memory.

“Haytham ibn Zakwan,” he murmured. “Whatever became of him. . . . Shapes in the sky . . . oh, no.”

He looked this way and that, but of course nothing in the great bright blue confirmed his suspicions. He bowed to the children, packed his remaining wares, threw the carpet onto a camel, and returned to the inn. From there he marched to the tower of the magistrate.

There was at least one advantage to being a bizarre outlander: people were interested in talking to him. In short order he was in the magistrate's presence.

“You mean to tell me,” the man said, frowning beneath white whiskers, drops of perspiration gleaming upon a spotted bald head, “that we are menaced by paper balloons?”

“Not paper, eminence. These will be spheres of cloth, filled with hot air, suspending baskets. Such contrivances are at the mercy of the wind, but Karvaks have Wind-Tamers, I'm told.”

“I do not think this is the hot air we must worry about.”

“Eminence, hear me out. I have heard of such things from . . . a friend.”

THE TALE OF THE THIEF,
HA, I MEAN MERCHANT, OF COURSE

Far away, beyond Anoka, beyond Efritstan and the Sandboil, there stands beside the sea the city of Palmary, a city in the shape of a hand.

(A sea is more than a vast lake. Imagine those moments in the desert heat when we see a mirage of water shining in the distance. Imagine that water becoming real and filling everything, that the vastness of the sands becomes the vastness of the waves, that an oasis is now an island, that mountains are mainlands. I do not lie in this.)

Even as your town is shaped as a butterfly, giving your people, I suspect, a free spirit, so my Palmary is a place of trading, of building, and grasping. By ancient edict the city cannot grow beyond the outline of the five fingers and palm, save for a ragged dockland we call the Sleeve. And as our city thrives, so its inhabitants build upward rather than out. A thousand towers spear the skies over Palmary. Knowledge and learning thrive in the looming shadows. A steady stream of iconoclasts, philosophers, heretics, and madmen come to this place. And likewise inventors.

Haytham ibn Zakwan was one such. A striking figure, he was garbed in the gilded robes of a Mirabad noble. Rumor had it he'd been chased away from his family's haunts for unorthodox ideas and raucous living; he certainly lived up to the reputation. Haytham rented the upper two floors of a six-story tower on Lifeline Road. It had to be the upper floors because of the nature of his research. From time to time observers saw smoke rise from that place by day and dark shadowy orbs by night.

Certain whispers reached a man I knew. Let's call him Osteon. A gentleman thief, you might say. The sort of person who had stolen a fortune many times over, yet always managed to spend it in free living and reinvestment in his schemes. You frown, that I would know such a person? I've heard it said that a holy man might know all manner of persons without shame or defilement, for the light travels with him. And I have also heard it said we should imitate holy men. There you have it.

Truth to tell there was a certain zest to Osteon's criminality, and his reputation grew. He liked a challenge. Certain individuals professed curiosity about Haytham's activities and offered Osteon payment for the intelligence. In good confidence, he commenced the work.

The tower of Haytham's residence was in the respectable middle of Lifeline Road, not the rowdy or decrepit ends, and greenery surrounded it, affording Osteon an arboreal ascent to the third story. An ironsilk strand tied to a hook dipped in ur-glue facilitated his progress.

He reached the fifth floor and discovered a window ajar. He coated the hinges with olive oil (a fine variety from a grove down the Sleeve) and widened the gap with great patience. An odor of soot greeted his nose, and Osteon understood why the inhabitant would want fresh air. The inventor was about his work, whatever that was. This also meant the man was on hand.

Had this assignment been of Osteon's own choosing, the expedition would have ended there. An empty dwelling was a puzzle to be solved at leisure; an inhabited one was a gauntlet. Osteon far preferred puzzles. He'd never killed a householder, though there were guards in their graves who had cause to curse him. To triumph over enemies was never his joy. To revel in storied objects snatched from the chambers of the mighty—that was glory.

Still, although the inventor's presence was unwelcome, the mission was one of intelligence, and Osteon would honor his contract.

The thief believed in preparation, and in his lair hung cloaks fashioned to match the stonework of every tower in the city. He raised his sleeve, hoping the inventor's eye would overlook the sudden widening of the sill. He peered around the cuff. Firelight spread fluttering illumination around the shadowed room like the caressing fingers of a collector. Its source was another chamber, and from time to time the muttering shadow of a turbaned man sliced the light.

Osteon had hoped to glimpse a treasure-chamber out of desert tales, like a cave crammed with pearls and sapphires, golden goblets, bejeweled scimitars, bags of dirhams and dinars, magic lamps awaiting a rub. What slowly came clear was another class of treasures—telescopes from Kpalamaa, sextants from Swanisle, mechanical clocks from Loomsberg, mathematical treatises from Mirabad, even abaci from Qiangguo. Vials of crystal bearing varicolored powders stood near candles like soldiers at their liege's camp. A slender glass tube held an attenuated clump of quicksilver. Charts and notes were strewn over every flat surface, covered with diagrams and notes in the flowing script of Mirabad. And upon an easel stood a sketch of a basket with a man aboard, suspended by ropes from a flying sphere. Thus did Osteon see his first balloon.

A curious sensation came over Osteon as his eyes swam with wonders. Even the most wholesome sorcery aroused an itch of unease within him, for the suspension of the world's usual rules seemed to deny the worth of stealth and wit. Yet this was a form of learning equally baffling yet somehow bracing. If sorcery was a dank but glittering cave, the inventor's craft was a windy peak revealing the lands all around.

Thus dizzied, he stepped silently into the room.

Immediately there came the itch of unease.

It was far from reliable, but a long association with magic had given Osteon some sense for its presence. It served him that evening, for he rolled to one side even as a shape descended from the ceiling like some cocooned snack dangled by a giant spider. The shape was humanoid and hulking, yet touched the floor with a gentle, dry creaking. Wrapped in what resembled rune-inscribed bandages, the thing tugged at the white strip still connecting it to the ceiling; it came loose, and the entity whirled the arcane wrapping through the air like a whip. Ancient writings glowed with a green phosphorescence, a match for the radiance that spilled from the sockets where a living man's eyes might have been. Haytham ibn Zakwan might have been a natural philosopher, but he guarded his work with the unnatural.

I had already come too far.

“I must interrupt your story,” said the magistrate in a regretful tone.

Bone sighed. “I neglected to maintain the pretense of ‘Osteon,' didn't I?”

“That is true, but it is not the problem. Rather, the nature of your supposed inventor's defense indicates you may have knowledge of the Leviathan Imperium.”

“Eh, the what?”

“The aeons-old inhuman realm of cephalopods whose eldritch ruins yet underlie our sands.”

“Ah, that Leviathan Imperium.”

“As such, I wish to question you more closely. Knowledge of such things is prized.” The magistrate clapped, and two guards entered. “Show this gentleman to the Room of Great Understanding. I will speak to him later.” To Bone he added, “Do not fear! Knowledge is the root of wisdom, and questions are the seeds of enlightenment.”

As the guards grasped his arms, Bone asked, “Is truth like a tree of crystal?”

“I apprehend by your question that you do indeed belong in the Room of Great Understanding.”

“And I perceive that you have little true interest in your people's welfare. I come to warn you about Karvaks borne through the air!”

“Amusing. I will in turn tell you of sentiences who swim through the sand, and whose works still direct our fates. Take him.”

“Sir?” asked one of the guards. “Will you not now sound the alarm against the Karvaks? This is the second report we've had—”

“I won't have the peace of Shahuang troubled by such matters. Our friends beneath the sands will protect us from all things. Put this man beside Lieutenant Jia in the Room of Great Understanding.”

As the guards marched Bone down the stairs, a strange hulking man intercepted them, a fellow who seemed of great bulk yet light step, with his face shrouded by a turban. “I will take him the rest of the way,” said the man in a dry, rustling sort of voice.

“We have orders,” said one of the guards. “Who are you?”

“A friend.”

“Well, go away, friend, unless the magistrate himself orders us differently.”

Bone had an intimation about this person. Almost an itchy feeling. He groaned and feigned a swoon. “Oh, the heat . . .”

The bulky man unraveled.

That was the only word for it. The clothes scattered, the turban fell, and the carpet within opened up to engulf one of the guards.

With the second guard unbalanced, Bone heaved and knocked him from the staircase. The man groaned and struggled to rise. Meanwhile his companion twitched in the midst of being smothered.

Bone recognized the carpet he and his companions had brought out of the desert.

“Uh—carpet? Thank you, but that is enough! Let's . . . make haste?”

The carpet hesitated, even as shouts rose from elsewhere in the pagoda. At last it billowed up from the gasping guard, following Bone down the stairs in a staggering, drunken way, something like a rag savaged by a playful dog.

“Very well, O thief,” said the carpet. How it spoke was a matter of some consternation, but Bone had the impression that the carpet was vibrating the air along its whole breadth. The voice was deep. “Yet you do not command me, not until I know for certain my true owner is dead.”

Bone nodded, looked this way and that, and beckoned the carpet toward a window. He climbed out, offering his hand. The carpet squeezed through, clutching the sill with a corner. They were three stories up.

“I do not claim to own you,” Bone said. “I would never claim a sentient being. Merely a sentient being's possessions.”

“In my case, O rogue, being and possession are identical.”

“I am not your owner, carpet, though I confess to great curiosity as to who is. My more immediate question is, however, can you fly?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Your tone is not entirely encouraging.”

“I am improving, but still my flight is problematic. We could soar for a time, but the landing would be hard.”

“Do you see yonder wing-shaped lake? Perhaps you could aim that way.”

“Hold on.”

The journey was seven seconds of gyrating terror, and one of slapping, watery impact. Drenched, man and carpet scrambled out of the lake.

Bone looked over his shoulder. “I am limping. I fear we'll be caught. But I thank you for your efforts. Do you have a name?”

“I am Deadfall. I, too, limp after my fashion. The dunes are high, but they are softer than rock or sword. If you think you can hold on, Imago Bone, I will convey you into the desert.”

“Know you the way to the ruins?”

“I observed your companions' departure as surely as you. Do you have your essential possessions?”

“I lack my travel pack, but I have weapons and a little water. I always assume the necessity of a quick escape.” Bone knelt and grabbed the carpet's edge. “I am prepared.”