Watcher's Web (22 page)

“Yes.”

“What
happened?”

“The legends
say a star fell from the sky, but in reality, it was a wayward
asteroid. For all they peered into space, luck was not on their
side. It came from behind the larger sun and by the time they saw
it, there was little time left to prepare. Our own Mirani legends
say the cloud of dust around the planet took thirty years to
clear.”

Jessica’s skin
broke out in goosebumps. That’s how scientists said dinosaurs had
become extinct. A massive impact, clouds obscuring the sun for
years. What a horrible way to die. At the same time, she remembered
hearing running footsteps on stone, panting breaths, a slamming
door and the rumbling of the earth. She’d thought it had been a
vision when she was in the cave with Ikay, but could it be a
memory? She clamped her arms around herself.

“Did anyone
survive?”

“At first, it
seemed not, but then, many, many years later, another kind of
people appeared on Asto. They called themselves Coldi. No one is
quite sure where they came from. Their own history tells of them
arising from the dust, and when you couple legend and known
history, it seems they are right. Certainly there is no evidence of
Coldi presence anywhere else in the inhabited worlds dating from
before the disaster. There are rumours that the Coldi are not a
real race but were created by the Aghyrians specifically for
survival. Other say they’re descendants of those Aghyrians who
survived in the caves under the destroyed city of Aghyr, but
there’s no proof of that. Wherever they came from, the Coldi have
adaptations that help them survive the heat. They came to Asto, or
were already there, they found Aghyrian knowledge still buried
under the ruins of cities. That’s why we have the Exchange network:
the Aghyrian people invented it. They never built it in its current
form, but they discovered the principles.”

“But none of
them survived, even though they could travel into space?”

“They had only
just started a large-scale space program. They had nowhere near the
capacity to get everyone off-planet in time, but yes, some fled. In
the old works, there is mention of three ships leaving Asto before
the disaster. No one took those records seriously, because no one
has ever found out where they went.”

Jessica raised
a hand to her mouth. “Barresh.”

He nodded, his
face grim. “So it seems. Or at least one of them did.”

“And they’re
no longer here.”

While he shook
his head, she wondered if this was true or how else would both
Pengali and keihu share avya, a characteristic that had to have
come from this old race, if she and Daya both had it, as well as
some Pengali and keihu girls.

“Maybe we
should ask the Pengali about the caves.”

“Yes.” He
finally turned his gaze from the screen. “Yes, that sounds like a
good idea.” He stared at her in a way that made her uncomfortable,
and she realised that he hadn’t addressed her relationship with
these people, nor was he surprised that she was interested in
history that, for all he knew, was far removed from hers.

And
indeed, all signs said to her that he
did
know what she was and he chose not to address it. Why? Good
question. Because he knew avya had triggered the transfer of the
plane?

“Um—lady?”

Only then did
Jessica see the dressmaker’s assistant behind her, holding the
dress. Blue folds of material shimmered in her hands. The bodice
fastened with bows at the back. A decorative vest, its edge
scalloped, hung over the front. Elbow-length sleeves were adorned
with small plaits, secured at the hem with tiny embroidered
flowers. From the waist flowed several layers of material, frilled
like a petticoat.

Another
Pengali servant held up a singlet and shorts made from the black
silky material, tied with a ribbon.

Iztho nodded
at her. “Go with them. Put it on.”

Jessica
followed the assistants to the back of the shop, where she slipped
the too-tight, and by now very smelly, dress over her head.

Jessica put on
the satin-like shorts and singlet, the material cool on her skin.
One of the assistants tied up the ribbon at the back, while another
lifted the dress over her head. A rustle of blue material cascaded
to her feet.

Another
servant climbed on the stool. She combed back Jessica’s hair and
tied it in a bun with a broad blue ribbon of the same fabric as her
dress. Yet another servant approached with a wooden box, which
contained all manner of small pots. Jessica protested that she
could manage very well without make-up and had done so all her
life, but the Pengali were not to be distracted. The servant on the
stool took a thin brush from the box, dabbing it in a pot of black
to outline Jessica’s eyebrows. A round brush with dark brown
accentuated her lips. Then he took a larger brush and brushed
powder on Jessica’s face, followed by sprinkles of glitter around
her eyes.

Finally, the
servants led her into the shop and pushed her in front of the
glimmering black stone wall that functioned as a mirror.

Jessica
stopped.

And
stared.

Fought to
restrain tears that threatened in the corners of her eyes, lest
they run over the so carefully applied powder.

The dressmaker
walked back and forth behind her, making approving noises, but she
barely heard him; she could only stare at her mirror image.

Had that
dreadful Stephen Fitzgerald, his friends, her own friends at
school, even her parents ever suggested she was ugly? Had she
herself ever thought she was ugly? This awkward, skinny, pale,
lank-haired tomboy?

The young
woman who stared back at her, who moved her hand when she did,
looked like a princess, a tall and straight figure, a proud and
aristocratic face, a black piercing gaze.

The dressmaker
came to stand next to her. More than a head taller, she towered
over him and compared to her, he looked like big fat toad.

The dressmaker
nudged her. “You . . . like it?”

Like it? Her
reflection blurred in a haze of tears as her gaze once more roamed
the magnificent dress. It accentuated all the good parts of her,
her narrow waist, her strong shoulders, but unlike dresses she had
worn before, it didn’t make her look like an adolescent boy in
women’s clothing. She wondered what—

Where was
Iztho?

Just as she
had noticed the screen left on the couch, still turned on, he
strode in from the street, carrying a large blue flower.

He stopped.
His mouth fell open. He looked from her hair to her bare feet and
back again. Jessica’s skin pricked.

The dressmaker
smiled and spoke to him in keihu. Iztho ignored him, stepped
forward, took Jessica’s hand and bowed. “Lady. May I offer you a
small gift to compliment your beauty?”

Jessica wished
she could laugh at his silliness—how dreadfully formal he sounded
when he spoke his own language—but a deep blush had risen to her
cheeks.

She took the
flower from him and noticed it was the same colour as his eyes.

Lost for
words, she tucked the flower in her bun; he still watched her in
the mirror. Once again, she ran her hands over the dress, looking
at her mirror image, her mind aglow with a sense of pride that was
new to her. Why the hell had she spent the past seventeen years
thinking that because she didn’t look like the other kids at
school, she was worth nothing? Why had she thought that because
specialist doctors knew no solution to her mental problem, none
existed?

No, there
would be no more presumptions, no more barriers. She smiled at
Iztho, who still watched her.

“Thank
you.”

He accepted a
parcel from the dressmaker that presumably contained the other
items he’d ordered. Then he held out an outstretched arm, and
Jessica put her hand on it like a noble girl accepting a dance. His
skin felt cool under her palm.

Like this, her
back held straight, she accompanied him out of the shop to the
astonished and curious gazes of others.

From now on,
things would be different.

Chapter
19

J
ESSICA STOPPED
in the shadows and peered through the bars of a gate. The broad,
furry silhouette of Iztho came to a halt behind her. His voice
rumbled somewhere near her shoulder. “In here.”

An abandoned
garden. Reddish moonlight gilded creepers trailing the rim of a dry
fountain, a statue at its centre. Not a single pinprick of light
lit the dark form of the house. Exposed roof beams clawed at the
night sky like the ribs of some dead creature.

Iztho pushed
her gently aside, sliding his hand under his cloak. “Let me go
first. I don’t like the look of this.”

They had gone
back to speaking English; for this night only, he said.

Jessica pushed
him back, a bit rougher. “No. She said no weapons.”

His eyes met
hers in a stern look, the glacial blue irises faded to lifeless
grey. “This situation could be dangerous. You don’t know what they
want. It could be a trap.”

A shiver crept
over Jessica’s arms, but she refused to be put aside by him. When
he opened the gate—it creaked—she was the first to enter the
garden. Long shadows slid over the pavement as they walked up the
path and the steps, Iztho behind her, his hand again under his
cloak.

Jessica
glared.

He said, “I
swear I have never met a woman as stubborn as you.”

“Then what are
the women like where you come from?”

He muttered a
curse and pushed himself in front again.

She followed
him, up the path, between broken statues, up the steps to the
porch, into the darkness of the shadows. His fur-clad back moved in
front of her. Really—now whose idea was it to come here? Who was
trusted by the Pengali?

Something
shuffled in the dark.

“Watch out!”
Jessica sensed the presence of others, their warmth radiating
amongst the stone pillars of the porch. “Is this the Pengali
hide-out?”

Shit—Iztho’s
charge gun glinted in the shadow under his cloak. Jessica made
frantic gestures for him to put it away. If she could see the gun,
the Pengali with their much better night vision would see it
too.

“I am Trader
Iztho Andrahar of the Miran. I have come in peace. However, if you
will not show yourself and talk to me in an honest way, I’ll have
to assume you’re hostile.”

Oh, the
pompous arse.

A small figure
emerged from between two pillars, the head ringed in white hair
like a ghost. She wore a too-wide gown of uneven length that looked
like a worn nightgown. A familiar voice whispered, “Anmi.”

In two steps,
Jessica had crossed the distance between them. She threw herself
into Ikay’s arms, and would have lifted the old female off the
ground had she not been wearing that silly too-wide gown, which
slipped off her shoulders in Jessica’s hug.

When Iztho
took a step towards the house, two Pengali jumped out from behind
the pillars, one cried, “Only Anmi.” Knives glittered.

In a flash of
metal, Iztho raised his gun in a two-handed grip.

Jessica jumped
between them, facing the Pengali. “Oh, stop this nonsense. He’s
helping me. He can come.”

Pengali eyes
glinted in Ikay’s direction. She made a hand signal; knives
lowered.

Iztho glanced
at her.

Jessica
mumbled, “Put that bloody thing away, or they’re not even going to
talk to us.”

“You really do
want to be difficult, do you?”

Jessica
stepped past him.

Ikay preceded
them into the house. Two once-great doors, the wood now rotten,
sagged on elaborate hinges. A short hallway led to a carved arch,
and opened into a hall. Silent figures crowded on
haphazardly-placed couches and mattresses.

Pengali
shuffled aside. Hands or tails reached up to touch Jessica’s legs
as she walked past. Occasional whispers drifted on the air,
“Anmi.”

In the middle
of the hall, red moonlight fell through a broken ceiling window on
a couple of cushions. Ikay gestured for Jessica to sit down. She
was glad that she had changed out of the dress in the room of the
guesthouse Iztho had rented for her earlier that afternoon.

Iztho remained
standing while his gaze roamed the crowd, like a vigilant body
guard. He still held the bloody gun.

Jessica raised
her voice so everyone could hear, and said in rehearsed Mirani, “We
have come because I want to hear the story of the people who made
the chamber.”

Iztho
translated into keihu.

Ikay spoke to
him; he replied.

A younger
Pengali female joined Ikay, with Ikay having to translate what she
said for Iztho, him asking questions and Ikay translating it back
again. After a few such exchanges, the young female went to stand
amongst the seated crowd. Jessica noticed that all of the Pengali
wore old and ill-fitting clothing, and she remembered Iztho’s
comments about the importance of the state of one’s clothing.

Iztho faced
Jessica, moonlight falling on his silken hair. “She’s going to tell
the histories. It’s a formal sort of thing; they don’t write. The
elder will translate into keihu for me, and then I’ll translate for
you.”

The young
female began her story, speaking in rehearsed tones and hand
signals; Iztho translated in his deep rumble that tickled the hair
against Jessica’s ear. “The Akkar who fell from the sky told this
story to repeat to our children so no one will forget what happened
to them.

“One day when
the Akkar people still lived in their beautiful home, a star came
too close. Their elders said it would fall and their whole world
would burn. There was much panic amongst the people. Many took
their lives. Many took all their possessions and buried themselves
under the ground. Many of them fought. But the wise elders who
ruled the world appointed two groups to look after the survival of
the Akkar people. They told the first group to leave. Three silver
ships left the ancient city that was the hub of their people, each
for a different destination. Then they told all people who had
newly born children to bring them to chambers under the city. Here
they set up a pool that halted their growth to sustain life—”