Kingfisher(38)

Daimon.





11


Pierce drove through a cleft in a dry, golden hill and found himself on a six-lane span across the astonishing breadth of Severluna Bay. The city sprawled at the end of the bridge, a tidal wave of civilization spilling so completely over land bordered on three sides by water that the land itself had vanished under it.

Pierce’s hands grew damp, locked on the steering wheel. He was surrounded by more vehicles than he had seen in a lifetime; it took every nerve he possessed not to stop the Metro in the middle of the bridge so that he could get out and slink back into the hills. The Metro kept moving; the city grew. Streets appeared, going everywhere at once. Signs gave him choices, all unfamiliar. Since he would probably die, chewed up by the monsters snorting on all sides of him before he got safely off the bridge, choices seemed moot. He was slowed, at the end of the bridge where waves roiled and broke far under him, by traffic bottlenecking toward a tollbooth. The bill he proffered in trembling fingers was snatched away by the wind. The toll-taker eyed him implacably as he rummaged through his wallet. Finally, he did something right; a light turned green; the man waved him on, nodding, even smiling a little, while sounds of Severluna—horns, wind, engine growls, gulls, tide—poured through the open window like some kind of maniacal welcome.

He drove. Signs queried him constantly. Me? they asked him. Do you want me? He was frozen again, unable to say yes or no, right or left; he could only stop when everyone stopped and move forward when everyone else did.

He had no idea where to go.

Finally, catching sight of a quiet street, he reeled onto it, scarcely seeing the great stone houses along it as he drove, just relieved to be able to slow a little. He had a city map somewhere in the car but not a clue anywhere why he should go one direction instead of another. He drove aimlessly a bit, peering at street signs, smelling an oddly pungent scent of leaves from a park running along one side of the street. A broad road, lined with trees and very quiet, veered unexpectedly into the park. Pierce followed it eagerly, wanting only to find a place to park the car in the sudden peace and sit until he stopped trembling. Then he would look for his map and pretend he knew what he was doing.

He had followed the road’s long curves deeper into the park, looking for a place to pull over, when he passed a little hut with heraldic devices painted on all four sides of it. Someone without a face popped instantly into his rearview mirror. A line of metal teeth rose out of the tarmac, pointed, with lethal intent, at the Metro’s tires. He shouted wildly, shaking again, and braked hard; the car slewed to a stop inches from the teeth.

A loud metallic voice said, “Step out of the vehicle.” He managed to find the latch, tried to get out; his seat belt pulled him back. He cursed, heard the eerie voice again, and finally fumbled himself loose. He pushed himself upright, wondering wearily what he had done wrong, what ruthless laws he had broken just trying to find a place to sit among the huge old trees.

Two humanoids in black leather and full-facial visors that made them resemble giant, eyeless ants walked briskly to either side of the Metro. They each held something that lit up a strand of air between them and hummed. They passed the line of light fore and aft over the car, let it hover for a moment across the pack in the backseat. They reached the front bumper; the light vanished. Dark head consulted head, soundlessly to Pierce’s ears. Then one walked back toward the little hut, and the other raised his visor, revealing a young, tanned, expressionless face.

“You have a knife in your baggage.”

“I do?” Pierce said, and then remembered. “Oh. I do. The kitchen knife.”

The guard murmured something into his chin, listened a moment. Behind him, the malevolent teeth slowly sank into the tarmac. The young man looked at Pierce again.

“You need to continue on, take the next right, then the immediate left. You took the wrong entrance.”

“Oh.”

“After you go left, the entrance will be on your right.”

“Ah—”

The guard held up a hand, listened. “They’re expecting you.”

“Could I—like—just turn around?” Pierce pleaded.

“No. This really is the shortest way from here. You can drive on now.”

Wordless, Pierce slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine. “Right, then left, then right again,” the guard reminded him as he crawled over the hidden teeth. Pierce saw him watching, visor down again, from the middle of the road. He swallowed, his mouth dust dry, and gave up any thought of peace in that demented city.

He followed directions carefully to avoid another yawning gape of vicious road teeth. An entrance of some sort into something loomed beyond another tiny guardhouse. As he took the second right turn, he saw the guard watching him, commenting to someone invisible about Pierce’s passing. The end of that brief drive was a parking lot filled with vehicles of every kind. Pierce pulled in among them, not knowing what else to do. He wondered what would happen if he just took his pack and snuck into the trees surrounding the parking lot. Then he saw the vast stone wall running endlessly behind the trees.

There was a thump on the Metro roof; he started, expecting the insect-men to reappear. A girl in a black tunic and trousers, her hair bundled into a net, peered at him. She gave him a crooked, cheerful smile as he rolled down the window.

“At least I’m not the only one who’s late. Walk in with me?” She added, as he stepped mutely out of the car, “Don’t forget your stuff.”