The Stars Are Legion(67)

“Ah, yes. The eternal story,” Vashapaldi says. She lays a hand on my wrist. “It’s all right, I’m not going to try to make you stay.”

“How much longer is it to the surface?”

“I don’t know. You talked of it then as now, but I have never heard of such a place. There are other levels, certainly, but the world is a great circle. You’ll find that when you reach the top, you’ll be back at the bottom again, back in the pits.”

“I have to believe in something else.”

“We all must believe something,” she says, and points to the pustules on the ceiling. “I believe in the light. Come, I will find someone to accompany you.”

When I get back to our quarters, all is still. Das Muni snores softly in her sleep, and Casamir fairly rumbles in hers. I stand outside for some time, watching the lights on the ceiling and the little clusters of robed women going about their daily business. I wonder who works the fields up there. Surely not these women in their pretty robes, and I think of the mutants. Is it a peaceful and perfect society if you don’t see the filth? If you don’t look too hard? Perhaps every society is a utopia when you fail to peel up all the layers and look at what’s underneath.

It’s Das Muni who wakes me after the sleeping period, and her expression is pained. “They want that woman to go with us,” she says.

“Who?” I ask, and as I sit up, I see Arankadash in the doorway, leaning on her long club.

“I’m to take you to the sea,” Arankadash says, “and the hole in the sky where we leave the children who have come out wrong. I am bringing rope, but none of you look fit enough to use it to go into the sky.”

“If you don’t want to—” I say.

She grimaces. “Councilor Vashapaldi has reminded me of my blood debt to you. You saved my life and brought my sisters home. We owe you a debt. It must be paid.”

I have to admit I like this better than leaving behind a hunk of flesh.

“How far to the hole in the sky?” I say.

“Quite far. Many sleeping periods, but we have a way to get there faster. Then we must cross the sea. Sometimes there is a boat, sometimes not.”

“What do we do if there’s no boat?” Casamir asks.

Arankadash shrugs. “We’ll consider that when the time comes.”

“This seems like a vital piece of logistics,” Casamir says.

“Have you actually been to this sea?” I ask Arankadash, and glance over at Casamir. “I’m having some trouble with guides who turn out to have no idea where they’re going.”

“I got us here, didn’t I?” Casamir sniffs.

“I have been there,” Arankadash says. Her tone is darker now, and I wonder if I’ve offended her. “There is a road,” she says. “We will take a sledge to the sea. It’s not as wild as the way down to the tinkers’ door.”

“We’re engineers,” Casamir says.

Das Muni tugs at my sleeve. “I don’t feel well,” she says. She has her cowl up.

“Are you sick?” I ask.

“I think there is something wrong with my guts,” she says.

“Do you need to rest?” I ask.

“No, but we should go.”

“You ate a lot last night,” I say.

“Please, let’s go from here.”

“You say that about every place.”

Casamir and Arankadash have resupplied us. Arankadash gives me a pack to carry too, made of hemp and slick material like that of my suit, all sewn together with sinew. I rub the shiny patches and think of the surface. How many of these suits did my sisters up there throw into the belly of the world without a second thought? Are all of these people, all of these different settlements, this whole world within the world, is all of this encompassed in what they call “bottom-worlders”? It seems a poor term for so much.

As we leave, the council of robed women comes out to see us off. Vashapaldi takes my hands and presses her forehead to mine.

“Is there anything I should tell you the next time you pass through here?” she asks.

“There won’t be a next time,” I say.

“Very well,” she says, but I know she doesn’t believe it. Is this my fate, to be recycled again and again? No. I don’t believe in fate. I believe in making my own way.

We start off back down the broad steps and out again into the dim. I get ready for another long march, but then I see the sledge and its attendants below, and I come up short, remembering what Arankadash had said about a road.

The sledge is just that—a long vehicle on great slick runners. Hitched to the sledge are eight beasts with heads twice the size of ours. They have mashed-in faces and wobbly chins. Their ears hang down almost to their feet, and when they shake their heads, the ears look like enormous tassels. They have six legs, all lined with thick, horny fingers tipped in massive claws.

“What are these?” I ask.

Das Muni leans into me. Her skin is hot against my arm. I can feel it through her clothes and mine.

“Sledgesaw,” she murmurs.

“They’re deercats,” Arankadash says. “We breed them for protection against the mutants. But they also do well hauling the sledge, when it’s necessary.”

“If one of those eats me,” Casamir says, “I’m going to be very disappointed.”