A Darkling Plain

  "Napster says to give you breakfast," Mrs. Varley said now, in her quivery little voice, and pushed a bowl of bread through the bars, along with half an apple.

  Oenone started to shovel the food into her mouth with both hands. She felt ashamed, but she couldn't help it; a few weeks of captivity had turned her into a savage, an animal. "Where are we?" she managed to ask between mouthfuls.

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  "Airhaven," said Mrs. Varley. She looked about fearfully, as if she were afraid her husband might be lurking among the stacks of crates, ready to leap out and black her other eye for talking to the cargo. She leaned close to the mesh of the cage. "It's a town that flies!"

  "I've heard of it."

  "And it's above something called the Murnau cluster," Mrs. Varley went on, her excitement getting the better of her fear. "There's more cities down there than I've ever seen in my life. A big fighting one, all hidden in armor, and trade towns too, and Manchester! Napster says Manchester's one of the biggest cities in the world! He read about it in one of his books. He reads a lot of books, does Napster. He's trying to improve himself. Anyway, it's lucky we got here today, because there's a big meeting of mayors and bigwigs there and Napster's gone down there to ... to see if one of them will buy you off him, Miss."

  Oenone thought she was used to being helpless and afraid by now, but when she heard that, she was almost sick with fright. She had spent most of her life hearing about the cruelty of the men who ruled the Traction Cities. She forced her hands out through the mesh and snatched at Mrs. Varley's skirts as the girl turned away. "Please," she said desperately. "Please, can't you let me out of here? Just let me ashore. I don't want to die on a city...."

  "Sorry," said the girl (and she really was). "I can't. Napster'd kill me if I let you go. You know the temper he's got on him. He'd throw my baby overboard. He's often said he would."

  The baby, as if he had overheard, woke up in his crib

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  down in the gondola and began to bawl. Mrs. Varley tugged her skirts out of Oenone's grasp and hurried away. "Sorry, Miss,"' she said, as she started down the ladder. "I have to go now...."

  Manchester, which had been rumbling eastward all spring, detouring now and then to eat some smaller town, had finally reached the Murnau cluster the previous afternoon. Bigger and brasher than the fighting city, it squatted like a smug mountain a few miles behind the front line. Its jaws hung half open--officially so that its maintenance crews could clean its banks of rotating teeth, but it gave the impression that it had half a mind to gobble up a few of the small trading towns that thronged around Murnau's skirts.

  One by one the towns gathered in their citizens and started to crawl away, for they all knew that Manchester's arrival meant trouble, even if it didn't eat them. Adlai Browne was a well-known opponent of the truce, and most of the cities of the Traktionstadtsgesellschaft were in debt to him. He had poured a lot of money into their war with the Storm, and now he wanted to see something in return. His couriers, flying ahead of the city, had summoned their leaders to a council of war in Manchester Town Hall.

  By nine o'clock that morning airships and cloud yachts were converging on Manchester's top tier from every city and suburb on the line. Watched from a safe distance by polite crowds of onlookers, the mayors and kriegsmarschalls made their way into the town hall, where they took their places on the padded seats of the council chamber and waited for the lord mayor of Manchester to mount the steps

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  to the speaker's pulpit. High above them, in the dome of the ceiling, painted clouds parted to let beams of painted sunlight through, and a burly young woman who was supposed to be the Spirit of Municipal Darwinism flourished a sword, putting to flight the dragons of Poverty and Anti-Tractionism. Even her eyes seemed fixed upon the podium beneath her, as if she too were eager to hear what Adlai Browne would say.

  Browne leaned with both hands on the carved pulpit rail and surveyed his audience. He was a squat, florid man, whose immense wealth had made him permanently dissatisfied with everything around him. He looked like an angry toad.

  "Gentlemen," he said loudly. ("And ladies," he added, remembering that there were several mayoresses among his audience, as well as Orla Twombley, leader of his own mercenary air force.) "Before we begin this historic conference of ours, I just want to say how very proud I am to be able to bring my city here, and to tell you how much your long years of sacrifice and struggle are appreciated back west, by the ordinary folk of more peaceful cities."

  There was polite applause. Kriegsmarschall von Kobold leaned over to his neighbor and muttered, "It is our money they appreciate. We've paid a fortune down the years for all the guns and munitions they have sent us. No wonder Browne is scared at the thought of peace."

  "Now I'm a plain-speaking fellow," Browne went on, "so I won't mince my words. I haven't just come here to pat you on the back. I'm here to stiffen you up a bit; to give you a bit of a boot up the proverbial. To remind you, in fact ..." He paused, letting the young man who was translating his words

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  into New German catch up with him. "To remind you,"' he went on, "that Victory is at hand! I know how much you have all welcomed this truce, this chance to open your cities to the sky again and enjoy a few months' peace. But we who dwell a little farther from the battle lines, and fight the Green Storm in our own ways, are maybe able to see a few things that you can't. And what we see right now is an opportunity to scour the Earth clean forever of the menace of Anti-Tractionism. And it is an opportunity that we must seize!"

  There was another spattering of applause. Mayor Browne looked as if he had expected more but acknowledged it anyway, turning to check who his supporters were--von Neumann of Winterthur, Dekker-Stahl from the Dortmund Conurbation, and a few dozen battle-hardened mayors from harvester suburbs. He signaled for quiet before the applause had a chance to peter out of its own accord. "Some of you think I speak too boldly," he admitted. "But Manchester has agents in the lands of the Green Storm, and for weeks now all of them have been telling us the same thing: General Naga is a spent force. That little Aleutian dolly bird he fell for is dead, and the old fool has lost the will to live, or fight, or do anything but sit alone in his palace and rail at the gods for taking her off him. And without Naga the Storm is leaderless. Gentlemen, this--oh, and ladies--this is the moment to attack!"

  More applause, stronger this time. Several voices called out, "Well said, Browne!" and "We'll all be in Tienjing by Moon Festival!"

  Kriegsmarschall von Kobold had heard enough. He stood up and shouted in his best parade-ground roar, "It would not be honorable, Herr Browne! It would not be honorable to

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  take advantage of Naga's grief like that! We know the real cost of war, out here on the line. Not just money, but lives! Not just lives, but souls! Our own children are turning into savages, in love with war. We must do all we can to make sure this peace lasts!"

  A few people cheered him, but many more shouted for him to be quiet, to sit down and stop spouting defeatist Mossie claptrap. Von Kobold had not realized that so many of his comrades would be ready to listen to Browne's warmongering. Had these few months of peace been enough to make them forget what war was like? Did they really think there would be any winners if they let the fighting start again? They were as bad as Wolf! He glared about him, feeling indignant and hot and foolish. Even his own staff officers looked embarrassed by his outburst. He started to shove his way along the row of seats toward the nearest exit.

  "Gentlemen," Adlai Browne was saying, "what I'm hoping we can thrash out today is not so much a battle plan as a menu. The lands of the Green Storm lie before us, defended by a weary, ill-equipped army. Whole static cities like Batmunkh Gompa and Tienjing, countless forests and mineral deposits that the barbarian scum have refused to exploit, all lie waiting to be eaten. The only real question for us is: How shall we divide the spoils? Which city shall eat what?"

  Feeling sick, the old kriegsmarschall pushe
d his way out of the council chamber. The sounds of cheering and booing and furious arguments followed him all the way down the corridors of the town hall and into the park outside, but at least out there the air was fresh and the breeze was cool. He hurried down the steps and ducked under the security barriers

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  that Browne's people had erected to keep sightseers at bay. The crowds had gone now, except for a few picnickers on the lawns. Paper hats and placards lay strewn among the fallen blossoms on the metal paths. A discarded newspaper blew past, Nimrod Pennyroyal's photograph on the front page. Ridiculous! thought von Kobold. The whole world tilting back into chaos, and all the papers were interested in was the latest gossip about that absurd writer fellow....

  He strode across the grass to an observation balcony. Standing against the railings, he breathed in deeply, gazing eastward toward the armored ramparts of his own city, and then east again, to no-man's-land. It was three weeks since Wolf had left Murnau. What was he doing now? Where was that nasty suburb of his? What would become of it if the war began again?

  "Von Kobold?" asked someone close behind him. "Kriegsmarschall von Kobold?"

  He turned and saw an impertinent, overdressed stranger with ginger whiskers. The young man looked slightly demented. Kobold almost regretted that he had left his staff officers behind in the council hall. But he was not going to let himself be scared by a ferrety little scrub like this, so he drew himself to attention and said, "I am von Kobold."

  "Varley." The stranger held out a hand, and he could think of no good excuse not to shake it. "Napster Varley," said the man, beaming at him. A gold tooth blinked like a heliograph. "I popped down here, hoping to speak to your little conference, but they wouldn't let me in. So I was hanging about, waiting for it all to finish so I could buttonhole one of you on your way back to your airships, and I

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  noticed you wandering about. Stroke of luck, isn't it?"

  "Is it?"

  "Oh, it is indeed, Herr Kobold!" (Hair Kobold; his pronunciation made the kriegsmarschall wince.) "You see, sir, I'm in the air trade. A dealer in curiosities. And curious is the word for the little item I've got aboard my ship, sir, just waiting for the right buyer. So when I saw you, sir, walking through the park here, all alone, like, I said to myself, 'Napster,' I said, 'the Gods of Trade have sent him here so you can go and tell him what a bargain is waiting for him, up at Airhaven.'"

  "Airhaven?" said von Kobold, and glanced to leeward, where the flying town was drifting above a haze of city smoke a few miles away. Nobody was going to lure him to a place like that! A free port, probably a nest of Mossie spies and assassins. He stepped away from Varley and started walking back toward the town hall, calling over his shoulder, "Whatever you're selling, Mr. Varley, I am not interested."

  "Oh, yes, you are, sir!" said the merchant, hurrying to catch him up. "Least, you will be when you find out what it is. Could be important, sir. For the war effort, like. I'm only trying to do my bit, sir."

  Von Kobold stopped, wondering what on Earth the man was talking about. Shady scavengers were always emerging from the Out-Country with bits of Old Tech that they claimed would end the war. Most of them were charlatans, but you could never be sure.... "If you think it might be important," he said, "you should take it to the authorities. Either here in Manchester or in Murnau. They'll know what to do with it."

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  "Ah, but I don't suppose they'll reward me for my troubles, will they, sir? And I've taken considerable trouble to acquire this item, so I shall want a considerable reward."

  "But if you are a good Municipal Darwinist and you think this thing can help us--"

  "I'm what you might call a Municipal Darwinist second, sir," said Varley, "and a businessman first." He shrugged, and muttered, somewhat perplexingly, "Scatter cushions! Grandma had the right idea! I never thought it'd be so hard to find a buyer...."

  Von Kobold turned away again, but before he could walk on, the merchant's hand closed on his sleeve. "Look, sir!" he said. He was holding out some sort of photograph. Von Kobold, who was too proud to wear his reading glasses in public, could not make it out. He pushed Varley away, but the merchant stuffed the photograph into the breast pocket of his tunic and said ingratiatingly, "I expect you'll want to come and arrange a price, sir. You'll find my ship on Strut 13, Airhaven Main Ring. Varley's the name, sir. And the reserve price is ten thousand shineys...."

  "Well, of all the infernal--" von Kobold started to say, but he was interrupted by the voice of his aide, Captain Eschenbach. The young man was hurrying down the steps of the town hall, and Varley, seeing him, ducked between some nearby bushes and went scurrying away.

  "Was that fellow bothering you, Kriegsmarschall?" asked Eschenbach, drawing level with von Kobold.

  "No. A crackpot; nothing."

  "You should come inside, sir," the young man said. "They are discussing battle plans. Deciding which city attacks which

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  sector of the enemy's territory. Browne has bagged the static fortress called Forward Command for Manchester; Dortmund is to take everything on the east shore of the Sea of Khazak. There'll be nothing left for us, sir, if you're not quick. We don't want to lose out...."

  "Lose out?" Von Kobold narrowed his eyes, scanning the park for Varley. There was no sign of him, unless he was aboard that balloon taxi lifting off from a platform at the tier's edge. "Is this what it has all been for?" he asked. "Just so men like Adlai Browne can turn the Storm's lands into one enormous all-you-can-eat buffet? Why can't we let them live in peace?"

  Eschenbach frowned, trying hard to understand but not quite managing it. "But they're Mossies, sir."

  Von Kobold started to walk toward the town hall. "Poor Naga," he said. He climbed the stairs and went inside to fight for his city's corner, forgetting all about the photograph that Napster Varley had pushed into his pocket.

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  25 Theo in Airhaven

  ***

  BY LATE AFTERNOON THE sky around Airhaven was humming with traffic. Everyone knew that Adlai Browne had brought Manchester east for the sole purpose of getting the war started again, and the air traders were eager to do as much business as possible before they took off for safer markets farther west. To and fro between the cities and the flying town went the freighters and the overladen balloons, while high above them, ever watchful, the Flying Ferrets wheeled like flocks of starlings. But Orla Twombley's airmen were on the lookout for Green Storm attack ships, and they paid no attention to a greasy little Achebe 100 that came puttering out of the west that evening to slip into a cheap berth on Airhaven's docking ring.

  She was called the Shadow Aspect, and she had been captured from the old League long ago and converted into a

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  merchantman. She was not much, but she was the best that Hester had been able to afford after selling her sand ship. All the way from Africa Hester had grumbled about her leaky cells and racketing engines, and cursed the used-airship dealer who had sold her such a death trap. But Theo, who had been doing most of the flying, had grown used to the Shadow's little ways; he secretly thought she was a fine old ship, and in the quiet of the night watches he had whispered kindly to her, urging her on her way, "Go on; just a little longer; you can make it...."

  And now she had made it; the long voyage was over, and the sight of all those cities arranged on the earth below him like monstrous chess pieces filled Theo with anger and fear. Cities were his enemies. They had been the enemies of his people for a thousand years. What was he thinking of, coming into the heart of this vast cluster of them? He had no hope of rescuing Lady Naga from whatever prison the townies had penned her in. She would not have expected him to try; she would not want anyone to die for her sake....

  The Shadow's docking clamps clanged against the strut. Theo cut her engines, and the sounds of Airhaven spilled into the gondola: shouts of merchants and stevedores, rattling chains, a hurdy-gurdy playing somewhere, a trader maneuvering at the ne
xt strut. A boy with a bucket and a long-handled squeegee came running to clean the Shadow's windows, but Hester waved him away, and a glimpse of her angry, hideous face was enough to send him scuttling off.

  Hester was in a foul mood. She had hoped to overtake the Humbug in midair, where she thought she could board it and rescue Lady Naga with ease. But although the Shadow

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  Aspect had no cargo, and four engines to the Humbug's two, it had taken Hester too long to discover where Napster Varley was going, and he had beaten them to Airhaven. Boarding the Humbug would be difficult here, where there were harbor officials and security men and passersby who would interfere. She looked around at Grike, standing statue still in the shadows at the rear of the flight deck. "Better hide yourself, old machine," she said. "YOU MAY NEED ME."

  "Not here. There are a lot of townies aboard, and if they see you stalking about, they'll think we're Green Storm. Anyway, somebody might remember your last visit, when you tore the place half to pieces looking for me and Tom. Wait in the hold; if I need you, I'll call you."

  Grike nodded and climbed the companion ladder into the envelope. Hester pulled up her veil, slipped on dark glasses, and opened the exit hatch. "Coming?" she asked Theo.

  The tavern called the Gasbag and Gondola had survived through all Airhaven's changes, and still occupied the same sprawling assemblage of lightweight huts that Hester remembered from her first visit to the free port. But in the intervening years the air trade had split, like the world below, into townies and Mossies, and the Gasbag and Gondola had become a townie haunt; NO DOGS, NO MOSSIES read a scrawled message in white paint above the door. The traders clustering around its small, dirty tables came from Manchester and Dortmund and Peripatetiapolis, from Nuevo-Mayan steam ziggurats and Antarctic drilling cities. Framed posters