He closed the book and stood for a time, lost in thought until Ethelynne called his name. He looked up to see her standing at the cliff-edge and gazing towards the east where the sun had begun to slide towards the jagged horizon. He followed her gaze, blinking at the view. The three moons and the sun . . . The alignment.
He knew they should move on, light lanterns and make their way into the bowels of this mountain and confront whatever secrets it held, but he found he couldn’t look away from the sight unfolding in the sky. The three moons seemed to merge as they neared the centre of the sun, Clay blinking and shielding his eyes as he stole repeated glances at the spectacle. Then as the three moons became one a shadow came rushing at them across the mountains, a black tide sweeping over peaks and valleys in a rush too fast to follow. Clay staggered as it reached them, expecting some great force to sweep him from his feet, but the shadow only brought a chill of new-born evening. He returned his gaze to the sun, finding it replaced by a great ring of white fire surrounding a black void.
“Beautiful,” he heard Ethelynne whisper.
Clay blinked the moisture from his eyes and realised there was something shimmering beyond the sun, three small pin-points of light blinking in the blue-black sky just outside the flickering white fire. Muttering a curse he lifted the telescope onto the tripod and fumbled with the eyepiece until it shimmered into focus and a fourth pin-prick of light stood revealed. Scribes’s extra planet, he thought, watching the light flicker and wondering at the regret he felt in knowing the astronomer had missed this sight. Wonder what he would have named it.
It lasted perhaps half a minute, then the ring of fire began to blaze brighter on its eastern edge. As it did Clay felt something stir beneath his feet, a faint thrum that soon built into something far more violent. He staggered as the mountain shook, then lunged towards Ethelynne as she stumbled towards the cliff. He managed to catch her an inch or two short of the edge and they fell together, huddling as the mountain trembled, the air split by the roar of something vast beneath the stone and the discordant crack of shattered rock. Lutharon gave a piercing squawk of alarm and launched himself from the ledge, wings sending a gale over Clay and Ethelynne as he beat the air and hovered until the tremor finally faded.
“The shaft!” Clay said, surging to his feet and running for the opening. He sagged against the beams at the sight confronting him, despair escaping his lips in a low moan. The shaft was blocked, choked from wall to ceiling with tumbled rock. He fell to his knees, his fury fading under the weight of awful certainty. No amount of Black could shift so much stone, and even Lutharon couldn’t claw his way through. They could try blasting their way in with the explosives in the car, but with only two barrels it would be a wasted effort. Briteshore had evidently taken months to dig their way in and he knew they were running out of time.
“Oh,” Ethelynne said in a whisper. Clay looked up to see her staring at the continuing spectacle of the alignment, eyes wide and fascinated. He followed her gaze, seeing that the shimmering circle surrounding the merged moons had begun to expand on the left, the shadow cast by the eclipse beginning to fade. The sight was undoubtedly beautiful, but nothing could steer his heart from the burden of defeat just now. He began to look away but Ethelynne stopped him, coming to his side and laying a hand on his shoulder as she pointed to the blazing crescent. “Look, Clay. Where the light meets the mountain tops.”
He looked and found himself blinking in confusion, unsure if what he was seeing might be some apparition born of desperation. The sun was low in the sky, so low that the base of the growing crescent dipped below the peaks of the Coppersoles and, in one point, blazed brighter than any other where it was caught in the narrow gap between one of the tallest mountains and the curved outline of a drifting moon.
“This is what the Artisan saw,” Ethelynne said. “Something that can only happen during an alignment, and can only be seen here.”
Light streamed from the gap between mountain and moon, a beam lancing forth across the distance to cut through the lingering shadow and cast its glow on this very mountain. Clay followed the track of the beam, looking up to where it met the rock-face above, a shimmering inverted triangle, like an arrowhead, and it was pointing at something, some previously unseen facet in the mountain side. He moved back from the shaft, eyes fixed on the place where the glowing arrow narrowed to a point. It was perhaps a hundred feet higher than the ledge and would have been invisible in the abstract mass of rock but for the revealing light of the alignment. A crack in the wall of stone, a way in.
“Briteshore sure wasted a lot of time and money,” he murmured. “All they had to do was wait.”
—
The cave mouth was too narrow for Lutharon to deposit them safely within it, but fortunately Skaggerhill had included a good length of rope and a grapnel when loading up the cable-car. Clay climbed up first, finding that skills learned scaling walls in the Blinds were easily adapted to the mountains. Green would have made for a more rapid ascent but their stocks were so low they agreed to husband it for whatever threats they might face within the mountain. It took the better part of an hour to reach the cave, the rock-face proving sheer and tricky, the handholds on offer narrow and dewed with moisture from the drifting clouds. He found the cave larger than expected, a good ten feet high and wide enough to easily accommodate two people walking abreast. Or a half-grown drake, he added, peering into the gloom ahead. It may have been a conjuring of his stressed mind but his eyes detected a faint orange glow deep in the recesses of the cave, a glow that had been absent when he looked into the Briteshore shaft.
From below came Ethelynne’s impatient query so he jammed the grapnel into a crevice in the cave floor and cast the rope down. He hauled the barrels up first, working the rope with careful and unhurried deliberation and wincing every time one of the casks bumped against the rock. Ethelynne had been wary of taking them along but he had insisted. “I’m thinking this thing’s gonna need more than just a longrifle bullet to go down.”
Next he pulled up the long coil of fuse-wire bundled with Uncle’s rifle and a full bandolier of ammunition before leaning out to stare down at Ethelynne. For the first time he appreciated just how small she was, her pale oval of a face rendered childlike at this distance. Lutharon was perched near the cable-car, head tilted at a curious angle as he stared up at Clay, as if reading his intent. He’ll fly her down, she’ll be fine.
“Don’t you dare!”
His gaze snapped back to Ethelynne, seeing her features now bunched into furious warning.
“Enough folk have died on this trip,” he called back, unhooking the grapnel from the rock and tossing it away. “Got no desire to see it happen to you.”
“You have no product,” she said, taking out her wallet of vials and holding it up, a faint note of desperation creeping into her tone. It wasn’t friendship, he knew, or at least not just that. She wanted to see the White again; perhaps that’s all she had wanted in all the years spent lost in study of the Interior’s mysteries.
“Got serious doubts any amount of product will help me in there,” he said, turning away and slinging Uncle’s rifle over his shoulder. After a moment he paused and turned back. Looking down he saw her anger had gone, replaced by an expression of deep hurt and disappointment, like a parent gazing at an ungrateful child. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, reaching down and hefting the barrels with meaningful intent. “Don’t try to follow me.” He turned his gaze to Lutharon, not knowing if the drake would understand his words but speaking them anyway. “Get her away from here.”
—
Clay clutched a barrel under each arm as he made his way along the tunnel, guided by the glow ahead. Uncle’s rifle was strapped across his back, the Stinger sat in its holster against his side and the fuse-wire was looped around his waist. He found himself stumbling more than once over the uneven rock, his heart leaping each time as he clamped his arms tight on t
he barrels. The air grew warmer the deeper he went, the illuminating glow evidently the result of some heat source. As sweat beaded his skin in ever-greater volume he berated himself for not having the foresight to bring more than a half canteen of water.
Halfway along he set down one of the barrels and removed its stopper before sliding in a length of fuse-wire. He continued along the shaft at a trot, spooling out the wire and knowing Ethelynne would already have drunk her Green and be making her way up the rock-face. He stopped after twenty yards then snipped off the wire and struck a match. Clay turned and ran the moment the fuse caught, exiting the tunnel and jerking to the side just as the barrel exploded. The boom left his ears ringing and he found himself coughing in an outrush of powdered rock.
When the dust cleared he saw that he had stepped out onto a platform, flat-topped and of such precise construction it banished any notion it might be a natural feature. Going to the edge of the platform he peered down, rooted to the spot as he tried to comprehend the sight that greeted him. At first he thought it another mountain, a great cone of rock forming a peak within a peak, but then his eyes began to discern details: windows, doors, balconies and stairs. A city. A city carved from solid rock within this mountain. It rose from depths lit by a fire so bright Clay found he couldn’t gaze at it for more than a few seconds. He fancied he saw something churning in the glow, bulbous globules rising and falling amidst the shimmering fury.
He spent a long while in contemplation of the stone city’s unfamiliar architecture, all straight lines and sharp angles absent any curves, wondering at what ancient science could have crafted such a place. His eyes roved from bridge to balcony to plaza, finding no sign of current habitation. Whoever had lived here was long-gone. But he knew with grim certainty there were at least two new inhabitants.
Casting his gaze about he found a stairway leading down from the platform and into the city in a long, descending zigzag. Just me now, he thought, realising this was the first time he had truly been alone since leaving Carvenport. Come an awful long way to seal myself in a mountain. The notion birthed a laugh as he started down, but it didn’t last very long.
—
He had descended three successive stairways when he drew up short at the sight of a rope ladder ascending into the gloom above. Looking up he could just make out an opening in the slope of rock. Briteshore’s shaft, he decided, eyeing the ladder once more and picking out the scuff marks on the rungs. At least one of them came inside for a look-see. He lingered for a moment, puzzling over the notion that if a Briteshore party had climbed down here, then got so scared by their discovery, why they hadn’t pulled the ladder up after them when they fled? Lacking any clues he could only shake his head and move on.
The descent to the city took a long time, the constant switchback route of the successive stairwells making for a tortuous and often confusing journey. Several times he came close to the city’s massive, intricate edifice, still showing no sign of life, only to find himself moving away from it as the next stairwell took a sharp turn. Eventually the stairs ended in a flat, narrow causeway leading directly into the city. Clay took full measure of its size as he paused to gulp water from his canteen. It was so huge he couldn’t understand the uniformity of its construction, surely a testament to the work of generations and yet the architecture remaining constant throughout. Carvenport had stood for little over two centuries and featured buildings old and new within its walls, varying greatly in size and design. But here it was all one thing, conceived and made as if in accordance to a single plan, almost as if it had been the work of weeks or months rather than years.
He started along the causeway at a steady walk, moving closer to the edge to peer down at the glowing pit below. He caught only a glimpse before retreating in the face of the heat and the glare, but it was enough to make him wonder if the Seer hadn’t conceived of the Travail after seeing this place in one of his visions. White and yellow lava seethed in a vast circular river surrounding the base of the city, scummed in places by partly melted rock that broke apart as the molten mass roiled and swirled. He staggered back from the edge, shaking sweat from his face and moving on.
The entrance to the city was formed by a massive stone rectangle of jarringly perfect dimensions. The pillars and the lintel were inset by writing of some kind, the individual characters standing as tall as he did. Peering closer he saw the clear resemblance to the pictograms from the Briteshore manager’s office, each character formed with the same order and precision. Unable to read whatever message, or warning, the gate contained, Clay could only conclude that whoever had built this place would have made for trying company.
The space beyond the gate consisted of a broad plaza bordered by numerous steps ascending into the various districts of the city in typically sharp-angled fashion. A number of buildings overlooked the plaza, all empty balconies and windows regarding his intrusion with blank indifference. His eyes roved the stairwells, seeking some notion of which would take him to his goal before it occurred to him that it didn’t matter. It’s a mountain, just get to the top.
He drew the Stinger before making for the most central stairway and starting the long climb up.
—
He found the dead man after an hour of climbing, pausing on a landing at the juncture of two intersecting stairways for a well-needed rest. He allowed himself a small sip from his canteen as he mentally flipped a copper scrip to decide which route to take, then fell into an immediate crouch on spotting the pair of boots jutting over the edge of the next landing up on the right. He kept low as he climbed the steps, then rose to full height, fanning the Stinger’s barrel in search of a target. But the landing contained only the dead man. He lay on his back, legs splayed and a large patch of dried blood framing his greying features. His hand lay on his chest clutching a revolver, the barrel of which rested just below his mouth, the lips peeled back in death to favour Clay with a grin he found all too knowing.
Dead by his own hand, Clay decided, eyes roving the partly desiccated features and finding no recognition. Death had a tendency to obscure age but Clay judged him as maybe in his forties. He wore a set of grey overalls and a helmet of some kind was hitched to the thick leather belt about his waist. Miner, Clay thought, turning the helmet over with his boot to reveal the small oil-lamp affixed to the front. Seems not every Briteshore employee took off after all.
He left the dead man undisturbed and resumed his climb, the stairs taking him into a district of buildings featuring numerous courtyards and a multi-tiered park of silent, dry fountains and many sculptures, fashioned from crystal rather than stone. Most were abstract, twisted toruses and spirals conveying meaning or intent beyond him, but some were undeniably human in shape, though all deformed somehow. One appeared to be of a woman crouching as the stubs of wings grew from her back, another of a man holding both arms aloft, his hands narrowed to needle-points.
Clay found he had to force himself through the park, every statue he saw seemingly possessed of an ability to fascinate. It was as he averted his gaze from the sight of two children joining hands, the fingers frozen in the act of melting together, that he found the second body. Another man, this one impaled on the spines of a tree-shaped sculpture. Clay moved closer, finding a pair of revolvers lying on the ground beneath the corpse’s dangling feet. His skin was Old Colonial dark and he wore a string of teeth around his neck. Contracted headhunter, Clay decided. His gaze tracked over the multiple crystal spikes piercing the fellow’s torso, knowing there were few things in this world that could achieve such a result. Black.
The next body wasn’t hard to find, a woman, lying beneath a large crystal monolith directly opposite the tree with its ghastly fruit. Moving to the body, Clay guessed her to have been young. Although, like the miner back on the stairs, her skin was so dried by death it was hard to tell for sure. But unlike the miner she clearly hadn’t taken her own life. A cluster of ragged, dark-stained holes had been bla
sted into the leather jacket she wore. He found no weapon on her then saw the pale patch discolouring the greying skin on the palm of her hand. Blood-blessed, probably contracted by Briteshore to accompany their expedition. He switched his gaze back to the dead headhunter. Must’ve shot her in mid air . . . They turned on each other.
He crouched at the woman’s side, grimacing as he pulled her jacket aside to explore the pockets. Her vials were contained in a wallet fixed to her belt. It was fairly low-grade product, the liquid cloudy and more viscous than Ironship dilutions, but still all four colours were present. About a quarter-vial of Red and Black, half a vial of Green and, he saw with blossoming relief, nearly a full vial of Blue. If ever he had need of some guidance, it was now. He grunted in frustration on checking his pocket-watch; another five hours until the next scheduled trance with Miss Lethridge. That’s if she’s still around to trance, he reminded himself.
He straightened from the corpse, raising his gaze to the still-unclimbed mass of the city. So many stairs, he thought, then glanced around at the dangerously enrapturing statuary. And so many distractions. Knowing there was nothing else for it he drank two-thirds of the Briteshore woman’s Green, pocketed the wallet, took a firmer grip on the barrel under his arm and started to run.
—
The city blurred as he ascended, scaling successive stairways a few leaps at a time, keeping his gaze focused only on the route ahead, regardless of whatever visual enticements flickered at the corners of his vision. Parks, monuments and ever more statues all ignored in his single-minded quest to get as close to the summit before the Green faded from his veins. Clay reckoned he had covered perhaps two-thirds of the distance by the time the product started to ebb. He forced his body into a faster pace, leaping higher and driving himself on. His body soon began to protest, a grinding ache building in his limbs and chest, transforming into a burning agony as he pushed himself harder. A shout of pain escaped him when the last of the Green fled his system and he collapsed at the top of a particularly long stairwell.