Kingdom of Cages (60 page)

Eight more kilometers passed under Chena’s boots. The gently rolling ground gradually steepened into hills. The black earth
became mixed with sand, no good for onions, but great for wild garlic and carrots. The grass grew shorter until it was barely
as tall as she was, and Chena wondered if she ought to start crawling. But no, she decided, lifting her veil and mopping her
forehead, first with her hand, and then with fresh garlic. They had counted on the ants to find her on the dunes, and if they
were waiting for her in Stem… She squinted up the hill rising before her.

If they’re waiting for me in Stem, why would they bother coming outside the fences?

Chena staggered up the hill. Hunger and thirst gnawed at the last of her strength. She’d started cursing the sun and cloudless
blue sky hours ago. Wheezing, she topped the hill and looked out over the shoulder-high grasses. Lake Superior filled the
horizon with sun-flecked blue and the wind held a freshness that reached her even through the all-pervasive smell of onions.
A pair of dirigibles lifted off like fat flies heading out to sea. To her left gleamed the river to Offshoot and the distant
misty red cliffs. The low dunes that blocked her view of the beach straight ahead had to be the back border of Stem.

Stem. Safety among people who knew her.

Farin.

Fresh strength welled into Chena. She picked her way down the hill. The sandy soil shifted sharply under her boots, so she
had to keep her eyes on the way in front of her. But she didn’t mind. The ants were gone. They were grassland creatures, not
sand dune creatures, and the purists of the hothouse would never move even a modified creature outside its natural environment.
She was free of them.

I might drop dead any second now,
she thought as she slogged forward.
But at least it won’t be from bug bites.

Now that the true dunes rose around her, Chena stuck to the low places between them, angling her path toward the river. If
she could hide in the brush and scrub by the river until a boat came by, she stood a good chance to be able to mix with the
passengers as they disembarked and slip back into the village confines.

The dunes spilled away to the level riverbank and sprouted shaggy ferns, tufted sawgrass, bayberry, and the occasional white
pine. On the far side of the river, the pine trees thickened into a real forest and the ground rose toward the cliffs. Chena
considered wading across the river to get to the thicker cover, but discarded the idea. She wasn’t sure she had the strength
to fight the current. Just the sight and sound of the water made Chena’s head buzz. She wanted to throw herself into it and
suck it up until she drained the river dry, even though she knew she’d be sick for three days afterward from the bacteria
this particular watercourse carried. There were clean streams around, if she wanted to take the time to search one out, but
somehow Chena couldn’t stand the idea of staying out in the wild one minute longer. She needed people, friends, Farin, near
her. She was tired to death of being alone.

Chena plodded along the bank, keeping to the thickest undergrowth until she came just inside of Stem’s river dock. Her luck
was still with her, because before long, one of the riverboats glided out from between the hills. Chena mustered the last
of her strength and ran for the dock, crouched low. The boat slowed and steered itself alongside the dock, allowing Chena
to get a good look at the slanting pattern of red and green stripes that covered its side. Luck! She smiled to herself. This
was Jonan’s boat. She had helped Nan Elle dose his entire crew against the annual diarrhea outbreak known as the “winter runs.”
He knew her and would never turn her in, if only because he would not want to get Nan Elle angry at him.

Two of the crew jumped down to catch the mooring ropes as they were thrown. They secured the boat with practiced motions,
and passengers and crew poured out of the cabin.

Chena stripped off the camouflage jacket. It marked her now and prevented friends from recognizing her. She also stripped
off the filthy white shirt that had helped disguise her as a hothouser. The thick, shirt-like brassiere underneath looked
close enough to what Stem’s women dockworkers wore to pass a casual inspection.

Chena crept up to the side of the boat and waited, hunkered down in the sunburned reeds at the water’s edge. After a moment,
Kadan, Jonan’s chief rower, came out onto the tiny stern deck. Chena pitched a pebble against the side of the boat and he
looked down. Kadan’s eyes widened as he recognized her and Chena beamed up at him. Kadan knew her. In fact, he kept trying
to chat her up when he came to Off-shoot, even though he had a daughter older than she was.

Kadan looked away quickly, studying something Chena could not see. Then he leaned over the railing and extended his hand.
Chena grasped it and let him haul her up onto the deck.

“Thanks,” she murmured as she skirted past him toward the cabin.

“I’ll be reminding you of this,” he said behind her.

Chena gave him a quick smile over her shoulder. “I’m sure you will.” With that, she made her way out of the cabin and onto
the dock.

Chena walked casually up the pier. Then she was on the sun-soaked boardwalk and among people. Heads turned, eyes inspected.
They either recognized her and gave a quiet nod or greeting wave, or their gazes slid past her, turning back to their own
business. If they bothered to think that something was wrong, they didn’t want anything to do with it. Chena smiled tiredly.
The hothousers were so good at fostering that attitude and it could be so useful.

She turned toward the lake and market tents. There’d be water at the market. Water to drink and to wash with. She still had
some positive chits in her pockets under the withering garlic. Better yet, Ada should have her baskets out. Ada had called
Nan Elle to every one of her five births and had five living children because of it. She’d be more than willing to hand over
water, and food, and maybe even send her oldest running to fetch Farin.

Feeling almost jaunty, Chena made her way toward the market. Shoulders jostled her as she made her way across the market walks.
She savored it. People. Her people. People she knew and had helped, and if they were raising their eyebrows and coughing at
the smell of muck, sweat, and spoiled onions, she couldn’t blame them. It would startle her.

Ada had no tent. The wrinkled, brown woman just spread out her gray blankets where the walkway widened to accommodate the
market and set our her wares—spices from her garden, mats woven from her rooftop grass, and crocks of a powerful vinegar used
more for cleaning than cooking. Chena saw her glance up, and waved. Ada raised a hand in return.

I’m home,
she thought.
God’s garden, this is home.

Then a man behind her sighed. “I tried to tell them you’d make it through.”

Regan.

She couldn’t mistake the voice. All this way, and behind her stood Regan.

Chena turned. There he was—tall, dark, and frowning. Except for some gray in his hair and extra lines on his face, he looked
exactly as he had the first day she’d seen him when he had burst into Nan Elle’s house to stop Chena from drinking a willow
bark tea.

Chena began to laugh. She couldn’t help it. The noise welled out of her from some bottomless place, shaking her shoulders
and doubling her over. All this way, and it was Regan, the first one of them who had ever caught her, whom she had forgotten
to look out for.

Regan waited patiently for her to finish. When she was able to straighten up and wipe her eyes, he just shook his head.

“I thought maybe you were bright enough to stay away from the poisons. But no, you had to use them on a hothouser.”

“Then he really is dead,” said Chena. She waited to feel something, but no emotion came.

Regan shrugged. “That’s what they’re telling me.” He extended his hand. “Let’s go, Chena.”

Chena ran her own hand through her hair, took a step forward, and broke into a run, whipping her jacket into Regan’s eyes.
He cursed and swatted at it but could not grab it. Chena dove for Ada’s blankets and her crocks. She picked up one of the
vinegar jugs and swung around, not really aiming. She felt the jug connect. It shattered, splashing shards and vinegar everywhere.
Regan fell backward under the wave.

“Sorry!” shouted Chena as she ran past Ada.

Chena pounded across the boardwalk, heading for the center of town. She grabbed people’s arms and shoulders as she passed
and shoved them behind her, using their bodies to block the path for as long as she could. For a split second she thought
she saw Farin, but his face was lost in the jostling mob of people trying to get out of her way. She could hear Regan’s boots
slamming onto the walkway behind her, feel them vibrating the boards. She had no idea where she was going. She just ran.

Something hit her hard from behind, knocking all the air out of her lungs and shoving her against the boardwalk.

“Have to push, you just have to push,” grated Regan. He knelt on her back and ripped the jacket out of her hands. “You have
nothing left to lose, is that it?” He grabbed both her wrists, twisting her arms around behind her.

Chena said nothing. She let him pull her to her feet. There had to be a way out. There had to be a way out, even with his
hand clamping down hard enough to bruise her arm. Her gaze darted around the dunes, with their tinted windows and closed doors.

“Not this time, Chena,” said Regan. “This time you are just going to have to accept the rules.”

“You could let me go,” she said.

“I could, but then it would be my body in the hothouse.” He pushed against her back, steering toward the river dock.

Chena kept her eyes on the dune houses. There had to be a way. “So, you’re just doing this because you’re frightened of the
hothousers.”

“Yes,” said Regan. “And before you try it, you should know I came to terms with that years ago.”

Then one of the faded wooden doors swung open just a little. Did she see a face inside? A man’s square face? And did she see
him nod?

“Too bad.” Chena pulled her gaze away from the doorway before Regan could focus on what she had seen. “I wish I’d known you
before you gave up.”

“I wish I believed you,” said Regan, his voice full of tired irony. The boardwalk rounded a swell in the dunes, and Chena
tried to push away her exhaustion for one more try.

“I wish…” Chena kicked backward, the hard heel of her boot connecting with Regan’s kneecap. He cried out in pain, and his
grip on her arm slipped. Chena tore free and ran again.

She ducked behind the dune’s swell and found herself face-to-face with a short, square man, who took her in at a glance and
grabbed her arm. In the next breath, he heaved her over the boardwalk railing. Her shoulder hit the fence and pain sent her
body into spasms. She dropped like a block of wood and rolled into the shadow under the boardwalk. Another shock ripped through
her, and the world went away.

M
ihran, father of the Alpha Complex branch of the Pandora family, stood in a grove of dwarf peach trees in the center of the
family wing. A padded bench waited there, inviting him to sit. Around him swirled the sounds of voices, chattering water,
and rustling leaves. The scent of the ripe fruit hanging in the trees overlaid a hundred other perfumes—spices, honeysuckle,
hot oil, and limes. Sunlight, diffuse and white, streamed through the pillow dome and lit the place that had been his home
from the moment he was born. This place had nurtured him, and he had nurtured it. Every so often, no matter how busy he became,
he had always managed to stop and just stand for a moment, drinking in the sheer comfort of his home, whether or not Aleph
was actually speaking to him.

But now he had a whispered report from Hagin. Now, during the greatest crisis the family had faced since the destruction of
the Delta Complex, he was afraid his home, his cradle, was going insane.

The blade-shaped leaves of the trees brushed against a monitor glass that was Father Mihran’s own height. He steeled himself.
His Conscience sent him soothing odors of lemons and roses. He had to do this. For the good of the family. This was no one’s
job but his.

“Aleph?”

“Mihran.” Aleph manifested in the glass—a young woman with straight black hair that fell to her feet and dark almond eyes
in her round face. Her hands were strong, capable, and her voice was low.

Mihran blinked at her. This was his city. She was supposed to care for him. He had known that all his life. It was a central
fact of the existence of every single member of his family. This was never supposed to happen. “I’m worried about you.”

Aleph lowered her eyes, turning slightly away. “Many people seem to be. The tenders are very busy right now.” She lifted one
hand, and a square of the glass above her palm filled with the image of the Synapese, with the tenders swarming through it
like bees in a hive.