Waybound (15 page)

She gasped. He nodded eagerly, unable to hide his pride.

“I thought you said the shrine was a dead end,” she said.

“It was,” he shot back. “But maybe now we can figure out who took the junk that used to be there.”

“Which means you
do
think it will lead us to the Occulyth.”

“Never said it wouldn't.”

“I'll take that as a yes.”

The nervous crowd scattered around the shambling beast of burden, but no one seemed to notice the two costumed figures hitching a ride on its trailer.

Their transportation slowed as it wound through a series of wide, carved passages. Micah nudged Phoebe, and they hopped off, scurrying to hide among another stack of metal crates.

They were in a vast, brightly lit area, enclosed by rippling walls and within sight of a busy port. There were lanes of towering, cone-shaped buildings marked with the blue insignia, and dozens of caterpillar beasts lined up, waiting to be unloaded.

“Now what?” whispered Phoebe.

“Start searchin' some of these warehouses,” he replied.

“Where are we supposed to start?”

His eyes settled on the nearest conical structure.

“There,” he said simply.

“And what, just wander in?”

“That's the idea. On the count of three.”

“Hold on a second,” she hissed. “We need to figure this out.”

“One…”

“Micah, we can't just go barging into—”

“Two…”

She growled and gathered her costume, preparing to run.

“Thr—”

A hulking figure stepped in front of them, blocking the way. He was seven feet tall with a fibrous body made from layers of woven strands, like a metal basket. Instead of hands and feet, his elongated limbs ended in frayed bushels. Here and there, metal sinews parted to reveal wet, black orbs—dozens of staring eyes scattered all over his banded body. The blue insignia that the kids had followed was seared onto his chest like a brand.

Strands around his face pulled taut and opened to reveal a flapping mouth. He spoke in a hollow, raspy voice.

Shuddering beneath their costumes, Phoebe and Micah took a step back and shrugged, hoping the gesture was universal.

The imposing mehkan spoke again, his mouth splitting his face open wider. Again, the kids shrugged and shook their heads.

“Three!” Micah cried, and dashed between the crates.

She leapt after him. They only made it a few steps before they heard a twanging sound. Two more banded mehkans cut them off. In a flash, one of them ripped Phoebe's costume away. Metal fibers cinched around her waist.

Micah tossed off his pink puffball and raised his rifle. In a lightning-fast motion, the chest of one of the fibrous mehkans splayed open wide. The metal strands formed thrusting fingers, which wrenched the weapon away and seized Micah.

He fought and flailed, but not Phoebe. What was the point?

They were done for.

T
he three fibrous mehkans covered Phoebe and Micah in their costumes before marching them through the shipping zone. Despite this precaution, they drew a crowd. The kids were rushed past onlookers and ushered to a spot that was terrifyingly quiet. The kids' captors tore their costumes away.

They were standing in a long courtyard flanked by protective walls made of ivory-white waves. At their end, a series of graceful towers swooped up, emitting an angelic radiance. The ground was inlaid with smooth gold flagstones and pebbles groomed into curved lines and concentric circles, reminding Phoebe of serenity gardens from the Kijyo Republic. A fountain trickled from the wall, liquid silver pooling to form the insignia that she and Micah were beginning to loathe—a curved line arching over three dots.

An oval gate whispered shut behind them, and the kids were urged forward, past dozens of stoic guards. Ahead, a group of silhouetted figures emerged from one of the luminous towers. As they stepped into the light, Micah gasped.

“You little tub o' lard!” he screamed, lunging. “I'm gonna—”

A guard wrapped Micah's face in metal fibers, gagging him. Phoebe saw what had enraged Micah. One of the mehkans before them was squat with spiny muttonchops framing his lumpy face.

“Pynch,” she growled. It all came crashing back—the Gauge Pit, the sinister Auctioneer, and their two trusted mehkan guides selling them off like slabs of meat.

“I beg yer pardon?” rumbled the fat figure. His voice was different than she expected, deeper, less pompous. Instead of wearing a chusk overcoat and green necktie, he was decked out in a flowing gown and sash of silken silver.

This was not Mr. Pynch, just another member of his race.

Behind him stood an entourage of hunchbacked, tortoiselike figures. They were similar to one of the Covenant warriors who helped free the kids from the Citadel, but instead of tumorous explosives on their humped backs, these mehkans sprouted brilliant ore gems of every hue.

“You find yerselves at the mercy of His Splendor,” announced the squat, Pynch-like mehkan, “foundation of Bhorquvaat, grandgiver to all of mehkankind—the Mercanteer.”

He gestured to a dazzling figure amid the jeweled entourage. This mehkan's hunchback was encrusted with long stalactites of the purest sapphire blue. Azure growths extended down his rail-thin arms, patterned his elephantine legs, and emblazoned his sunken head. Symmetrical blue facets lined his face, drowning his deep-set silver eyes. Two of his companions attended his mighty crystals, manicuring the formations with little tools.

“I am but a humble balvoor, his devoted Agent of Tongues, here to translate yer utterances for His Splendor,” the rotund figure explained. “Show yer respects.”

“You first!” Micah snapped back. The Mercanteer's hunched handlers tittered a clinking sound.

“Micah. Not now,” Phoebe warned. “We are honored to be your guests,” she said to the Mercanteer. Despite the guard's grip, she managed a bow.

The Mercanteer turned to her, bemused. He made a clattering sound that might have been laughter. Despite the noise, they didn't suspect the Mercanteer was happy.

“His Splendor does not care to find bleeders in his city,” the Agent said. “Especially at such an extraordinary time.”

“We are truly sorry for the intrusion,” Phoebe admitted. “But we had nowhere else to go.”

“What extraordinary time?” asked Micah, squinting.

The Agent of Tongues rumbled some sounds to the Mercanteer, who chortled along with his counterparts.

“We celebrate the fall of the Citadel,” the interpreter said. “And we praise those who shed human blood in Sen Ta'rine.”

“Sen Ta'rine?” she gasped. “What happened there?”

The interpreter ignored her question. “His Splendor demands to know why the Foundry would dare enter our city and threaten our fragile arrangement.”

“'Cause they're jerks, that's why,” Micah responded.

“Do yer masters think we will tolerate spies in Bhorquvaat?”

“Who, us? No, you don't understand,” Phoebe said. “We're not a part of the Foundry. We're with the Covenant.”

This made the translator smile, his golden gear teeth sparkling. He interpreted her words, and the Mercanteer erupted into a belching fit of laughter, his polished face winking like a hundred flashbulbs. His mouth splayed open to reveal a nauseating cluster of gnarled mandibles that clinked together like a drawer full of silverware. His underlings chimed in too, in the familiar tittering of eager lackeys.

“What's so funny?” Micah spat, struggling against his captor.

“It's true,” Phoebe insisted. “We're on a mission for the Covenant, and we don't have much time. Please tell him!”

“If you not be with the Foundry…” said the leering Agent, “then you be of no use to His Splendor.”

He said something to the sinewy guards, and their grip tightened on Phoebe and Micah. The Mercanteer and his giddy entourage edged in closer to watch.

“Wait! We can help you…stop the Foundry!” Micah choked.

“It's true.” Phoebe wheezed. “I am Loaii.”

The Mercanteer twitched, his silver eyes going wide. He clinked something in a low chuckle.

“What did you say, bleeder?” the translator demanded.

“I…am…Loaii.” She could barely breathe.

The Mercanteer made a gesture, and the guards released the kids. They collapsed to the ground, panting. There was a brief, heated exchange between the Mercanteer and his translator.

“His Splendor demands to know how you know this word.”

“My father helped the Covenant destroy the Citadel,” Phoebe gasped. “They named me Loaii and gave us our mission. We need to find…something important. We think you might have it.”

The Mercanteer's jointed mouth twitched angrily. He snapped a harsh, clashing word.

“Lies. You know not what ‘Loaii' means,” the Agent said.

“It means my path is illuminated,” she answered, rising to her feet. Phoebe held out her shawl. “Do you recognize this?”

Their captors were silent.

“It's a whist, created by the axials. To…to honor my father.”

Tears singed her eyes unexpectedly.
Not now,
she thought.
Please, not now
. Micah rose beside her. He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she felt his warmth. Phoebe swallowed.

“He died trying to save Mehk, and so would I.”

“Both of us,” Micah added.

The Agent of Tongues translated. The sunken heads of the jeweled mehkans drew deeper into their hunches. They approached Phoebe, circling, clinking back and forth. Their minuscule, many-jointed hands inspected the whist, caressed it.

The Mercanteer did not move. He kept his gaze locked on Phoebe and spoke in a steady tinkling rhythm.

“His Splendor says that there have been…rumors. Whispers that bleeders aided in the fall of the Citadel,” the Agent of Tongues said. “He had dismissed them as nonsense.”

The Mercanteer collapsed his hinged arms over his bejeweled chest, twiddling his tiny, articulated fingers. He strolled to one of the lofty towers, and his underlings scurried after him.

“His Splendor bids you follow,” the translator explained.

Speechless, the kids obeyed.

As they entered, Phoebe was forced to squint. The interior of the tower appeared to have been coated in luminous dye, filling the palace with a soft white light. The sweeping arched entrance opened upon an atrium that stretched all the way to the top of the structure. Trickling silver fountains spilled down the walls alongside abundant sprays of sapphire-blue ivy.

“The Way has been dead for hundreds of phases,” the Agent of Tongues said, interpreting the Mercanteer's clinking words. “So one calling herself Loaii should be dismissed as mad. Yet if the Covenant can destroy the Citadel…then perhaps not all myths be pure fantasy.”

As they mounted a braided ivy platform, Phoebe saw that the vines were wrapped around flat seed casings, and the tendrils stretched up like support cables. It was the same elevator plant the Overguards had used to lower her father into the ground.

The Agent tugged on a vine, and the platform ascended. Gesturing to his entourage, the Mercanteer spoke again, and the Agent translated his clattering words.

“We freylani be fertile habitats, bodies we tend and harvest to provide a marvelous variety of goods.” The Mercanteer indicated the sapphire mine on his back. “But that not be our only means of making gauge. We be mehkans of commerce. I have no use for the superstitions of the Way, but I collect relics from the age of the Engineer—treasures that fetch quite a profit.”

The elevator rose, passing floor after floor. The Mercanteer said something assertive to his translator.

“His Splendor must know what you seek. If it be in his possession,” the Agent said, “an arrangement can be made.”

The elevator creaked to a stop, and the Mercanteer led them all into a majestic vestibule. Dynamos great and small were on display, some ash-dull and others gleaming as bright as the Crest of Dawn. There were carved tablets and fragments of ancient metal sculptures. A mural had been painstakingly reassembled, though portions of it were missing. This was a veritable museum of the Way.

Phoebe grabbed Micah's hand and squeezed it.

“Do you know what the ‘white star' is?” she asked.

“It's somethin' to do with the Ona…” Micah suggested.

The Agent told the Mercanteer, who discussed it with his tittering minions before responding.

“His Splendor knows of no such thing,” said the Agent.

“Does he know what the ‘Bearing' is?” Passion bolstered Phoebe's voice. The Agent conveyed this, and the Mercanteer's silvery eyes lit up. There was a consensus amongst the freylani.

“His Splendor recalls that the accords of the Way refer to the Bearing as sacred vestments worn by the Waybound, usually a headdress. Or a mask.”

Phoebe thought about the Ona, about her withered image in the Hearth versus the sculpture of her in the shrine. Had that effigy depicted her mask? Was that why she looked so old now—because her face was no longer covered by her Bearing?