Korleth scrambled through the tight autorat chute, richly-bejeweled ring clutched in his large Dromag fist. Even full-grown now, he was still somehow small enough – just barely – to squeeze through these tunnels meant for the small thaumechanical sweepers. Good thing, too – they made excellent escape routes, and connected most of Derthn.
He needed to crawl far enough away – to some adjacent district of an adjacent district – to evade any pursuers, as well as shake off the noses of the autohounds. They followed a different network of tunnels, more accommodating to their larger size, so he wouldn’t run into any down here.
Raam, it was scorching in here. These tunnels must run adjacent to the geothermal systems for this district. It didn’t help that the blasted autorats had a tendency to run hot.
Shit, there goes one now. Korleth arched up his back and spread his arms and legs wide to let the autorat pass under him. It barely fit, chafing his front as it went by. He’d lost too many tunics to these bastards tearing through them as they ran by like this.
A little farther along he thought, This should be far enough. He turned a corner and –
He hit his head hard, ruffling his scarlet hair. He looked up to see a welded grate blocking the tunnel. That hadn’t been there last time he’d come this way. Damn Architects. Fine. Have it your way. Korleth backed out and started crawling farther, towards the next district over.
After another few minutes in that hot, cramped tube, Korleth found another exit side-tunnel. He turned to follow it and pushed open the vent to the outside.
And his head was almost crushed by the lumbering foot of an autotrunk.
He ducked his head back just in time and hid inside as the huge thaumechanism and its entourage of thaumechanics passed the vent, his heart pounding. Once he was sure the sounds of footsteps had passed, he pushed open the vent again and crawled out.
As he dusted the metal shavings and dust off of his tunic, he glanced at the passersby across the street giving him brief notice. They had no connection to the district he’d just stolen the ring from, and besides, a tiny Dromag crawling out of an autorat tunnel was probably not the weirdest thing they’d seen today.
Keeping it shielded from the rest of the city, he opened his fist and made sure the ring was still intact. The dozen or so tiny jewels smiled at him with their sparkling facets, but the big one at the center all the more so – a perfectly-round carnelian thoughtstone, a vague light gently throbbing inside the dark red gem. This one would fetch a pretty penny – probably. He had no way of knowing what the thoughtstone said.
He looked up to see what district he was in. Judging by the address numbers he supposed it was Residential-Four. Kids swung from artificial brass trees in the miniscule gardens of these middle-class apartments. Tenvo tended to the bioluminescent fungal crops bursting from the transplanted soil. Others were hanging their laundry out to dry, tunics and cloaks and turban-cloths and undergarments. One of them, apparently a mother with an infant on her hip as she struggled to one-hand the clothespins, stopped a moment to wave at Korleth. He supposed that was good – he didn’t stand out as not belonging there, despite his rather drab attire. He waved back with his free hand.
Who was the local fence? In Res-Four it would be…Zrikr. A miserly old Dromag. But he might have Aajakiri connections who could appraise the thoughtstone. Korleth again examined the nearby address-markers, engraved into the brass lintels of the apartment’s front doors. Res-4-Hrem-15-22. Res-Four. Subdistrict Hrem. Area fifteen. Level twenty-two. Zrikr shouldn’t be far – in this subdistrict, at least. Korleth wracked his brain. Area six, level twenty-nine, if he recalled correct. It would take some walking up-town and an elevator ride, but nothing he couldn’t manage in a half-light. He stuffed his hands – ring carefully in fist – in his tunic’s front-pocket, and started up the street.
He followed an autoshell for a while, head bowed like an thaumechanic, until its six skittering legs walked it into an autoshell tube, collapsing into its carapace so that it could roll on hidden wheels through the tunnel. Then he carried on alone, seamlessly switching from slow thaumechanic piety to the lazy stride of a normal citizen. Blessedly there was an elevator in area five – there were elevators in every fifth area of a subdistrict – so it only took crossing a single area after descending to level twenty-nine to arrive in Zrikr’s area.
There were signs, if you knew what to look for, that could point you towards a clan fence. Subtle etchings in the walls of the caverns. Only clan members could interpret them. Korleth had more or less been born into the clan, he was adopted so young. So he followed the signs to the seemingly abandoned apartment they indicated.
He knocked on the door, a harsh rhythmic rap that signaled clan membership. After a minute or so the door cracked open to reveal a pair of red-flecked black eyes, Dromag eyes. The door closed for a moment, then opened all the way. A tall, stocky Dromag stood in the doorway, her beard styled like a cage around her mouth, individual braids stiffened upwards in arcs like prison bars. A Silencer – clan bruisers. Korleth took careful note of the thick, barely-tapered stone club in her hand.
“Speak,” said the Silencer, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed with club in tow.
“Here for Zrikr,” answered Korleth. “Got something for him.”
“Delivery or merchandise?”
“Merchandise.” Korleth half-revealed the ring in his pocket to the Silencer. She nodded and went back inside, closing the door behind her.
Another minute passed until the door opened again. This time the Silencer stood to the side to let Korleth in. He gave her a curt nod as he passed, but she only returned with a puff of air from her nostrils, rattling the bars of her beard-cage.
It smelled heavily of gridc smoke in here; a filmy haze of it lingered in the air. The apartment appeared inside as it did outside – abandoned. Almost all the furniture was overturned, dusty, moldy, and cobweb-stricken. And it was not even of consistent organization, seeming to have too many of some articles, and not enough of others. There were only a few relatively clean and upright pieces: a brass cushionless couch, which the Silencer sat on when she wasn’t answering the door or Silencing, and a desk in the back with a small wheeled chair, also of brass. Its occupant sat with his back turned to the door, but when Korleth approached he swiveled around to face him.
In that chair and at that desk sat a wiry old Dromag, puffing on a claypipe. As Korleth approached, he noticed that the claypipe was ornamented with intricate brass inlays – or was it gold? The room was too dim to be able to tell for sure, and Korleth was no metallurgist. Most he ever got ahold of was silver, since the damned Temple hoarded most of the gold jealously. Zrikr played a dangerous game if he decorated something so mundane as a claypipe with the precious metal. They could send Saints after him to confiscate it, or worse.
“Aye?” said Zrikr, not removing the claypipe from his lips as he did so.
“Venerable Zrikr,” began Korleth with the typical clan salute for elders, a spreading of the mustache with the index finger and thumb. “I come to offer merchandise.”
Zrikr slowly pulled the pipe from his mouth, put it out, and laid it down gently on the desk. “Very well. Come closer so I can take a look. Lay out your product.”
Korleth obeyed, stopping inches from the front of the desk. He removed the ring fully from his pocket and began to set it down on the desk –
Zrikr grabbed Korleth’s ring-bearing wrist. “Do my old eyes deceive me, tenv?” He squinted his eyes at Korleth’s face. Korleth managed to maintain his outward composure, but his tongue rolled across the back of his sharp teeth anxiously. “You the old Baron Cemming’s kid? That autorat he picked up off the street? Glorious prodigy of the clan?” He tightened his grip, but his eyes roamed in recollection. “Korleth, is it?”
“Yes, Venerable Zrikr,” said Korleth smoothly, but between his teeth. “Maybe not so many words are needed.”
“Maybe not, maybe not,” said Zrikr. “I knew old Cemming when we were lads. He was a whip of a tenv, but he knew his shit. Took good care of his people. Not like those gasbags in charge now.” He smiled, revealing teeth too sharp for a Dromag this old. He must sharpen them daily, Korleth thought idly. “I hope you’ve got the old tenv’s same measure.”
Zrikr released Korleth’s wrist. “Now, what have you here, young tenv?”
“Thoughstone ring,” said Korleth, finally able to lay the jewelry down on the desk. “Carnelian with orbital rubies and citrines.”
“Carnelian thoughtstone,” said Zrikr, picking up the ring and holding it close to his rheumy black eyes. “What ever will they think of next?” He examined the ring entire for a minute before setting it back down. “Gems are well cut. Silversmithing is of high quality. Couldn’t tell you shit about the ‘stone.”
“Do you have an Aajakiri associate who could appraise it?” asked Korleth.
“You take me for an amateur, tenv?” said Zrikr coldly. Korleth could hear the slap of the Silencer’s club on her palm. Zrikr glanced at her and shook his head. “Yes, yes. I have a damn Aaj on the payroll. Give me some time to ask her about it. Couple days maybe.”
“Advance?”
“Of course,” said Zrikr, his smile wicked. He reached into the desk, pulled out a wrapped parcel, and handed it to Korleth. Korleth opened it halfway to peek inside: it was a half-loaf of dense mushroom-and-nut bread, the nuts few and far between in a tight matrix of grey-green grain. It barely fit snug in Korleth’s palm. “That should keep you ‘til I hear back.”
Shellshit, Korleth thought, but he played it cool. Zrikr didn’t seem like the type of tenv you messed with – you didn’t get this old in the clan without a bodycount. And Korleth certainly didn’t want to get on the wrong side of that Silencer’s club. “Yes, Venerable Zrikr. Thank you.”
“Now off with you,” said Zrikr with a wave. He picked up his claypipe and used a thaumechanical sparker to light the bowl again. “Disturbing my smoke time.”
Korleth obeyed, and left. He didn’t bother nodding at the Silencer this time.
