The air behind Tepho shimmered as the combat variant made his presence manifest. Originally designed to function as warriors by engineers long dead, and slaughtered by the millions back during the techno wars, there weren’t many of the highly specialized creatures left. Shaz had a doglike aspect that stemmed from a long, dark muzzle, a pair of closeset eyes, and oversized ears. He wore black clothing, a leather harness, and carried a small arsenal of weapons. His smile revealed two rows of razor-sharp teeth. “Of course,”
Shaz prevaricated smoothly. “It’s the future that counts.”
The city of Tryst, on the Planet Thara
Like many of the cities on Thara, the city of Tryst had been attacked more than once over the last few thousand years, which was why it not only occupied the top of a huge granite outcropping, but was surrounded by a twenty-foothigh stone wall. And, while no one had attempted to scale the barrier in the recent past, it was common knowledge that 11,214 red hat warriors had been prematurely forced into the spirit planes while trying to wrest the city away from the black hats during the War of the Glorious Scepter 112 years earlier.
However, thanks to Rebo and his companions, the correct person now sat on the throne of CaCanth. That ensured that both halves of the Way, as the overarching religion was known, would remain at peace with each other for at least fi?fty years.
But, as with any city, the citizens of Tryst not only wanted to know who came and went, but to charge them for the privilege. That’s why the coach was forced to a pause behind a line of farm wagons about halfway up the road that led to the top.
Progress was steady, however, and no more than half an hour had passed before the coach drew level with the customs shed, and a portly-looking norm came forward to collect their paj (entry fee). Meanwhile, waiting in the background should the customs agent have need of them, were half a dozen cudgel-wielding Dib Wa (religious) warriors. The tax collector was armed with a well-worn abacus, which he was just about to employ, when Rebo emerged from the back. The runner smiled engagingly as he held a bronze medallion up for the offi?cial to see. “Good afternoon,” the runner said.
“My name is . . .” But Rebo never got the opportunity to introduce himself as the customs agent took one look at the symbol, bowed deeply, and said something in Tilisi (the language spoken by those who follow the Way). Having heard his words the Dib Wa did likewise.
Rebo bowed in return, straightened, and produced his purse. “How much do we owe?”
“Nothing,” the tax collector replied, his eyes on his feet.
“You and your companions are guests of the Inwa (leader of leaders). Please go in peace.”
The runner bowed once more, reentered the coach, and took his seat. “Well,” Norr said, as the vehicle jerked into motion. “That was a better reception than we usually get. . . . It looks like the royal sigil packs some weight.”
“I guess it does,” Rebo replied. “It’s a good thing I didn’t let Bo trade his for a couple of beers and a meat pie two days ago.”
The metal-shod wheels clattered over cobblestones as the conveyance carried the travelers into what many locals referred to as “the city of stone.” And for good reason, since the early colonists made use of high-tech cutting tools to carve what they needed from solid stone, thereby creating a vast maze of halls, galleries, and rooms, all of which were connected by tunnels, passageways, and corridors so complex that many youngsters found employment as guides. However, what made the city habitable was the extremely deep well that had been sunk down through the very center of the rock into an aquifer below. The original colonists were gone now, as were most of the technologies used to create Tryst, but thanks to the quality of the pumps located more than a thousand feet below, and the huge petal-shaped solar panels that deployed themselves just after sunrise each morning, those who lived within the city of stone had plenty of water.
What the citizens lacked was the additional electricity required to power the thousands of lights that the ancients had installed to illuminate their labyrinth. This became quite apparent as the coach left the customs plaza, rolled up onto a ramp-shaped tongue, and passed through an eternally opened mouth. There were windows, and occasional skylights, but those were rare. That meant it fell to the wall-mounted torches to light the way, or attempt to, although the fl?ickering yellow fl?ames weren’t suffi?cient to stave off the gloom.
There was a sudden clatter and the momentary glare of an oil lantern as a freight wagon passed in the opposite direction, followed by a shout from the driver, as he guided his angens into a turnout. Rebo peered out through the window as an apprentice rushed out to open the door. The torchlit sign over the door was plain to see. It read, runner’s guild, and was picked out with gold paint. The travelers didn’t have much in the way of luggage, and being used to carrying it themselves, didn’t expect any help. That left Rebo to pay the driver, who grinned when he saw the size of his tip and quickly tucked the money away.
“Bless you, sir. . . . And may the great Teon watch over you.”
“And you,” Rebo replied solemnly, before turning to retrieve his pack. Like all of the other structures in Tryst, the guildhall had been carved out of solid rock and originally had been created for some other purpose. But now, after who knew how many previous incarnations, the three-story structure was the center from which local runners were sent to locations all over the globe, and a home-away-from-home for members who had arrived by spaceship, or were waiting to leave on one.
Double doors opened onto a large lobby. It featured high ceilings, sturdy granite columns, and glossy stone fl? oors. There were dozens of chairs and side tables, and candelabras ablaze with light. Some of the seats were occupied, but most were empty, which made sense during the middle of the afternoon. A huge wood-burning fi? replace dominated the far wall, but, large though the blaze was, it couldn’t begin to warm the cavernous room.
The reception desk was off to the right, and since the man who stood behind the polished-granite barrier knew every runner on Thara, and off-worlders were rare, he was prepared to send the norm, the sensitive, and the heavy packing once they arrived at the counter. But that was before the dark-haired man nodded politely—and rolled up a sleeve to display the lightning bolt tattooed onto the inner surface of his left forearm.
Of course guild marks could be faked, but there was a procedure by which the man’s identity could be verifi?ed, and the receptionist nodded politely. A fringe of black hair circled his otherwise bald head, thick brows rode beady eyes, and he was in need of a shave. “Greetings, brother . . . I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“No,” Rebo said agreeably. “I don’t think we have. Rebo’s the name . . . Jak Rebo.”
The bushy brows rose incrementally. “I’ve heard of you . . . More than once . . . But never met the man who went with the stories. Please wait here.”
