The Children of the Sky

more, but saw only crew and maintenance packs.

Timor slid down to the floor, the binoculars now unnoticed in his lap. Maybe he should keep watching, but he was too busy thinking about what this could mean and what he should do: Tell Geri. Decide how to approach Tycoon on this. Timor had gotten better at guessing how the big guy would react to developments—even if the reasons for the reaction were not always clear. In the beginning, Timor had tried to explain that Ravna was a good person who should be an ally. That had not worked very well, though Timor was sure—almost sure—that Tycoon would not kill her out of hand the way Vendacious wanted.

Suddenly he was overcome by the need to move; he’d plan on the way. He climbed to his feet and set the binoculars in their velvet box. Geri’s cell was above his. Getting up the stairs was always a pain, though Tinish steps were easier for him to climb than steps the size most humans preferred. He’d considered complaining about the problem—but there was no way to make the stairs more convenient for his bad legs. If the Big Guy took him seriously, he might just move Timor out of the tower entirely.

The tiny stairwell was cool, the walls and steps slick with condensation. The door at the top was metal, edged with a rubber sealing ring. He tapped politely on its surface, then popped it open.

“Hei, Geri. It’s me, Timor.” Actually, it couldn’t be anyone else, not through this door. “Can I come in?”

There was no answer, but Geri replied only on her really good days. Timor eased the door open and stepped into the cold semidarkness. Actually the room was pretty warm by Domain standards, but it was at least ten degrees cooler than outdoors, and unlike in the stairwell, the air was relatively dry. Timor himself had lived in this room for a few tendays—till the lack of windows and the hassle of moving in and out of the heat had gotten to him. Geri would have that problem too if—when she felt well enough to leave the room.

“Geri?”

Shadows shifted and a head poked up. “She here. She say no visit.” That was the jailer, a not very bright foursome—but one of the few packs who spoke some Samnorsk.

“Hei, Jailer,” and he tried to gobble-whistle the Jailer’s given name.

As usual Jailer bobbed a smile, but whether she was amused or pleased, Timor had never been able to figure out. The pack was gathered together all on one side of the bed. Geri became visibly upset when a pack surrounded her. As Timor settled down on the other side, Geri shifted uneasily under her blankets, shrinking away from him. She stared determinedly away from both Timor and Jailer. This must be one of her bad days, when she couldn’t bear to be touched, much less hugged.

Darn the luck, but he had to tell someone. Timor rested his hand on the edge of the five-year-old’s blankets. Geri was years younger than Timor now, but he was still only a little taller than she was. Once upon a time, Geri surely had understood that Timor was older, just stunted down to her size. Now she often seemed to confuse him with her Academy playmates. Since her time with Vendacious, there was a lot she was confused about, and lots more she refused to think about. “Geri, I have good news. Ravna is here! I saw her myself!”

Her violet eyes shifted in his direction; some distant emotion passed across her small, dark face. Timor took any expression that wasn’t fear as a positive thing. The little girl seemed to consider him for a second. “What did she say?”

Um. What a smart and deflating question. Geri could do that. He remembered the four-year-old he’d known back in the Domain. Back then, she’d been inquisitive all the time! “I haven’t actually talked to her yet. I’m going down to Tycoon right now. Maybe I can help her.”

Another pause, but Geri didn’t look away. “Can I come? Can Edvi come? We can help too.”

She liked Tycoon, but this was the first time she’d ever talked of going to see him. Unfortunately, Edvi was almost certainly dead. “Not this time, Geri. I have to get down to Tycoon right away. But I’ll tell him that you need Ravna.”

Interest dimmed, but after a moment Geri replied, “Okay.”

•  •  •

The stairs extended downwards only as far as the veranda at mid-tower. When Timor got there and emerged into the heat, it was like diving into a pool of very warm water.

The veranda was the only way in or out of the tower—and that only if you could convince two gun-toting guards to let you pass. One of those packs stood around the door now, watching Timor impassively. Timor gave him a wave and limped a few meters around the curve of the tower to where the other pack—it was Mr. Sharpshooter this morning—sat by the elevator dock. “Hei, Sharpsie. I want to go down. Must see Tycoon.”

Sharpsie rolled his heads in an officious, irritated way. He exchanged some hooting and gobbling with the pack by the door. The gunpacks really didn’t like to leave just the one guard here. On the other hand, it was Tycoon’s rule that Timor was not to be allowed to run around by himself. In the end—no big surprise—Sharpsie caved in. The four of him came to their feet. One of him slid open the elevator gate, while two others grabbed Timor’s shirt and pants to make sure he didn’t fall through the space between the veranda and the elevator carriage. These guys thought Timor’s tremor was much more dangerous than it really was. He had only fallen that once, and that was on the stairs.…

The elevator cable extended from the tower dock, diagonally down to a point on the palace dome. The ride was always exciting, the carriage slightly swaying, nothing but thirty meters of empty air between them and the dome below. Tycoon claimed that elevators were just another of his long-lost brother’s inventions. Maybe, but the thin little cable was made by char-burning woven reeds in just the right way—surely that was another trick stolen from Ravna’s starship.

Five minutes later, he was safely at the dock on Tycoon’s own residential level. Mr. Sharps didn’t object when Timor took the shortcut through the aquarium room, though he insisted on walking both in front and behind.

They weren’t more than five steps into the room before the cuttlefish spotted him. “Hei Timor! Timor! Hei Ti’Timor! Hei—hei—h’h’h’hei!” The squeaky voices started nearby, sweeping away from the door he had just come through, along the walls of the aquarium, all the way to the far end of the hall—where the little squeakers could not even have seen him yet.

Timor moved as fast as he could down the aisle between the leaky glass tanks. Any other time he would have stopped in wonder, and stayed to chat. The aquarium had a water ladder down to the pools and streams of the airfield, so there was often news here from very far away. The cuttlefish were such marvelous creatures. The torpedo-shaped bodies were just thirty centimeters long. Their eyes covered one end; their tentacles extended the rest of their body length. Hundreds of them tumbled and turned as they swarmed to follow his progress. I don’t have time, little ones! Their greetings had shifted into questions. The cuttlefish were not mindless, but they were differently minded. The cuttlefish were scatterbrained and careless of their own lives. But they spoke Interpack. Tycoon claimed that they had spoken a Southseas version of pack talk when they were first discovered. They had learned a little Samnorsk just since he had started talking to them.

Two of Sharps ran a little way ahead. One looked around the corner in the direction of Tycoon’s audience hall—and suddenly the whole pack seemed to go on parade, all its steel claws clacking on the floor in unison. Something strange was going on ahead. Timor slowed down, provoking an irritated hiss from Sharps’ two behind him.

He reached the corner, and peeked around. The audience room doors were shut! Tycoon hardly ever did that. He liked to wander back and forth and schmooze with the cuttlefish. Not today. He must be running the air- conditioning a lot, like he did when he really wanted to impress someone. Okay, that was good.

Unfortunately, there was a pack standing by the doors, glaring in their direction. That was Sharps’ boss, what would have been the royal chamberlain back in Woodcarver’s palace. Timor straightened up as much as he could and approached him. Mr. Sharps’ two walked in formation with him, then merged with its two members that had gone on ahead. All four stopped and came to attention. Sharps’ maneuver was supposed to be fierce and impressive, but to Timor he just looked like doggies with toy guns strapped to their backs.

Timor walked on forward, right up to the boss pack. He really needed to get through these doors. If Tycoon would give Ravna a fair hearing, they were all home free. The problem was, sometimes the Big Guy would go running with his preconceptions. Vendacious was always trying to take advantage of that. What if Vendacious is in there too? Timor stifled the thought.

“Hei, Boss.” He waved at the doors. “Tycoon want me now. I help with words.”

The boss pack stared back impassively. This one had no sense of humor, and today he seemed even less