The Children of the Sky

jolly than usual. Several of him looked past Timor at Sharps. There was a warbling exchange of views. Timor could only pick out a few of the chords, but he made up the rest with this imagination:

Boss pack: “Hei, Sharpsie. Did this two-legged clown really get an order from the Big Guy to come down here?”

Sharps, doing his best to stay at full attention: “No way, Sir. Jailer is the only one who’s been to the tower today.”

The Boss turned all his attention back to Timor, and what he actually said in Samnorsk came as a surprise even to Timor’s imagination: “You no go here. Tycoon make that real order. To me, about you.”

Chapter 33

Tycoon’s great palace might not have been where Ravna had expected, but it was every bit the grandiose thing she had imagined: huge, domed, and spired. Unfortunately, she and Jefri spent the rest of the morning stuck in the lowly outskirts of the place, even as the rickshaw whisked Ritl merrily off to some more honored destination. The gunpack guided Ravna and Jefri toward magnificent twenty-meter-wide stairs—then off to the side, where there was an awning-shaded area. Packs brought them food (yams!) and some kind of weak beer. So they sat and looked across the airfield at the airships and the long barracks-like structures beyond. Eventually the airships were wheeled into their hangars, but there was no end to mysterious comings and goings near those barracks. The clouds scudded away and the sun beat down and things got really hot, even here under the awnings. Jefri paced to the limits that the gunpack would allow, looking at everything, arguing with gunpack and the occasional servant, even though nobody seemed to speak Samnorsk. Finally, he came back, looking as wilted as Ravna felt. “You okay?” he said.

“Yeah.” This was very much the setting of the Age of Princesses, and yet another blow to her childhood fancies.

“I think this is some kind of psychological warfare,” Jefri said.

“They’re softening us up?”

“Maybe.” He looked around. “You know, a lot of this doesn’t look so regal up close. I see mildew, water stains. Choir aside, there are good reasons why Northerners never settled here. Maybe Vendacious and Tycoon came here out of weakness. Maybe they’re moving the furniture around right now,” he jerked a thumb at the palace’s main entrance, “polishing up the part we’re going to see.”

Hmm. Ravna looked across the airfield. The hangar doors had been slid shut, and there was no further activity around them. This side of the mysterious barracks, there were hectares of open space with just a pack or two, perhaps fishing at one of the ornamental water pools. This emptiness was in the middle of the most densely populated place on the planet. Somebody had some clout. Rather than fraud and facade, maybe this was Tropical reality.

The sun had slid into afternoon before they were finally ushered into Tycoon’s grand palace. Yes, it was grand inside, too. Everywhere she looked, packs hustled this way and that; most of their members had the plush pelts of Northerners. Ravna and Jefri were led through vast carpeted rooms, up more stairs to only slightly smaller rooms, their walls draped with acoustic quilting. She noticed the kinds of imperfections that Jefri had mentioned. There was a faint odor of mildew, an occasional squishiness in the carpet. But the walls soared, and the dome overhead almost seemed to float. Tycoon and company had been cribbing a lot of tricks from Domain designs and, at least indirectly, from Oobii.

After the fourth set of stairs, Ravna would have been just as happy to be back under the outside awnings.

Up here the rooms were not large. Their guide opened doors to reveal a short hallway. At the far end, a pack stood by another set of doors. This pack was dressed in full cloaks that would have made sense on a summer day up North—but which looked a bit silly here. Gunpack waggled its rifles, urging them forward as the doors behind them swung shut.

The shutting of those doors seemed to be a signal to open the inner doors. Almost like an airlock. The thought flitted by at almost the same instant as a breath of cool air swept through the opening. They walked forward, into a room in which the air temperature couldn’t have been more than 25C. She stumbled at the surprise; the sudden change was both a relief and discomfort. Jefri helped her across the room to benches set before a cluster of Tinish thrones. This was some kind of audience chamber.

Sunlight spilled through muddy glass. It was their first view to the east since they had left the airship. A second-degree pyramid towered high, but the second-degrees were like foothills before the immensity of the first- degree pyramid. Ravna had to look up through the ceiling windows to see the top of that.

It was an odd thing to see in a throne room. Ravna had to forcibly yank her attention back from the windows. Directly ahead were elevated throne seats. A smaller perch—for a singleton?—was set close by. All of those were unoccupied, but the room was not: To the right, a sevensome spread across a set of lesser thrones. Some meters to the right of him was a second pack. At first she thought it was Godsgift—but no, it wasn’t, though it was dressed with the same harlequin gaudiness as the Godsgift she had known in the Domain.

The first pack gobbled something at the gunpack and then spoke in Samnorsk: “You don’t recognize me, do you?” Two of the pack had patchy Tropical pelts. “Not even the voice I’m using?”

Vendacious. At least it was the voice they’d heard via Zek, doing business with Prince Puce.

Jefri gave him a stony look. “Where are Amdi and Screwfloss?”

A smile rippled across the pack. “They are guests in my annex. They are cooperating with my investigation. They have nothing to fear. You have nothing to fear if you cooperate equally.” He jabbed snouts at them as he spoke. Now he paused and sat back in a dignified posture. “In a few moments you will have the honor of meeting the great Tycoon.”

The Tropical pack popped into the conversation with, “I’m sure we’ll get along famously if we all cooperate.” The speech was chipper and unthreatening—and where did this fellow learn to speak Samnorsk so well?

The question was forgotten as the gunpack came to attention and bugled out royal flourishes. An instant later, the pack-wide doors behind the thrones were pulled open. A single member came strolling through, wearing a radio cloak. It looked well-fed and rested and almost certainly wasn’t Zek. The critter headed for the low seat by the thrones. Immediately after the singleton was seated, a heavyset eightsome came through the doorway.

Ravna had seen packs as numerous—Amdi was eight, too—but several of this fellow’s members were hulks, bigger than Pilgrim’s Scar, even if not as tough-looking. The pack wore plain silk cloaks that would have been understated elegance, except that one or two had drag stains. Ravna watched the eight settle themselves on the thrones, their gaze focusing implacably on Ravna and Jefri. So this was the pack at the center of all their problems the last few years. What sort of creature could conspire with Vendacious—and still be alive after all those years?

The gunpack’s bugling stopped, but now Vendacious took over with, “Bow to the great—”

There was an angry squeak from behind the thrones. One more figure came into the room. Could a pack as numerous as Tycoon be raising a puppy? No, this was Ritl—and as loud as ever. She was dragging a large stool, and Ravna guessed her squawking meant something like, “I could use a little help here!” Ritl dragged the stool across the carpet, toward Tycoon’s thrones. She tipped it down unseemly close to Tycoon, then scrambled aboard and looked around. You really couldn’t see much expression in a single Tines, but somehow Ritl looked … smug.

Ravna glanced back at Tycoon; he was still all staring at her and Jef. The pack waited a moment for Vendacious and Ritl to pipe down. When he finally spoke, it was with that totally inappropriate and self-damning Geri voice they had already heard via Mr. Radio: “I have waited far too long for this.” He switched to Interpack for a moment, then back to Samnorsk: “Vendacious, which is the leader, the one your puppet deposed?”

“That’s the smaller of the two, sir. Ravna Bergsndot. She managed the Domain’s invention development program.”

Tycoon hooted gently, a Tinish chuckle. “Ah yes. The machine operator.” He pointed at Jefri. “And the big fellow? Is that really…?”