March Upcountry

fully.” She gestured with her head at the female spy. “And that one will be the primary control. Do you understand?”

“I’m in charge here—” Bijan started to say.

“No,” Kosutic interrupted with a shake of her head. “Fate, chaos, and destruction are in charge here, spy. The faster you figure out how to ride the whirlwind, the better.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

Denat padded through the trackless dark of nighttime Marshad, following the dimly perceived shape of the female in front of him.

The stench of the lower warrens was unbelievable, an effluvia of chemicals from dyes, rotting carcasses, shit, and misery. He’d visited Q’Nkok often, and although there had been many poor, it had never seemed as if the entire city was destitute. But in Marshad, he hadn’t seen a single sign of relative wealth. It appeared that there were only king’s advisers, and the penniless.

As his guide passed one of the tunnel-like alleys, a figure emerged from the deeper shadows and grabbed the little female by the arm.

Denat’s orders had been to follow and, as much as possible, to avoid notice, so he stepped sideways into the deeper blackness along the alleyway, turning to put the heavy sack he carried against the wall. The little guide, Sena, had heartily endorsed the importance of his avoiding attention, and added an injunction against coming to her aid. She was confident of her own abilities. Or so she said.

Now Denat saw why. The confrontation was brief, and ended when the accoster suddenly flew into a wall. There was another flicker of movement as the two shapes merged, a horn flashed, and then the little female continued on, leaving a crumpled, life-oozing shape sprawled in the noisome alley.

Denat stepped around the growing, sticky puddle and followed his guide into the deeper blackness. There was just enough filtered light in the intersection for him to see that the thug’s head was barely attached to his body. He’d heard of the enat techniques, but Sena was the first practitioner of the art he’d ever met, and he resolved to treat the guide with the greatest possible respect.

They took a fork away from the slightly wider alley they’d been following into a smelly path barely wide enough for the broad tribesman to pass. The alley’s clay walls were intermittently coated in waterproofing, but much of it had worn away, exposing the walls to the rains. There were runnels in the material, and if it wasn’t fixed soon, the houses to either side would collapse.

The narrow slit dropped into one of the tunnels that was a bit wider. It was impossible to see in the lightless passage, so the guide took the tribesman’s hand and put it on her shoulder. The passage was half-flooded with a river of sludge—runoff from the evening’s rains and rancid beyond compare—through which they were forced to wade. Denat steeled himself and refused to wonder what the things bumping against his legs or disintegrating beneath his feet might be.

That passage was blessedly short, however, and soon Sena led him up onto a slightly elevated platform and stopped. There was an almost unheard tapping, and the creak of a hinge, and then the guide stepped forward once more.

Denat started to follow . . . and slammed his nose into a lintel. He stifled a venomous curse, ducked through the doorway and stepped forward until he felt a hand on his chest. There was another creak behind him, a thump as a door closed, and the click of a bolt shooting. Then light flared from a tinderbox.

The candle that the tinder lit revealed a space which seemed too tiny for the group filling it. Besides his guide, there were three other females of about the same age, two older females, and half a dozen children. The only male in the room was obviously old, the lighter of the candle.

Two of the younger females cringed back at the sight of the armored tribesman in their midst, but the rest simply regarded Denat calmly.

“Unexpected visitors, Sena?” The old male sat creakily on a stool and gestured for the visitor to seat himself, addressing Denat’s guide in the Voitan dialect which Denat, now that he was paying attention, could fuzzily understand.

“Yes,” the guide agreed, wiping the filth of the sewer off her legs. “A requirement of the humans. They must have one of their own perform some mission. Also, we must smuggle communiques to and from their commanders. They must have permission to help us.”

She added something else in the dialect, speaking much too rapidly for Denat to follow.

“That was to be expected,” one of the older females said, coming forward. “Welcome, tribesman. I am Selat, which my daughter would have told you, if she’d any manners.”

“D’Nal Denat.” The tribesman bowed. “I greet you in the name of The People.” He hoped he’d all the sounds right. Some of the words were the same, but accented so differently as to make them nearly unintelligible.

“Denat,” Julian said over the earbud the intel NCO’d installed, “if you’re having translation problems, ask me. I’ll give you the right words. You just said ‘I sneeze you in the name of The Idiots.’”

The Mardukan had been seeded with more listening devices than a Saint embassy, and the company now had a way out of the building. The sergeant major was hard at work tracing out the other hidden passageways, and if Denat truly needed help, it was possible the Marines could come to the rescue.

The locals looked at one another, and then the older female bowed slightly towards him.

“I . . . greet you in the name of our house. Won’t you take a seat?”

Denat nodded as reassuringly as possible at the worried females in the corner, guarding the children, and sat on the floor. The walls of the room were well-set stone and the room itself was a snug, out-of-the-way burrow.

“I . . . have . . .”

“A mission,” Julian prompted.

“ . . . a mission to put a human . . .”

“ . . . thing . . .”

“ . . . thing on the . . .”

“ . . . bridge . . .”

“ . . . bridge,” the tribesman finished with a snarl and a triple cough, the agreed-upon code for: GO AWAY.

“Okay, okay,” the NCO whispered. “Going into lurk mode.”

“Are you quite well?” his host asked. The old Mardukan leaned forward in concern; if the contact became unwell, it would ruin all their plans.

“Yes,” Denat answered. “I am well.”

“What is this device?” the older female asked as she poured their visitor a drink of water and proffered the cup.

“I don’t know,” Denat lied easily. He’d quickly learned the expression Poertena called a “poker face,” an apt description. “However, the humans say that it’s vital to their plans.”

“How large is it? How do you have to attach it? And where?” Sena clapped her hands in agitation. “It will be difficult to do. The bridge is well guarded.”

“It has to be attached anywhere on the underside,” Denat said.

“ . . . underside,” Julian corrected. “You just said anywhere on the ‘butt.’ Well, ‘ass’ is closer.” The NCO chuckled.

“Underside,” Denat amended.

“Ah,” his host said. The old Mardukan male looked at the ceiling of the dwelling. “This is perhaps possible.”

“How large is this package?” Sena asked, taking a seat as well.

Denat pulled the sack he’d been carrying around in front of him and opened it. Pulling out several hide- wrapped packages and partially prepared hides, he removed a final package covered in red leather. It was done up