When Danivon led them off the ship at dusk, the chimi-hounds fell in around them. Fringe, who was nervous as a novice, kept looking behind her, sure some other person had joined their procession but seeing none.
“Relax,” said Jory, patting her on the shoulder. “All will be well.”
“I keep feeling there’s someone coming along,” Fringe murmured.
“And why not?” asked Jory soberly. “Why shouldn’t anyone come along who might want to.”
Fringe shook her head, thinking she’d been misunderstood. She fixed her eyes on the back of Danivon’s neck and kept them there. Jory and Asner were behind her, helping her guide the awkward bulk of the Destiny Machine; then came the twins, with Curvis bringing up the rear. The old people set the pace for them all, which wasn’t fast enough to suit the chimi-hounds, who chivvied at them as though driving animals, lunging at them with fangs showing and bleats of hysterical laughter.
Danivon paid them no attention as he thrust his way through the crowds of Murrey folk, feeling them part before him like water at the prow of a boat, seeing them flow together behind them seamlessly; jan-Murrey, ver-Murrey, zur-Murrey, all mixed and marbling, the vivid spots on their faces and bodies glittering like bright lizard scales as their eyes flicked across the sideshow in quick glances, fleeing, returning.
“They’re curious about us,” muttered Jory.
“So would I be,” said Fringe. “We’re freakish enough.” She pulled distractedly at her headdress, bothered by the side flaps that restricted her vision.
“If those bitches’ pups don’t stop their baying at our heels, I’m inclined to pull their teeth,” Danivon growled.
“Caution,” she said. “Isn’t that what you’ve advised?”
He made a sound, maybe of agreement, and sniffed, out of habit, smelling little. The drug hadn’t fully worn off yet. He focused on his ears instead, alert for every sound. There was much to hear. Frantic ululations from distant rooftops. Drums pounding, a cacophony of rhythms. The roar of a chant howled from many throats, arriving on the wind and then fading with the wind into some other sound. There was no quiet anywhere, and the noises grew more persistent and tormenting the closer to the town they came.
At the top of the slope the road ended at gaping warehouse gates lit on either side by glowing firepits. Spitted carcasses sizzled and spat above the coals, sending up a smoky fume. Stacked kegs at the near corner of the building stood half-hidden beneath a lounging pack of chimi-hounds, their muttering interrupted by occasional shouts of brutal laughter. The place reeked of sweat, smoke, blood, and burning fat. It had a feel to it, Fringe thought, not unlike the feel of the Swale back in Enarae. A muttering threat, barely below the surface.
The leader of their escort sent them between the firepits and through the open gates with a sweep of his arms and a mocking bow before going off to join his fellows. Once inside the cavernous hall, the three Enforcers instinctively turned their backs toward one another with the other four in the middle. Chandeliers hanging from the distant rafters bloomed in the cobwebby dark like distant constellations, lighting the place only well enough to assure them it held no immediate danger. An orchestra of yellow boys diddled and wheeped from one corner, and a troupe of zur-Murrey ran up and down long lines of tables, setting them with mugs and pitchers and plates. Against the far wall, across from the open gates, stood a hastily built platform of planks laid across bales and boxes.
“If that’s meant for us, people won’t be able to see,” said Nela. “The chandeliers are out in the middle of the place. Against that wall is the darkest place in here.”
“You’ll need to work the Destiny Machine from the floor,” suggested Bertran. “Not from the platform. You’ll want people to be able to watch it closely.”
“It would be wisest to avoid the platform entirely,” said Danivon, turning slowly to inspect every corner of the building. “Someone standing alone up there is too good a target and these people are in the mood for targets. Like bowstrings they are, all thrumming with eagerness.”
Fringe thought he described it well. The sound of the city shrilled like a cable drawn too taut for its own safety. Here was no law against riot, no control against panic, but instead the deliberate provocation of both: drums, shouts, chants, torches gleaming, ululations, shrieks, cries, a tapestry of sound and movement, of excitement and encitement, a city-wide hysteria being fed and stoked toward some planned-for climax.
“If you’re the law here, as you say,” whispered Nela, shivering at the sound of the city, “can’t you do something about this?”
“Of course,” Danivon replied, surprised. “We could do something. We’re capable of reducing the place to rubble. But there’s been no complaint and disposition nor any violence offered us yet. Nose and experience both tell me it’s coming, but Council Supervisory won’t accept nose and experience as an excuse for preemptive action.”
“So you can’t do anything?” She fretted under Bertran’s sardonic look.
Danivon himself found her question amusing. “Are you suggesting we commit violence, Nela? Would that be moral?”
She flushed, seeming near tears.
He shook his head at her, patting her shoulder. “I’ve transmitted a standard trouble message to Tolerance. If, when trouble finally presents itself, we are unable to Attend the Situation, they’ll send a retaliation and reduction force.”
“Which will be an exemplary lesson for Derbeck,” said Fringe in her noncommittal Enforcer’s voice, “though not of much use to us personally by then.”
Nela gulped and shut her mouth, seeming determined to keep it that way.
“Less talk, more action,” said Curvis. “There should be a table on the platform for the high mucky muck Houdum-Bah. Get him up there in everyone’s eyes instead of us.”
Jory nodded in agreement. “Of course,”
