After the trucks, a new sound emerged. A low hum, harmonizing and reverberating like a chorus, deep and ominous and beautiful. The song swelled until I felt it in my chest. A contrabass prelude to the main event. Emerging from the barrier where fog transformed into snow, the first Barekusu crossed into Titanshade.
They moved slowly, majestic shapes solidifying in the swirl of ice fog. For all the size of the crowd, not a single person made a sound. No shouts, no cheering, not even the inevitable heckler in the crowd. Only respectful silence. The Barekusu’s wide rear legs kept time with their thick three-fingered front hands, ambulating on all fours. Barely visible, a second set of narrow, thin-fingered hands grew from the inner side of those massive wrists. With each stride these delicate “sly hands” stroked the coats of shaggy fur, pulling loose strands to be woven into valuable kusuma wool.
As the caravan drew closer, I could see their breath streaming out of nostrils the size of my fist, and the Barekusu’s thick outer coats, covered by frost, each ice crystal standing out as if meticulously drawn by an artist. It reinforced their mysterious nature, even more because their outer clothing was entirely kusuma, blending into their own pelt colors and giving them the appearance of wild creatures who now strode the streets of the city, creatures born long before cobblestone wound meandering paths around the Mount, and who would be here long after Titanshade and all its citizens had sunk beneath the snow.
Jax sighed. It was a quiet, musical tinkle, the sound of countless curved teeth clicking in his speaking mouth accompanied by a low, wistful note. “You think they’re going to help patch things up with the AFS?”
“Maybe. Or maybe they’re here to lay their own claim on the manna.” I looked back at the building where Donna Raun had beaten a friend to death for no discernible reason. “Either way they’re slowing down my investigation.” The Barekusu were traders, priests, guides, and teachers. And like anyone on a pedestal, they weren’t to be trusted. I pulled my coat tighter, warding off the creeping chill of Borderlands air. “Let’s get back to work, Jax.”
But Ajax was lost in thought, watching the slowly swaying backs of the nomad priests. So I waited beside him.
For their part, the Barekusu seemed to take no notice of the crowd beyond the occasional twitch of one of the half-dozen pointed ear flaps circling their heads and cresting through their fur like the ornaments of a crown. Their eyes were hidden from our sight by layers of horn. Growing in half circles, like a series of broken dinner plates, each overlapping horn protected the Barekusu’s face, while also providing privacy. The horn slats were also covered in rime from the journey across the ice plains, and occasionally a Barekusu would flex them open and shut, shedding the accumulated ice onto the cobblestones beneath their feet.
Something brushed across the top of my head, light, feathery, and sticky. I ducked, shouting a curse. The Barekusu nearest us took no notice, but one on the far side of the caravan slowed his pace. His eye horns hinged open like a set of slat blinds, revealing an eyeball the size of my fist, bisected both horizontally and vertically. There were four separate irises pointing in four separate directions, wary of any possible predators. In a blink they snapped together, converging into a single dark and wriggling shape, staring at me from behind horn plates whose irregular, saw-toothed ends could rend flesh from bone. As he passed me, his gaze returned to the path before him, but I couldn’t look away from the gray and green stripes along his back ridge.
All around, people craned their heads, trying to guess who had shouted and caught the Barekusu’s attention. I tugged my scarf higher around my collar. It was time to return to something I could understand: a dead body six floors up who needed me to unravel his murder.
I pushed my way through one of several camera crews. As I did, the sound engineer swore and snatched off her headphones. I could hear the squeal of feedback from the headset, a sound undercut by a low, angry buzzing. The other crews seemed to be having the same issue, and my heartbeat picked up its tempo. I turned in place, searching for anything out of the ordinary. The crowd had begun to murmur, and I turned to find the caravan abruptly halted. The Barekusu stretched out their necks, nostrils flaring, sniffing the breeze like a dog enjoying a summer day. A long moment passed, and around me the sound engineers gingerly put their headphones back on. I looked down the street and saw the distinctive gray and green stripes of the Barekusu who’d looked at me. He began to move, and all around the caravan followed suit. But my attention wasn’t on the newcomers to our city. I was thinking about that buzzing, the same sound I’d been hearing since the manna strike, the same sound we’d all heard at the concert site when Bobby Kearn’s body transformed. And just like that time, people other than me had heard it as well. And that meant . . .
I twisted my hips, turning to stare at the building where Saul’s corpse lay, and where a woman and a patrol cop were sitting in the next room.
“Jax, come on!” I shouted. And began to run.
10
RUSHING BACK TO THE CRIME scene, I took the stairs two at a time. At least for the first few flights. Maybe the first flight. In any case, by the time I hit the sixth floor, I was approaching the scene at a measured pace.
We entered
