The
Not pleasant, hearing his dislike might have influenced the rest. Not that he need accept all the blame, Enris told himself more cheerfully. At her friendliest, Naryn was as safe to approach as a starving esask.
They walked on a rough floor, their way lit by glowstrips hanging from temporary supports. How new was this tunnel? Enris wondered suddenly. That the Oud might have dug it to reach the artifacts quickly was not reassuring. Not reassuring at all.
Neither, he thought, was that
Iglies.
But no Oud. Rock or adult.
“Where are they?” he whispered. Voices echoed here, found their way back from unexpected directions.
“Where they need to be,” Netta said. “I’ve watched—” her wary look at Galen’s back suggesting a lack of Chosen permission for this activity “—Digger Oud. Only one starts a tunnel, but it doesn’t take long before there’s a crowd of them, pushing and shoving to get at the work. They don’t notice us at all.”
“Until the Minded one showed up.” Her twin.
“There’s no need to—” Netta closed her mouth quickly as Galen glanced over his shoulder. Her lips were as dappled as her skin. An Amna trait, making it easy to pick out those newcomers from that Clan, if not foolproof. Some were so thoroughly speckled their skin looked dark.
Aryl liked the effect. She’d told him it made her think of sunlight filtered through leaves.
Aryl. The tingle along his nerves wasn’t fear of this place, though he could, Enris grimaced, do without dead Oud goo on his boots or the squirt of it when he couldn’t help stomping an iglie. The tingle came from Aryl’s state of mind. It affected his; she couldn’t help it.
While such focus revealed much about a Yena’s ability to survive, he preferred not to share it. Probably, Enris reminded himself with a rueful inner grin, Aryl preferred that too.
He himself was more distractible. He liked to think as he walked. Not that he had anything in mind at the moment, but it had been his habit to wander through the fields at home, ponder designs, look to the world for ideas.
They passed an opening; Josel didn’t turn aside but Galen stopped. “Wait.”
Josel looked a question at the older Runner, who pointed to the floor. Enris felt a sudden chill.
A small puddle, without iglies. A puddle of dark red, thickened but still reflecting light.
Suen squatted for a closer look. “Om’ray,” he said grimly.
Enris shook his head. “Human.”
A different kind of day, sitting in the sun by the waterfall, a too-curious finger on Aryl’s longknife, a moment of shared wonder at a drop of innocent red.
Nothing innocent about this puddle on the floor of an Oud tunnel.
Without waiting for the rest, Enris walked through the opening beside the blood into what he found wasn’t a tunnel, but a circular room. The ceiling was twice as high and more openings pierced the walls above, a reminder that Oud had no trouble running underneath a ceiling or down a wall.
The floor of this—was it a room, or another kind of tunnel?—was what mattered.
The floor, and what the Oud had dumped on it.
There was no other word for the shambles. Crates of the Strangers’ white material formed a jumbled pile higher than his head; its base almost filled the room. Some had toppled and rolled to lie with what weren’t crates, but fragments of bodies.
Not Marcus. Not Marcus. Enris said it to himself over and over as he searched, his shields as tight as he could make them to protect Aryl, hand over his nose against the reek. Strangers. Of varied shapes and sizes. Cut into bits.
Once sure, he relaxed. Strangers, yes. Two . . . he spotted another piece of head . . . three. But none dressed as if pretending to be Om’ray.
“This one’s different.” Galen rolled a limp torso over with his boot. “Look at the clothing.”
The torso had its head. It was Om’ray-like—or Human—save for short yellow bristles where ears belonged. What remained of the body wore a one-piece blue garment with no fastenings or seams. A nearby leg bore the same fabric.
The other two wore Triad work clothes, complete with a line of symbols on their shirts. Names, Enris thought, and used his knife to cut the scraps free. He tucked them deep in a pocket. Marcus would want names.
There was nothing to identify the bristle-eared Stranger. Enris stared at its face, hoping the memory would be enough.
