011

Uqmai, the city of bartered souls, lay like a sun-struck beast on the yellow shores of Turtle Bay. Grizsix had approached the city from the south, avoiding major roads in favor of animal trails and untamed wilderness, paths too treacherous for men to follow. The last leg of the trip saw them scrambling up a rock-strewn hill, the air heavy with the smell of sea salt, and the sound of crashing waves drawing close. Atop the hill, they stopped to survey the Road of Acquisition below, winding through the powdery sands like a river of stone.

Trade caravans and travelers were queued up at the main gate of the city, its massive arch decorated with a brass relief of a grinning demon. The demon held a single coin on its tongue and was ringed by a circle of clasped hands, some human and some monstrous.

“That’s as far as we take ‘em,” Nanesh said. The twins were sitting forward in their unique saddle, their extra legs resting in a pair of oddly placed stirrups and the vestigial hands on their chest gripping the overlarge saddle horn.

“You’re not coming with us?” Frank dismounted, taking care to hold Thune’s head so it didn’t bump anything. A stiff breeze picked up, whipping his orange cloak. “Scared of the big city?”

“We aren’t welcome there,” Manesh said. “The guards will shoot Grizsix on sight. Cook her, too, if they catch her.”

Grizsix hissed, dragging a purple tongue over her eye ridge.

“Appreciate your help,” Frank said.

“Let’s see how long the big one survives without us,” Nanesh said.

“I apologize again to the head,” Manesh said. “His injury was a mistake.”

“A mistake is one way to describe a knife attack,” Thune said.

“Take one of our saddlebags to hide the head. The people of Uqmai will be curious otherwise.”

“Very kind of you.” Frank undid one of the canvas bags strapped to the back of the saddle. It was about the size of a grocery tote, big enough to fit Thune comfortably, but not much more.

“I would ask a favor in return, if it is not too much trouble.”

“What kind of favor?”

“Show them, brother.”

Nanesh reached into a hidden pocket on the saddle and pulled out a colorful shell. It was spiral-shaped, about the size of a silver dollar, an insect shell or an animal shell, hard to tell which. It sat pleasantly in Frank’s palm, smooth to the touch from ritual polishing, its rainbow pattern vibrant in the midday sun.

“There is a graveyard in the city,” Manesh said. “By the east wall. It’s where they bury … undesirables. Would you leave it there, as an offering from us?”

“Anywhere in particular?”

“There is a shrine in the graveyard. To the goddess of lost causes.”

“I’d be honored.”

“You have my thanks.” Manesh’s eye stalks mellowed to a soft pink hue, and a warm soothing pulse spread through Frank’s body.

Nanesh made a clicking noise with his tongue, and Grizsix spun in a tight circle. She braced herself like a runner at the starting line and then took off, kicking up a cloud of yellow dust.

When the air cleared, Frank turned to survey the city.

Uqmai was a sprawl of mudbrick houses with flat roofs and canvas awnings, dyed in fading hues of ochre, rust-red and tarnished gold. In the surrounding hills, palatial estates of white marble lay strewn like the scattered pearls of a broken necklace, overlooking the crowded streets below. A great temple, domed in polished brass and ringed by delicate minarets, occupied the center of the city. And above it all, perched atop a sea-side bluff, stood a spire of curious stone, black as a burnt finger.

Fat-bodied birds wheeled screaming overhead, and beyond them, the waters of the bay washed up to Uqmai’s harbor.

The sea was red.

It was near to noon and the black orb of the sun, surrounded by its roiling halo, cast a crimson glow over the waves. But this was no trick of the light. The water was red in itself, a churning expanse of scarlet that looked like nothing so much as an ocean of blood.

It was called Turtle Bay, according to Thune, but a better name might have been the Maw. For if the city was a beast, the bay was its mouth, a gaping hole in the coastline flanked by coral reefs and jagged cliffs sharp as shark’s teeth, lapping endlessly at the puddle of gore that was the red sea.

Ships plied these strange tides, square-sailed merchant vessels, and brightly colored fishing skiffs, and triremes with bronze rams and rows of black oars that sliced neatly through the waves. Several wrecked ships were visible in the shallows, too, their half-rotted hulls jutting up from under the water like ribs bones in a pot of stew.

“Uqmai,” Thune said. “It is much as I remember it. A lawless pit, as decadent as it is squalid, and rife with corruption. What dost thou think? Can it compare to the cities of thy home?”

Frank had been all over the world. New York. London. Tokyo. Name a city and there was a better than even chance he’d been there, shooting a movie or getting high or getting in trouble – sometimes all in one night.

It took a lot to impress him. But even he stood in awe of Uqmai

Just looking at the city filled him with a sense of wonder, of impending adventure. He felt on the cusp of something dangerous, like the hiss from the first can of beer he ever popped or the tremble in his hand the first time he went under Celina Prince’s shirt after theater class.

He was enjoying himself again, same as he had during that first skirmish with the Copper Men, and that worried him. He should be scared right now. He should be consumed with thoughts of getting home before the ticking time bomb in his head went off. So why wasn’t he?

Maybe he was adapting to Argos. Or maybe something was changing him.

Either war, he couldn’t help but smile when he answered Thune’s question.

“Looks like my kind of town.”

***

Uqmai’s walls were made of dark sandstone and decorated with old trade banners and hanging corpses. Frank recognized several of the dead as Copper Men. They swayed in the breeze like marionettes in a grim puppet show, their red hair and rictus grins a terrifying imitation of clowns.

“Seems bad for business, leaving your dead out front,” Frank said. He’d secured Thune in the canvas bag, which he carried slung over one shoulder. The bag muffled Thune’s already raspy voice, but if Frank held it close to his ear, he could hear well enough.

“Thou art jesting,” Thune said, “but this city is ruled by the Brass Men. And they respect nothing so much as business. Those corpses are a pledge to all who come here to trade. Thou art safe within our walls.”

“Are we safe within these walls?”

“To survive in Uqmai, a man must earn coin, either for himself or for someone else. Freeloaders and malcontents are not welcome, nor those whose activities do not earn a profit. Best that we get to the docks quickly, and hire on a ship. With steady work, we shall be less conspicuous.”

“Might be a bad time to bring it up. But I don’t actually know anything about sailing.”

“It matters not. Thou art stronger than two or three men combined. It will be no trouble finding work.”

The main gate had twin entrances, one for foot travelers and one for caravans and pack animals. Frank mixed into the crowd, letting himself get carried along by the flow of traffic. He drew a few curious glances from passersby, his size and coloration an unusual sight even in this strange company, but managed to avoid a scene.

An old publicist had taught him how keep from getting mobbed in public, back when that was something he actually had to worry about.

Be polite, don’t run, keep moving.

The rules were the same at Comic-Con as at the gates of Uqmai.

“What do we tell them about you?” Frank’s asked.

“Do not make mention of me,” Thune said.

“What if they ask what’s in my bag?”

“If I am discovered, I will play dead. Explain thou art a bounty hunter, here in Uqmai to deliver your kill. Can a mummer of thy talents manage such a performance?”

“I can play any part you give me. But where I come from, actors look for motivation in their characters. What motivates me to be a bounty hunter?”

“A desire not to be accused of necromancy and burned on a pyre.”

The brass demon that decorated the man gate leered down at Frank, its dangling tongue framed by curved tusks, its pupils etched with flame. The coin resting on its tongue was cracked down the middle, one half embossed with a skull, the other an open hand. As people passed under its watchful gaze, they raised their empty palms into the sky, as though trying to scoop water into the demon’s mouth.

“Who’s the penny eater?” Frank asked.

“Nakariel, the Gilded Judge. Part demon, part djinn. He is said to watch over every deal that transpires in Uqmai, to make sure it is fair. He punishes deceivers mercilessly.”

“Declare your business!”

Frank had been looking up at the relief, shuffling along with the crowd, but the sharp call grabbed his attention. Ahead of him in the road, a man sat on a high-backed stool atop a wooden platform. He was shaded by a tattered parasol, and a pretty, dark eyed slave girl fanned him from behind.

The man wore a pointed bronze helmet, fluted like a turban, and gilded with brass and gold. A veil of silver chainmail hid his face, the chainmail painted with dozens of colorful eyes. He held a cudgel in one hand, capped in gold, and at the base of the platform, four men in bronze lamellar armor stood guard.

“Step up.” The man pointed his cudgel, and Frank approached. “Know ye that I am Exacter Kreel, Tariff Lord of Great Uqmai, city of bartered souls. Declare your business.”

“I’m here looking for work.”

“What is your trade?”

“I’m a sailor.”

The exacter leaned forward, craning down to look at Frank the way a man might stare into the monkey pit at the zoo.

“Did you drown?” he asked.

“I don’t understand.”

“You have an unusual complexion. Is it the result of a near-drowning? Or is there some other explanation?”

“It’s a long story.”

The exacter waved his cudgel dismissively. “Spare me. Do you have any debts to declare?”

“No.”

“Are you owed any debts?”

“No.”

“How do you plan to contribute to the city’s wealth?"

“I didn’t know I had to.”

“Everyone who passes through this gate must contribute. Nothing in Uqmai is free.”

Further ahead, a commotion had broken out in line. Another exacter was shouting down from his perch at an olive-skinned man, several guards rushing toward him.

“You mean like paying taxes?” Frank said.

“No, taxes are theft. I’m not asking for taxes. I’m asking for your voluntary contribution.”

The guards had wrestled the olive-skinned man to the ground and were striking him repeatedly now. The knuckles on their gauntlets were set with brass coins and each blow sounded like a steak being tenderized.

“Voluntary? If it’s voluntary then –”

“Everyone in Uqmai contributes.”

“How much?” Frank reached into his belt, where he’d stashed his silver coins. His fingers brushed against the brass key and he felt a surge of dizziness.

He’d done this before. Many times, in fact. Why did it seem so strange now?

“One favor, one secret or one silver,” the exacter said.

“A secret? Is that all it takes? Sure, I’ll give you –”

The bag on Frank’s shoulder made a noise, something between a wheezing cough and a raspy throat clearing.

”Let’s do the silver instead,” he said, taking Thune’s hint.

“What was that?” the exacter asked.

“What?”

The olive-skinned man had been beaten into unconsciousness and now two guards were dragging his body off. The line continued moving, people stepping through the puddle of blood left behind.

“That noise. From your bag.” Kreel pointed his cudgel at it. “Open it.”

Frank hesitated. What was his move here? He could try to flee, but he’d need to come back to the city eventually, if he planned to find passage off the island. He wasn’t exactly hard to notice, so sneaking back later would be difficult.

Fighting was no better. Even if he could subdue all these guards – a big if – he still needed to get into the city. He didn’t seem to have much choice.

He set the bag down gently and untied its flap. Thune’s head rolled out, still and expressionless.

“Gods above,” one of the bronze guards muttered.

Kreel leaned down from his perch, his silver veil ringing like soft chimes.

“Explain this.”

“I’m a bounty hunter.” Frank lifted the head by its coarse hair, gave it a good shake. “That’s my bounty. He’s a conjurer. Was a conjurer. Wanted in the Kingdom of Dubai for mutiny, murder, and crimes against the crown. He’s worth six hundred gelt, just as you see him.”

“What is a gelt?”

“A kind of coin.”

“In the kingdom of …”

“Dubai.”

Kreel studied the head for a moment longer, then looked back to Frank. “Which guild are you with?”

“Which bounty hunter guild? Is that what you mean?”

Kreel nodded.

“I’m a freelancer,” Frank said, with just enough pride to make it believable.

Kreel’s posture stiffened. “There are no registered freelance hunters in the ledger this season.”

“I’m new in town. First and last job before I hire into a ship.”

Frank heard a hiss of steam. He glanced over his shoulder to see the crab monster had stopped, and the princess in her carriage was staring out over the roadway. Her eyes were slow and sharp, and though she was far away, radiant and unknowable, Frank had the singular impression that she saw everything. Even him.

Kreel wasn’t finished. “One more question. Have you been in contact with any Copper Men?”

“I’ve met a few.”

Kreel clicked his tongue. “Unfortunate.”

“What?”

Kreel signaled with his cudgel and a bell rang above the gate, deep and sonorous. From a side door in the wall emerged a cloaked figure garbed in simple brown robes. He strode forward with practiced grace, and behind him came scores of rats, scrambling over each other in a chittering tide, fur slick and eyes gleaming.

The crowd parted.

“The Herald of the Rat,” Kreel announced with something short of reverence. “You are fortunate, traveler. The Holy Order will escort you to their temple and ensure you are free of disease.”

“I didn’t ask for that.” Frank took a step back.

“Uqmai endured a horrible plague these last years.” Kreel said. “Copper Men were the first carriers. We’ve only just managed to cleanse the city, and we won’t see it tainted again. Now the Herald will examine you. It is his right.”

The cleric stopped before Frank. He was a short man, pale and soft-bodied, like a human veal. The horde of rats coiled around his sandaled feet, moving like living smoke.

“I’m no doctor,” Frank said, “but I got an idea what caused your plague.”

“Blasphemy,” the Herald said. His voice was low and soft as a lullaby. “The rats did not cause the plague. They cured it. Devoured the corruption. We are clean now. Can you say the same?”

Several of the rats began to climb up the man’s robe, their hairless tails wriggling frantically.

Frank realized the crowd had gone silent. All eyes turned toward him.

“I’ve had a change of heart,” he said. “Think I’ll take my chances back out on the open range.”

He took a cautious step back.

The rats started to hiss.

“No,” Kreel said. “You will comply.”

“I won’t.” Frank’s hand dropped to the hilt of his blade.

Kreel’s guards closed in, cudgels raised, eyes wary of the rats and the man they were ordered to subdue. Four to one didn’t seem like impossible odds to Frank, even with an army of rats for backup. Then he heard the slap of sandaled feet on stone, the clatter of bronze weapon. More guards coming from behind him.

Kreel stood from his stool, voice sharp and cold. “This is your final warning, traveler. Submit.”

Frank cursed and drew his blade.