Chapter 4

            The Conclave of Cog made first contact with the Simials of the Northern jungles quite by accident, when one of their landships emerged in the very center of the Simials’ sacred pumpkin orchard.  The landship crew quickly discovered that the Simials were generally a laid-back, peaceful people, and only the severest of insults — such as the destruction of a sacred pumpkin orchard — could rile them into a murderous frenzy.  That initial contact lasted approximately twelve seconds, starting with the landship pilot popping out of the hatch with an apologetic, sheepish smile, and ending with the last of the crew’s skulls being split like an overripe gourd under an onslaught of knobby, blue knuckles.

            The rage subsiding as quickly as it had come, curious gazes and furrowed brows were cast towards the intruding vehicle, a gleaming egg of metal and wood as never had been seen by Simial eyes.  It took the length of the afternoon for the braver explorers to descend into the hatch, and the moon was already full and bright over the jungle canopy before the bravest of all discovered the levers and knobs, handles and buttons patiently awaiting searching fingers.

            By the time the second Cog team arrived (twenty-four hours later and a respectable league from the orchard’s boundaries) a team of Simials had managed to get the first landship to roll forward, raise its anchor, turn around twice, and then complete a full, lurching lap of the jungle basin.  Gifts were exchanged, elders met, and so began the long and stumbling attempt to forge peaceful relations with a new, intelligent species.

            Little was learned about Simial history prior to those brutal moments.  Possessing the barest of spoken languages, no oral tradition existed to record their past, and the discovery of this new, wonderful, alien technology changed the Simial culture overnight.  Perhaps Simials and humans had some common ancestor in the distant past, or perhaps the prehensile toes and sensitive eyes of the Simials gave them an edge when it came to learning and experimenting with the unknown.  Regardless, Simial pilots and engineers quickly surpassed the humans in their own technology within three short years.  In the outlying regions, far from the civilization of the City of Cog, it was unheard of for a ship — land, sea, or air — to travel without at least one Simial engineer on board.  And when the decision was made to allow individual Simials who had shown particular skill to have their own single-man vehicles as couriers and scouts, Mull was the first in line.

            Broad and hunched, even by Simial standards, Mull towered over the average human, and his strong, nimble fingers could rebuild an engine block in twenty minutes.  Ten minutes if he had tools, and six if he used his toes as well. Mull had never known the jungle life of his ancestors.  The rumble of an engine and the cool, smooth steel of the hull gave him a sense of peace that he could never seem to find from his colleagues, human or Simial.  When the call went out for independent, capable pilots for landships, his stellar record as an airship engineer earned him one of the few, coveted spots.  And so, with freedom and a fast ship, Mull had set off running towards a new future.

            Traveling underground had given an even greater sense of autonomy than first anticipated.  Had he the ability, Mull would certainly wax poetic about the smooth, barrier-free world of bedrock.  Air travel was fraught with updrafts, downdrafts, clouds, rain (endless rain, lately) and the ever present fear of gravity suddenly kicking in.  The sea was worse, he found; a single, undulating plain of blue-green rage, dotted by islets and reefs that would gouge a ship like an apple on one’s teeth.  Here, floating in the perfectly homogenous medium of cool grey rock, there wasn’t a single entity between him and his goal, and so it took all of ten seconds to set his bearing towards the City of Cog and push the engines to a comfortable, droning speed.

            He spent the next twenty minutes brooding over controls that didn’t need to be adjusted and gauges that didn’t need to be tweaked, hoping to look busy enough to delay the inevitable attention his cargo was soon to require.  Hopefully he could find something among his collection of souvenirs to keep her busy.

            Daring a peek over his hairy shoulder, Mull grunted at Pella’s current position.  Head thrown back, eyes wide at the hatch they had descended from, as if expecting their pursuers to follow at any second.  Bemused, Mull realized that there were a few unfortunates, such as this young tribal girl, who had never been in a vehicle before.  In the windowless chamber, most passengers couldn’t detect the minor nudge of inertia as the ultra-dense ship sank into the bedrock.  She had no idea her attackers were now over a dozen leagues to the east, and getting further away every moment.

            Pella came out of her panic, vaguely aware of the dull ache in her fingers as she clenched the ladder.  It had been a while, and she couldn’t fathom why those dangerous hunters hadn’t forced the hatch open.  The hairy blue creature, though massive, didn’t seem particularly dangerous now that she had gotten used to it.  She had caught a glimpse of placid eyes and a lazy, docile lope as it had settled into a chair facing a wall, and was now twisting various metal knobs and gizmos with almost comical deliberation.

            Hands wringing, Pella turned slowly and took in the rest of the metal chamber she found herself in.  To the left and right of the large beast, in the shadow of his massive arm span, dozens of copper and brass dials squatted low against the ribbed walls.  Their needles danced to some unheard song, occasionally punctuated by a low hiss or reverberating ping.  The walls to either side of her were studded with round hatches, similar to the one they had entered:  round domes, polished to a near-reflective sheen and dominated by a large, round handle.  Behind her, the half-circle behind the cockpit was a haphazard clutter of furniture.  Low chairs with steel legs and a cluster of overpadded sofa cushions were flanked by tall, broad oak cabinets.  A low hanging chandelier turned slowly, casting a swarm of tiny pinpricks of light over several boxes and what appeared to be the remnants of some hastily-eaten meal.  Pella’s eyes landed on a wide drum made of bronze fittings, surrounded by carved figures of horses.  A small key sat atop the drum, and in gaps here and there in the façade she saw the interlock of metal teeth.

            “Clockworks?” she offered, her voice sounding reedy in the still air.  When the hairy man turned a quizzical eye to her, she elaborated with a cautious gesture towards the drum.  The man grunted, showing a row of blunt fangs, and Pella froze, unable to tell if that was a grunt meaning a yes or a grunt meaning a no.  The man grunted a second time, a baritone rumble from deep in his barrel chest, before bringing up the knobby knuckles of one hand and making a slow, deliberate turning gesture in the air.

            Pella looked from the fingers to the device, then back.  The man nodded and repeated the odd gesture with a few added grunts.  Lower lip firmly bitten, Pella reached out carefully and touched the key in the top of the drum.  At a prompting grunt behind her, she gave the cold metal flange a twist, and then stood back in mute wonder as the tiny metal horses began to caper around the drum.  A soft melody was struck up inside the turning gears of the machine, metallic little twangs that began to flow into a rhythm of highs and lows, all to the tinny patter of mechanical hooves.

            Pella slowly sank to the floor, the corrugated metal biting into her knees as he drew her face raptly to the music box and its endless parade of tiny horses, a delicate herd forever running.  Unbidden, large tears began to track down her pale cheeks, and she covered her face with her hands, biting down a sob.  She was barely aware of the long sigh or the shift in the metal under her as the Simial rose, and only noticed him when he sat down on his haunches near her, head ducked to avoid the swing of the chandelier.  One hairy eyebrow was raised so high Pella momentarily imagined it leaping off the man’s face like a caterpillar, and a giggle mingled with a sob caused her to choke a moment.

            Wiping her eyes, Pella pointed at the tiny carousel.  “We had horses back home, you see.  Only a few, but we needed them.”  She stifled a hiccup.  “I was just thinking I might not ever see them again.”  The beast nodded slowly, huge head bobbing, eyes casting about the heap of bric-a-brac he had picked up in his travels.  Pella tilted her head, looking at the hairy, sloping face.  Dark eyes.  Pursed lips.

            “You understand me!  My name’s Pella.  Can you talk?  I’m sorry, I don’t even know what you are!” she burst.  The beast grunted again, and raised a single broad finger in a clear gesture as he turned and started rooting around in the junk.  Pella ducked a few idly tossed pieces, before stepping back quickly as the man drew out a large wheeled box, topped by a sprawling, metal funnel curiously carved like a flower.

            Mull opened a small panel on the side, and Pella caught a glimpse of several knobs and gears framing a few long tubes that looked oddly like wax candles.  After some odd adjustments, the man unfolded a large crank from the side of the box and began slowly tuning it.  With a look of utter concentration, the man lowered his face to the upturned funnel and, eyes on Pella, vocalized a guttural series of grunts, clicks, whistles and snorts.  After the outburst, his hand on the crank slowed, and then began turning the opposite direction.  Pella’s eyes widened as the funnel sputtered a few crackles and hisses, followed by the unmistakable words:

            “My name is Mull.  Your grandfather hired me.”

            The conversation would stretch over hours, for Pella had so many questions and Mull tried to answer them as best he could in six-second sound bites. In bits and pieces, she learned she was in a room that could move underground, and that Mull was bringing her to Cog.  Even though the voice on the translator-recorder was steady and without inflection, Pella could see the sadness in the hairy man’s eyes when he admitted he didn’t know where her grandfather was, or what had happened to him.

            “I only met your grandfather once.”  “He was a nice man.  He paid me well.”  “He wanted to make sure you would travel safely.”

            “Oh,” Pella said, gaze falling to the floor.  Feeling like more tears would be a breach of this unexpected, fragile friendship, she quickly cast about for something else to ask.  “I’m sorry, I’ve never seen a blue hairy man like you.”

            Mull grunted, as his translation crackled through the speaker. “That’s all right. Outside the city, you won’t see many of us.”  “I am a Simial.  This landship is my home.” Pella carefully touched the translator, fingers sliding over a join in the wood that was too perfect even for the best woodcarvers she’d ever seen.

            “This is wonderful.  How does it work?”

            The Simial shrugged.

            “Does it work the other way?”

            Mull frowned, his brow ridging in massive furrows.  His blunt fingers worked nimbly around the translator’s innards, then he tilted the funnel to Pella.  She stood, straightening into her usual performing stance, hands clasped before her as she cleared her throat.  The last melody she remembered singing was the Song of Morning, sung hours ago for Edgeless.  She hoped he was all right, and sang it again, silently devoting the song to him.

            After she had sung a few measures, Mull held up a broad hand.  He reached in and swapped a few of translator’s wax cylinders around.  Tentatively, he flipped the switch.  They both cringed back, hands over their ears as the machine spewed forth a screeching torrent of garbled words.  Pella looked at the giant ape-man, and he sheepishly shrugged.  The minute, childish gesture from such a large creature set her to giggling.  His puzzled look only intensified the feeling, and Pella had to lean back against the wall, clutching her sides as the laughter overcame her.  Mull began chuckling, which quickly became guffawing belly-laughter, his giant fangs bared as he hooted in his strange, grunting language.

            After a time, the two were reduced to muffled gasps and intermittent giggling.  Pella sighed, holding herself tightly.  The joy had passed, and she suddenly felt a cold wave of guilt.  Her grandfather was lost, Edgeless might have gotten hurt to get her here.  Hurt, or worse.  And her tribemates – she realized she might never see them again.  The emotional swings of the journey were beginning to take their toll, and now she simply felt drained.

            Mull cocked his large, fuzzy head, examining her face with bright, beady eyes.  He grunted a couple times, then set about altering the machine again.  Delicately, with surprising care, he reset the wax cylinder back to its original position, and turned a switch on the front of the machine.  The translator crackled to life, and from the depths of the speaker came a clear, trilling voice that it took Pella a long moment to recognize.

            “That’s… that’s my voice!”  She stared in awe, listening to her own voice for the first time as it made its way joyously through the Song of Morning.  Mull rewound the recording for her at the end, and once more after that, all while Pella listened raptly to herself.

            Mull’s finger was about to click the switch for a fourth play-through, when a flashing light from his console caught his eye.  He grunted in annoyance.  The vibration-sensitive alarms were always wound a little too tightly for his liking.  Almost a hundred fathoms below the surface, there shouldn’t be any obstacles until they reached the outskirts of Cog’s foundations.  And even those obstacles wouldn’t warrant an alarm: the landship could easily plow through the metal pylons and sewage pipes the city was built over, had it come to that.

            The Simial opened the device once more, and carefully removed the wax cylinder that held Pella’s voice.  He slipped a protective metal tube over the wax, and passed it to Pella.  She looked at it curiously, turning it this way and that, then looked back up at him with a curious arch to her eyebrows.  Mull tapped the cylinder, then tapped his mouth.  He repeated the gesture a couple more times, until her eyes widened in understanding.

            “Thank you!” she burst, smiling broadly.  “Oh, I hope I can find one of those machines in the city!”

            Mull chuckled as he headed towards his console.  Finding the blinking white light as he reached his chair, he scowled.  He was about to run a test pulse through the sensors when the white light snapped to red.  Mulls eyes widened and he slammed his foot on the emergency brake under the console.  The landship skidded forward, and Pella let out a cry as her feet slipped out from under her.  She managed to fall on her back, cradling her precious cylinder to her chest as she hit the ground.  All around them came the sounds of screeching metal on rock as, unseen, the landship suddenly bristled with flat fins to catch the bedrock, slowing them to a halt.  Pella had just managed to regain her footing when the lurch of stopping sent her careening the other way, into the wall.

            “What happened?” she called out, not daring to stand again.  Mull grunted, checking over various dials.  The alarm light was flickering red wildly.  Half the gauges showed zero external pressure around the front half of the ship, and some of the augurs were reading insufficient traction.  Mull stood and turned to face Pella, who was looking at him blankly.  He was about to offer her the most pacifying grunt he could manage, when the ship tilted suddenly, angling nose-down.  The lights sputtered at the ship settled at the new angle, and Pella had to dig her moccasins into the floor to keep herself from sliding.

            The ship rocked on some unseen fulcrum below them.  Moving with the sway of the floor, Pella made her way to one of the wall struts and clung to it with one arm.  Half-hanging, she fumbled about with the precious wax cylinder a moment, finally managing to place it in her belt pouch.  Looking up, she saw Mull clamber up the ladder in two great swings of his giant arms.  In his left foot, he held a broad, clanking toolbox.  With surprising speed, he leapt out the open hatch and disappeared from view.  The ship tilted further with a loud, metallic grinding, and Pella had to cling with both hands to the wall to avoid sliding down its length.

            She looked frantically around the metal chamber.  Slanting and dark, it suddenly felt far too stifling, so with her face screwed up with the effort, she began to climb her way along the wall to the ladder.  With little difficulty, she managed to climb down to the ladder.  Through the open hatch, she saw the darkness of the night sky, and a glimpse of Mull’s blue-tinged fur as illuminated by a soft, white glow.  The air in the landship had begun to smell stale and dead, so she carefully made her way up the ladder.

            Poking her head out of the hatch, she was surprised to see the darkness wasn’t the night sky after all.  The landship had partially emerged into some vast, underground cavern.  Other than the small patch of light cast by a fluttering lantern, all around was darkness.  The air was still, and strangely warm.  A full two-thirds of the ship stuck out from a flat granite wall, slick with rain runoff.  Only a few of the breaking fins kept the ship from plummeting down the vast chasm, and those were failing fast.

            Turning around carefully within the hatch, Pella found Mull working frantically at the join where vehicle met wall.  Several roof-mounted hatches were open, and from within, the huge ape-man was grabbing handfuls of cable with a haste bordering on panic.  With each armful, he would turn to the wall and attach the cables to the rock with thick, steel pitons using a giant, stubby mallet.  Several of the cables had already grown taut with the weight of the ship.

            “What can I do?” Pella called, and then winced as Mull jumped, almost dropping his hammer.  He spun, eyes wide through the lenses of his goggles.  With two hands and one foot, he performed an expansive series of complex gestures, telling her that hitting an uncharted sinkhole wasn’t unheard of near the edge of the storms and while they were in danger this was nothing hadn’t dealt with a dozen times before and if she’d only climb back down he’d feel a whole lot better about their chances.  Pella understood none of it, and lifted herself free of the hatch to crawl closer to him on her elbows and knees.

            Scowling, Mull smacked the granite wall with the hammer a few times and grunted, pointing back to the hatch.  Pella had opened her mouth to retort, when a deafening, keening cry caused both her and Mull to throw themselves flat to the cold metal hull of the ship.  It seemed to come from everywhere, stinging her ears, and continuing to echo up from below long after it had ended.

            Pella looked up, her face pale, and with raised eyebrows pointed questioningly at Mull.  Mull’s stunned expression fell into a deadpan grimace she had no trouble reading.  No, that wasn’t him.

            The shrill, undulating call sounded again, bouncing aimlessly from stone walls, as some massive, bowed shape lunged out of the darkness, swooping past the landship with such force the vehicle rocked precariously in its shallow berth.  Pella caught a glimpse of some scaly, bloodless underbelly as the beast slipped into the darkness above them.  Still  rocking, the ship dropped another inch, sending a scatter of stone down into the chasm as the hull began to roll to one side.  Mull grunted, and Pella looked up to see him trying, fangs bared in panic, to hammer in some additional anchors to the chasm wall.  Some of the cables had begun to fray as the ship slipped.

            “Mull!” she shrieked, pointing at the cable.  Her voice echoed on the walls, followed by another shrill cry from the creature circling in the darkness.  She looked over her shoulder, trying to pierce the veil of darkness, but caught only the leathery swoop of wings. “It’s coming back!”

            A pair of giant, vulture-like claws lunged out of the darkness as the creature struck the ship, bony nails striking and skittering across the steel plating and sending the ship twisting wildly on its anchor lines.  Pella looked up to see some of the steel cables snap like twine, whipping across the hull before striking Mull in the upper arm with a loud crack.  The Simial roared, dropping his hammer and pressing his hand to the deep wound.  Dark red blood ran through his fingers and down his blue pelt.

            “Mull!” Pella screamed again, pointing.  The ship was sagging, angling down into the yawning darkness, and the line of cables begun to snap from the wall in sequence.  At Pella’s gesture, Mull threw himself to the hull, and a handful of snapped cables thrashed the air inched over his head.  Half the support lines gone, the ship twirled drunkenly on the remaining clusters, and losing her grip, Pella tumbled down the sloping hull with a shriek.  She found herself suddenly dangling over chasm, her fingers wrapped desperately around a single, rain-slicked hull plate.

            “Help!”

            She heard the slap of Mull’s bare, calloused feet over the hull, and looked up frantically over the steel plate to find him.  She saw a giant, bloody hand loom over the edge of the ship, groping blindly.

            “I’m right here!”

            She was at the end of the fin, her fingers growing tired and numb from the icy metal. She saw Mull’s hairy, blue head appear around the side of the hull, his broad, knobby fingers making a lunge a second too late as her grip slipped.  Without even the breath to scream, she plummeted down into darkness.

            Pella awoke to a ringing deep in her skull.  It took a few blurry moments to shake herself awake. She was half-propped up against a damp, stone wall that felt smooth and pocked under her touch.  Small rivulets of cool water trickled between her fingers. She was sitting on a boulder that felt polished and oddly warm.  The side of her head had a huge, egg-sized bruise that complained with painful swirls of color every time she shifted.  The backs of her legs felt raw and scraped. Her searching fingers felt long lacerations in her calves, and came away bloody.  It didn’t feel deep, but everything below her knees was pins and needles. She wiggled each finger and toe experimentally, and when they all responded appropriately, she released a long breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

            She turned slightly on the warm rock, wincing, and after a few moments deliberation, determined that the faint, reddish glow of light was not a figment of her pounding head.  She bit her lip, trying to determine how many minutes — hours? — she’d been lying there.  Coming up empty, she began work on the problem of whether calling for Mull would be a really good idea, or a really bad one.

            When that solution didn’t present itself either, she decided getting a better understanding of her situation would help determine whether she should wait to be found or set out and do the finding.  Steadying her head, she carefully climbed to her feet on the rock, which immediately proved to be merely a thin crust that buckled under her heels.  With a cry, she suddenly found herself clinging to the fragile, crumbling rim, with everything below her shoulders suddenly submerged in a warm, cloying slime.

            Pella frantically kicked her feet, trying to find purchase, when something sharp and bony clamped around her ankle.  She sputtered, barely finding the air to scream as more of the thin shell gave way.  Desperate, she kicked at the grasping pincer and, with unexpected weakness, it slipped away. Something heavy shifted under her, like a kick, and the entire boulder slowly began to roll forward with a crunching shudder.

            Pulling down more of the brittle surface, she lunged as the rock tipped to spill her, its other occupant, and a torrent of sticky yellow-green ichor out onto the sloping floor.  Gasping, ignoring the shock of pain from her head, Pella flipped onto her back and crawled free of the growing, sticky puddle on her heels and palms.

            The enormous beast before her, as big as the interior of Mull’s ship, slowly raised its bedraggled head and let out a soft chirrup, before sinking back down into the cooling pool.  Out of what, she hoped, was its reach, she studied the creature with wide, searching eyes.

            At first glance, it had the improbable appearance of a newly hatched chick, like she’d seen being tended to back at her tribe’s pens.  It had an enormous, hooked beak and two wide, milky eyes that swivelled blindly in huge sockets.  Its stubby wings were webbed and ended in thick, knobby talons.  As the sticky yoke dried, she could see a fine dusting of yellowish down along its back, ending at the stub of its tail.  With a lurch, it crawled a bit out of the enormous, toppled egg she had inadvertently cracked open.  Barely able to lift its head, the chick squawked feebly.

            Against the reddish glow of the misty light, Pella could make out five more of the large, oblong eggs, standing like menhirs against the curved stone wall.  With their mottled, rocky shell, she wondered if she would have ever known in passing that they were not mere boulders.  She looked up at the giant creature – its ribs rising and falling with each labored breath as a hungry, gaping mouth searched aimlessly in the air – and decided waiting in the middle of this nest was a bad idea regardless of where Mull was now.

            “Sorry,” she murmured to the gasping creature, before she quickly turned and fled down the only corridor that lead to the nest chamber.

            As she walked, she kept one hand on the tunnel wall. The rock felt like the smooth pebbles she used to find along the beach, and now and again her fingers traced through a thin trickle of icy water.  The water had created a small stream, barely wider than her hand, flowing the direction she hoped was out.  Within moments, she reached the large mouth of the tunnel, an enormous oval hole easily twenty feet at its widest.  Beyond the hole lay a misty nothingness, but the reddish glow was getting stronger and a warm breeze brushed across Pella’s grimy face.

            Reaching the cave mouth, she grabbed the pocked edge and threw her head out, drawing a breath of cleaner air. Taking her fill, she looked around, squinting into the ruddy mists.  The hole appeared to be cut shear in a curving wall of even, grey rock, disappearing into the haze on all sides.  Above, the wall climbed until it disappeared in shadow.  There was no sign of Mull or his landship, or even a crater or hole which it might have left.  Below, the haze grew denser and seemed to glow a bright reddish-yellow from some distant source.  The warm air Pella felt against her face was coming from below.  Outside the wall, the hot gusts of air were enough to ruffle her hair.

            Wiping the sweat from her eyes, Pella sat on the edge of the hole for a few moments, her feet dangling over the abyss.  The pounding in her head had subsided, somewhat, and the dried blood along her knees and calves didn’t look as bad as it had felt in the darkness.  The stringy bits of yolk had dried, and she was able to peel them off in bits and pieces. 

            Staring out into the mists, she could barely make out large towers of stone.  Hazy and indistinct, they defied her ability to guess their size or proximity.  If they were anything like the enormous monolith she was in now, she hoped she could climb down and get to one, and maybe find a corridor that led to the surface.    

            She was about to reach below the edge of the hole and feel around for handholds, when a graceful, but unexpected, motion caught her eye.  Sitting back onto her knees, she squinted once more into the endless haze, picking out a slightly darker patch of shadow that was gliding through the air.  The shadow was just above the level of her eyes, out in the rolling mists. She might not have caught it at all had it not been for the reddish glow bottom-lighting it as it wound between the pillars.

            Its edges became more distinct as it glided effortlessly through the haze.  Slowly, the shadow resolved itself into a dark, crescent shape.  She saw it undulate from head to tail as it caught an updraft, before banking on broad wings and angling towards her pillar.  Her first thought was that it was a gull, somehow lost under the crust of the earth, but a few more moments of observation made her realize that it couldn’t be something that small.  As obscured as it was by haze, its silhouette was already almost as wide as her hand.

            And getting wider.

            A pair of lambent yellow eyes turned to regard her as the beast began its descent.  With a muffled “eep,” Pella stumbled back on her hands.  She threw herself into the cave a scant moment before the enormous creature settled two gnarled talons right where she had been sitting.  Its mottled skin caught the light with a sickly glow. The huge, angled head turned sideways to regard her, serrated beak snapping once with a bony click.  Leathery wings folded in around its broad ribcage as it prowled into the cave entrance, looming over Pella as it filled the tunnel.

            The beast clicked its beak again, turning to regard her with one eye, than the other.  Pella scrambled to her feet just in time to throw herself against the cave wall as the creature made its lunge.  The sharp point of its beak missed her arm by inches to scrape along the ground, leaving a long scratch in the rock.  Squawking in fury, it lunged again, snapping at her as she scrambled back deeper into the tunnel.

            Step by step, the enormous beast continued to drive her back.  Pella was spry enough to keep out of the monster’s range, but the tinge of panic was beginning to take its toll.  Eventually she’d be forced up against the end of the tunnel, with the eggs and a hungry chick big enough to eat her in one bite.  With a desperate lunge, Pella darted under the beast’s gigantic head as it recoiled from the last attack.  It bellowed and twisted its sinuous neck to follow her, but she managed to stay low, her hands pushing off the pockmarked ground to push her further out of the way.  An enormous talon lifted off the ground to her right and tried to envelop her, but she had already cleared the beast’s reach and had begun a headlong dash down the corridor.

            Pella heard the enraged, warbling cry echo against the walls around her as the beast struggled to turn around, cramped as it was in the cave.  The scrape of claw against stone was mere inches behind as she sprinted down the tunnel, followed by the loud, snapping clicks of the beak.  Willing herself not to look behind, to ignore the burning exhaustion in her chest, she focused on nothing but the hazy mouth of the cave ahead.  The abyss was speeding towards her as the hot, fetid breath of the beast cascaded down her bare, scraped shoulders.

            Pella skidded to the very edge of the cave mouth, and for a moment she believed she was going to fall over the rim as her arms spun wildly for balance.  With an awkward twist, her feet slipped over the edge a mere heartbeat before enormous jaws closed over the air where her head had been. The rocky lip of the hole struck her on her ribs as she twisted, knocking the wind from her.  She turned, desperately clawing for purchase as she gasped weakly.  A remote part of her noticed the scabs on her legs had split, and her feet left small splotches of blood on the rough stone wall as she kicked.

            The beast’s talon curled over the rocky edge, and she looked up wide-eyed into the gaping pit of its mouth.  Its wings flared wide. She shrieked, and slipped further down the edge.  Her legs kicked frantically, before her toe brushed an unseen outcropping.  Blinking the stinging sweat from her eyes, she quickly sank against the outcropping, a small ripple of rock just big enough for her foot.  Flat against the wall, below the floor of the tunnel, she heard the beast grunting and snapping above her in rage.  Pella closed her eyes tightly and cringed, holding fast to the wall, but the sounds came no closer.

            A couple pebbles skittered past her and she dared a look up, to see the giant bird-like lizard hopping from one foot to the other in agitation.  Occasionally it would try to lower its huge, knife-like head below the level of its talons, only to stumble as if about to topple over, then right itself with an indignant shriek.  Its enormous wings beat uselessly in the air.  It simply couldn’t balance itself to reach her.

            Heaving for air, Pella slowly lowered herself against the wall, her other foot searching for a second hold in the porous rock.  Finding it, she found a handhold, then another.  Slowly, cautiously, she inched her way down the face of rock.      After a few feet of travel, she noticed the angry screeching had stopped.  Casting her eyes back up to the ledge, she saw the creature’s giant head angled over her, watching her every move with bright, yellow eyes.  Its pupils contracted into thin slits, the creature held itself as still as the rock itself as it studied her.  Pella drew a breath to soothe her aching lungs, and let it out slowly.  Flexing her fingers, she continued her descent with careful steps.

            The enormous creature blinked once, and sniffed noisily.  Craning its neck, it gave a low, warbling call as it drew out its wings, the leathery span reflecting the dull red light from below.  With a slow roll, the beast dipped its head and pushed off the ledge.  Its unfurled wings caught the updraft and, noiselessly, it drifted away into the haze.  Pella turned her head to watch it go, leaning precariously off the wall to track its path.  In moments, it was lost to the mists.

            “I said I was sorry,” she mumbled.

            The journey had lapsed into a timeless rhythm.  Pella had never known rock formed in this way, like a vertical ripple of water frozen in rock.  The shallow protrusions of each ripple came in patterns, and she quickly learned to anticipate the next outcropping or shelf.  Without using her eyes, her feet found each curving rung below, her hands finding the shallow pockmarks that occurred when ripples overlapped.  The monolith was seamless, and if it weren’t for the dull roaring far beneath her, Pella would have lost hope of finding anything of use to her.  Focusing on that noise, that endless echo, she willed her tired limbs into a steady rhythm.

            Closer and closer.  The warm air grew hotter around her.  Her scraped fingers dug into the rock as best as her failing grip could manage.  The roar was getting nearer as she descended.  Not wanting to give up the spark of hope, she delayed peering down below until she felt she was right on top of the source of the noise.  Twisting slightly against the wall, she looked past her toes and saw a round, metal tube jutting from the stone wall.

            Approximately six feet in diameter, the pipe was made of some rusted sheets of metal, hammered into place and bolted haphazardly together.  A steady stream of grungy water ran from the pipe, spilling in a broad fan into the misty depths.  As Pella twisted the other way, the reddish glow from the depths caught the spray of water, and she was dazzled by a brief sparkle of rainbow twinkling beneath her worn moccasins.

            A few more steps, and she found herself standing atop the pipe, which groaned with a metallic scrape, but otherwise seemed to accept her weight just fine.  She sat on the curving metal, flexing her aching arms and giving her legs an occasional kick against the settling numbness. She desperately craved a nice, long sleep but this tiny, curving shelf of metal seemed a poor place to try.

            After a moment watching the twinkling rainbow and listening to the quiet churn of the water, the sharp pains in her limbs eased into dull, throbbing aches. She cautiously sat up on her knees, rubbing her arms and gingerly brushing the growing bruise on her ribs where she had struck the edge.  Crawling on all fours to the edge of the pipe, she carefully ducked her head to look within.   The pipe was canted slightly upwards into the rock as far as she could see, though after twenty paces the ambient haze lost its effectiveness and everything beyond was shrouded in darkness.

            Lowering from the metal lip, Pella gently swung herself into the pipe.  She landed in a half-crouch with a splash in the silty water.  The air was stale and had the mild stink of rot. The water, though grimy, felt nice and cool around her sore feet.  She leaned against the inside of the pipe and closed her eyes with a sigh.  Her shoulders ached, and she was tempted to just lie in the water for a bit, but the cuts and scrapes on her legs hadn’t healed and she’d seen too many of her tribe members contract infections to try it.

            She felt her head beginning to loll and shook it violently, chasing away the alluring temptation of dozing off.  Shrugging off her pack, she rummaged around spare clothes and some extra bits of dried fruit until she found a slender torch.  In the dampness of the rusty pipe, it took her several tries to get a spark going from her grandfather’s old flint knife.  Once lit, she held the flame to the darkness, revealing the further reaches of the tunnel, looking exactly like the bit she had just seen.  Perhaps a little rustier.  She went to replace the knife in her belt, but hesitated, staring at the chiseled stone blade.  Setting her jaw, she strode up the slope of the pipe, torch held out in one hand and knife in the other.

            The water sloshed around Pella’s ankles as she padded down the tunnel.  The torchlight reflected over and over in the dark, flowing water, and she could easily make out a regular circle of rivets every twenty paces or so.  The pipe curved, bent, twisted, and folded back over itself again and again, and Pella walked every step of those tangled miles of darkness.  Had she heard a noise besides the burble of the water and her own ragged breathing, she would have panicked, but she didn’t encounter any sign of life.   Forunately, she eventually encountered an old, rusted ladder that had been bolted to the side of an ancient, stone chimney

            Coming closer to the ladder, Pella could see it climbing upward for twenty or thirty man-heights. A small square of light beckoned at the top, and she felt her heart skip in excitement.  She looked at the torch and the knife in her hands.  She needed two free hands to climb, and hoped it was unlikely she would need to defend herself in the cramped, vertical space.

            “At this point,” she muttered to herself, dryly, “I think I’d welcome the company.”

            Sheathing the tiny blade and blowing out the torch, she began the long climb up the ladder.  The rusty metal bit at her hands and the sour smell of copper filled every breath as she rose.  Occasionally, she had to feel ahead, for here and there a rung had managed to rust itself free, leaving only a gap she had to reach across.  Once, a rung came off in her hands and the sudden, unexpected drop caused her to wrench her shoulder to stay attached to the wall.  She winced, waiting for the flash of pain to ease, before continuing.

            Finally, she was able to press a hand to the hatch that sealed the tunnel.  She groped around, squinting in the meager light spilling in from the sides, under she finally felt a small round handle.  It took another couple minutes of fumbling in the dark until she figured out how to turn the handle, and with a soft hissing sound, the square hatch lifted up a bare inch, then slid to the side.  The flood of light was almost blinding and Pella had to duck back in the darkness with a muffled cry.

            Blinking back against the light, Pella clambered over the edge of the hatch and lay, panting, staring at an unfamiliar ceiling, a vast distance above her.  At first glance, it reminded her of Mull’s ship, but these large struts were square and rusted while Mull’s were polished, sweeping curves.  All around her were wooden crates, most of them several times larger than she was and all of them dusty.  Sitting up and looking around, she saw she was effectively walled into a small area by boxes, and she uttered a grateful sigh that none of them had been placed on the lid of the old hatch.

            She was about to climb onto one of the crates to discover where the strange, flickering light was coming from, when a sudden guttural grunt made her freeze in her tracks.  She threw her back against the crate and noiselessly drew her knife.  The grunt sounded again, followed by another grunt, deeper and harsher.  Something heavy pounded twice on the metal floor.

            She waited, breathlessly, and the first grunt sounded again. She padded around the edge of one crate, homing in on the sounds.  When she was sure she was just opposite the sources, she quickly peered over the crate, he ducked back down.  Then, frowning and wondering if her light-dazzled eyes were playing tricks on her, she popped up for another look.  Then a third.

            Two Simials were hunkered down in another enclosure of crates. At her first confused glance, she thought she had found Mull.  Her second thought was that she had found two of Mull.  The last thought, thankfully saner, was that Mull didn’t have rows of ear-piercings.  Searching her memory, she decided Mull wasn’t nearly as broad as these two Simials before her, either, and that his bluish-purple fur wasn’t the same shade as their purplish-blue fur.

            The pair of ape-men were taking turns gathering up a handful of small, wooden figures and tossing them brusquely into a chalk circle crudely etched on the floor.  At each toss, they would react, laughing silently or shaking a massive head.  Rarely, one would grunt, or bang his thick knuckles on the metal.  Occasionally one would make a tally mark with the chalk next to the circle, or pass a small handful of beads to the other.

            Accompanying the grunting, the Simials’ hands were alive and energetic in a frenetic dance.  Pella vaguely remembered Mull making similar motions, and with a burst of insight, she realized the ape-men spoke with their hands and not their voices.  Sadly, she wondered if she would ever know if the hand-voices were beautiful.  Then a second thought chilled her: if she hadn’t heard the grunt, she could have stumbled onto the two of them without knowing they were there.

            Drawing in a slow breath through nervously clenched teeth, she slipped back down, and crouched against her crate.  After what seemed like an eternity, the ape-men collected up their game and headed down into the tunnels.  Drawing on her ragged courage, Pella slipped past the corridor and found a stairwell going up to a round, metal hatch.  Summoning her waning strength, she pushed at the hatch until it slid over, then yelped in fright as the boots of a hundred pedestrians nearly crushed her fingers.

            Delving through the layers of the Central Protectorate is the only way to comprehend the sprawling history of a sprawling city.  Few citizens, even those exploring the topmost spires, could fathom the breadth and depth of the vast colony.

            The narrow spires that made up the very highest tier were the oldest components, for the techniques used to create the golden, spiraling towers had been lost for millennia.  Their metal was an alloy that reflected every droplet of the raging clouds, and while swirls of some mysterious tool could be seen darting here and there along the crenellations, the metal itself resisted any form of denting or cutting.  Modern metallurgists quickly gave up on trying to unmake the ancient metal, finding the costs of tool replacement an excellent deterrent to professional curiosity.

            More scholarly efforts were spent in the second layers, as High Engineers and Tradesmen wound their way through the narrow chimneys nestled under the reaching spires.  Machinery cramped every available inch of space, a vertical maze of piping, cabling, steam, electricity and the smallest of tiny gears all bound together by an enormous web of steel wires, each thread vibrating so tautly as to almost be invisible.

            Within the past three centuries, only one administration had attempted to discover how the vast mechanism worked, but the Chancellor’s merest brush of a single errant thread had caused a typhoon to level a suburb of merchants.  Unions were organized, the Chancellor’s hand was removed in the most officious method possible, and future rulers decided that discretion was the better part of keeping public servants happy.

            More recently, attempts at even patrolling the Stringworks were abandoned.  The endless, roiling storms buffeted the tower with a haunting fury, and the steam piping had begun sputtering out deadly surges of scalding heat.

            Dropping down almost two hundred arm spans, the towers finally grow roots.  A broad tangle of chambers and vaults, multisided and walled with steel and thick glass, form a porous shell over the Protectorate.  Modular floors and walls were installed and left in place for centuries, as noble families bickered, preened and squatted over their particular network of chambers.  Corridors were gained and lost as part of business dealings and expensive dowries, all under the orange glare of elaborate, gilded oil-lamps.

            The enormous windows, though cleaned regularly, had not been a source of light for years.  Indeed, they offered no more than an expansive view of the unceasing churning of the dark storm clouds from floor to ceiling.  The endless patter of raindrops and rumble of thunder were muted by the thick panes of antique glass. In the lowest tiers of the Upper Stories, in the rooms reserved for storage and servants, an extra layer of insulation was placed on the floor, for mere inches below lay the Gearworks.

            A churning, fifty foot expanse of gears, cogs, cams, chains and belts, the Gearworks lay like an iron barrier of teeth and barbs between the Upper Stories and the Lower Steps.  The massive amounts of steam and energy sent down by the Stringworks were distributed by an ever decreasing series of gears and pipes, sending winding capillaries into the homes of citizens. 

            Enormous rain gutters criss-crossed from support to support, later and later additions growing the size and capacity of the giant trenches until, with the reservoir overflowing, further growth was given up on. Though a good portion of the endless rains were siphoned away, to be cleansed and made potable, the Gearworks proved rather porous and therefore poor barrier to the elements.  Winds whistled through the turning gears and grimy water fell through in uneven spatters.

            The endless flow of water had long since taken its toll on the giant machinery.  Enormous gears would rust to a standstill, causing flooding, blackouts, and the occasional collapse of an entire arm of cogs.  Over the past few decades, the Unions had been thoroughly corralled by the administration, citing various obscure articles about eminent domain and the needs of the many.  Officials quickly formed teams of inspectors, teamsters, engineers, and guardsmen to patrol the metal shell on a constant basis.

            Over the past few decades, the roles intertwined like the meshing of gears, various governing branches folding in on one another and, by pressure and necessity, the various jobs were forged into a single force.  A brutal militia of maintenance workers, marked by their heavy leather armor studded with pockets and the steel hard-hats sporting the embossed badge of interlocking gears.  Wielding a pipe wrench in one hand and a truncheon in the other, only the most brutal and cunning could last as part of the Central Protectorate’s Monitoring and Maintenance Corps.

            The people of the Lower Steps simply called them the Oil-men.

            The Lower Steps is comprised of every habitable space between the ever-turning, ever-leaking sky of gears and an iced-over floor of carved bedrock.  A mere two stories of room, spread over the entire foundation of the Protectorate, housed over ninety percent of the city’s population. Most citizens lived in thick-walled stone houses.  Built in a seemingly muddled grid, the walls were anchored around the enormous steel supports holding up the Gearworks and the higher levels.  From the Gearworks, a flood of cables, pipes, drive chains and rainwater descended through holes in the roofs, before splitting in a haphazard array to various stoves, radiators, laundry machines and other amenities that made a citizen’s life worth living.

            Framed by the angled walls of the buildings lay a network of alleys and streets.  A tangle of five- and six- way intersections ensured the quickest path to one’s destination was often an inward spiral, sneaking in on one’s target though it needed to be hunted down.  Travel was further complicated by dead streetlamps or dangerous downpours of superheated steam from the Gearworks.

            At any time, day or night – not that those concepts had much meaning in the endless darkness – the streets of the Lower Steps were a massed crowd of shuffling commuters.  Merchants vehemently hawking their goods as messengers threaded their way through the tiniest gaps, overlooked by tireless handymen and brooding guards, both camps looking for any opportunity to ply their wares. Perhaps the only trait they shared was the reliance on the mechanisms above them for their lives and livelihoods, and even as millions of feet carried millions of citizens towards their millions of objectives, their pace all beat to the same tick-tock-tick of the gears anchored above their heads.

            So it was little surprise in this press of humanity, a newcomer went unnoticed.  A little girl, barely eleven, caught in the currents of the crowd the moment she emerged from one of the innumerable hatches strewn about the city’s floors.  Had anyone paid attention to her, they might have noticed the leather tunic and leggings stitched by hand, rather than by machine, or the rosy, sun-tinted glow of her face and arms that had yet to fade.  As it was, it took all her alertness to avoid getting trampled in the flurry of pedestrians.

Tick-tock-tick.

            Pella felt like she had been walking for hours, or maybe even days. The many bruises from the errant jostling were beginning to take its toll.  Her eyes barely registered the parade of wooden signs and metal pipes parading over her head as she wound between the legs of passersby.  Strange faces barely turned to watch her go as she tried to sidle closer to the edge of the crowd.

Tick-tock-tick.

            A nobleman almost swatted her aside as he strolled past, an array of gleaming copper buttons adorning his dress uniform, the swing of his scabbard almost tripping Pella onto her knees.  As his entourage of guards stormed after him, their passage creating a momentary vacuum of people in their wake, and the sudden tide of people swept Pella further from the safety of the buildings.  She winced and tried vainly to press against the sea of legs, the lee of the storefronts in sight.

Tick-tock-CLANK-ti-tock

            The crowd seemed to cant crazily to one side as a stunned whole. Caught midstride by an abrupt, momentary lurch of the metronome of the city, thousands of feet mis-stepped as one.  A scatter of bodies fell into one another, as the people who managed to right themselves suddenly found it necessary to support those around them as well.  Pella barely managed a shriek as she lifted leaden arms to shield herself from the sudden press of flesh. She was about to buckle under the weight of a rather well-armored guard when a strong grip encircled her elbow.  A strong yank lead to a sharp pain in her shoulder as she stumbled free. Suddenly she found herself, blinking and shaken, under the awning of a boarded-up store.  A kind, wrinkled face was peering down at her with an expression of concern so genuine, she had to fight the mad impulse to laugh.

            “You all right, young’un?”  The hand around her arm eased, and she rubbed her elbow slowly.  She stepped back a bit, to take in the full view of her savior.  A small, hunched man stood before her, narrow shouldered and blinking owlishly.  His hair was a crown of wild, white curls and he wore a faded, stained apron over thick, woolen coveralls.  Behind him, against the closed shutters of an old, dusty store, stood a small chair wearing a faded plaid blanket, a toppled wine bottle and an old, dog-eared book.

            “I think so.  Thank you, Mister…?”

            “I’m Luzzem.  Streets are no place for a child, miss.”

            “I see that.  But I don’t know where else to go.”  She turned back to look at the endless parade of people.  It had taken them but a few seconds to get their momentum back after the lurch of the gears.  Other than a few lightly bruised and sullen faces, they continued on as though nothing happened, stranger after stranger walking by the tiny stoop with a shared, frightening single-mindedness.  Pella forced herself to look away, managing the tears she felt burning just behind her eyes.

            “Where am I?”

            “Contrapt Road, miss.  Where are you trying to go?”

            Pella bit her lip, and tried hard to recall her last conversation with Juren, impossibly only a few days ago.  After a moment, she looked back at Luzzem.

            “I’m looking for Cog.”

            “Why,” he blinked, “you’re right in the center of it.  Contrapt Road skirts the whole east bloc, right up to the Conclave.”

            And this time, the tears came, and would not be stopped.  Pella pressed the raw heels of her hands to her face, muffling a sob that slowly gave way to bawling.  Luzzem clucked his tongue gently, and with careful “there there”s he managed to get the old, plaid blanket around her tiny, shaking shoulders.  The tears flowed, bitter and salty, over her cheeks and down her arms. Pella sagged against the wall, turning away from the crowds. A dam had broken inside her, and all the fear and terror and hopelessness she had kept bottled up in the past weeks slowly burst free and drained away with each shuddering cry.  It wasn’t until exhaustion set in that she finally settled into intermittent sniffling, feeling empty but considerably clearer.

            “Is that better?” Luzzem murmured, and Pella nodded, feeling a little heat return to her face.

            “Yes.  I’m sorry.  I don’t even know you.”

            “Don’t be sorry, miss.  It’s all right.”

            “Thank you, but it’s not.  I was supposed to do something important in Cog, but I don’t know what or how, or what I’m supposed to do next.  I don’t know how to live here.”

            Luzzem’s brow wrinkled.

            “Don’t know… you aren’t from Cog, miss?”

            “My name’s Pella.  No, I come from the oceans.  Far to the west.”

            “The ocean?  I know what that is.  I saw one in a book once.  Why would anyone want to live there?”

            Pella smiled sadly, managing a laugh that might have been a hiccup.

            “It doesn’t matter.  I don’t know how to get back.”  It was Luzzem’s turn to smile.

            “You’re in Cog, miss… er, Pella.  For a little money, you can always find someone to take you somewhere.”

            “A little what?”

            “Money.”  He paused, and his already wide eyes grew a little rounder.  “Money?  You don’t use money in the oceans?”  Pella shook her head.  “Hm, maybe I see why you live there after all.  Here, look.”  He rummaged around in the front pouch of his apron, his fingers gathering up a handful of something.  Turning his fingers up, he showed Pella a small collection of tiny, marbled beads.  Settled into the bowl of his palm were a dozen silvery gray ones, glassy and perfect, if a bit dirty.  There were also two larger beads, ruby red with golden flecks.  Pella’s tear-streaked face brightened, and she reached into her own belt pouch.

            “Money! I have money!”  She drew out the delicate chain of translucent, blue pearls, holding both ends of the strand out to show the full set.  Luzzem’s jaw dropped as if unhinged, and Pella started.  His mouth worked slowly, failing to assemble any sort of intelligible noise.  Pella was about to ask him what the matter was when a shrill voice cut through the dull roar of the crowd behind them.

            “What are you doing with those!?”  Pella turned.  Her first impression was that the pipes that made up the street had gotten clogged.  An enormous woman wearing a black, brocaded frock stood glowering over her, a broad, bloodless mouth pinched tight with raging disapproval.  Dark, thundering eyes looked down at her past a tiny, upturned nose.  An impossibly small pillbox hat perched on a poof of hair that had the temperament of steel wool.  Behind the woman’s generous bustle, an unfortunate obstruction of passersby were trying to edge past her without colliding with the foot traffic from the other direction.  Pella didn’t blame them for wanting to avoid the woman’s wrath.

            She bellowed again, pointing a bejeweled finger at the threaded beads.

            “Where did you get those?  Those are not for children!”  A perfectly manicured claw shot down for the strand, and Pella flinched back, clutching them to her chest.  Luzzem’s arm interceded between the two, and the woman recoiled as if afraid she might have brushed him.  The old man scowled.

            “What’re you trying to pull?”

            The woman bared her teeth.

            “Those are not hers!  They cannot be hers, she is just a child!”

            “Of course they’re hers!”

            “Impossible!  The urchin must have stolen them!  Hand them to me now or I will call the Oil-men!” 

            “So call them!” Luzzem countered.  Pella looked up at the old man, and saw the shadow of fear flicker, mercifully brief, across his face.  The noblewoman huffed a few times, mouth gaping like a landed fish, before storming off in a random direction, parting the crowd like a boat through a river.  Pella heard her screech, “Oil-man!  I need an Oil-man, now!” before the mob swallowed that too.

            Luzzem snorted.  He ran a hand through his wispy hair, then looked down at Pella.

            “Even the nobles don’t like dealing with the Oil-men.  You never know which way they’ll jump.”

            “I-I see.”

            “But to be safe… perhaps we better lay low a bit.”

            Luzzem turned, fishing a rusted key from his apron pocket.  He unlocked the grimy front door to the store and gently guided Pella in.  Taking his chair, book and wine with him, he stepped in after her and locked the door.

            Pella looked around the gloom of the shop.  Thick dust lay on the countertop and across the boxes that lined the shelves.  The grit was so thick she couldn’t make out the labels on the boxes. From somewhere deeper in the store came the steady drip of a broken pipe. Here and there a vast, dusty cobwebs lay undisturbed.  It took Luzzem a few tries to get the single lamp lit, for the wick had all but dried out.  The lamp, once lit, did nothing to chase away the shadows. 

            “There we are.” he said, warming his wrinkled hands by the tiny flame.  He settled in an old chair, and motioned for Pella to take the little stool he had dragged in from outside.  It was the cleanest thing in the store.  She sat gingerly, looking around.

            “Is this your home?”

            The old man chuckled, and shook his head.

            “No, miss, it’s not.  This is my store, where I work.  If you could call it that.”

            “Um…”

            “I know what your thinking.  Why do I have a store if I’m not going to use it?”

            “Well…”

            “See, the thing is, I don’t need the job.  I got money.  What I do need is a place to get away from the wife, and so I opened this store.  I immediately closed it again without telling her, and she’ll never find out because she’s too classy to shop in a place I own.  Y’see?”

            “No.”

            Luzzem leaned back and chuckled.

            “Well, let’s just say everyone needs a place to hide sometimes.”

            Pella nodded slowly, casting her eyes down.  That was a feeling she knew.  Her gaze found the strand of sparkling pearls still in her hand, and she rolled it slowly to see each pearl in turn.

            “You said money.  And this is money too, right?”

            “That’s right.”

            “What’s money for?”

            “Oh, well, you can trade money for something you want, like something you see in a store or something you want someone to do.  Like a nice bowl of soup would cost you a little white pearl, and maybe some new boots would cost you a couple red pearls.”

            She held up the strand of blue pearls, each as large as the tip of her finger..

            “How much money is this?”

            He blinked, sadly.

            “Pella, for two of them, I’d give you my whole store.”

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