Lines
an excerpt

Chapter One: Under the Gun

Gable was fast, but the man in the mask was faster.

It was a fluke that Gable was closest; he certainly wasn’t the fastest on the squad, nor was he any sort of competent line rider, but when the masked man had taken a sudden turn, leapt down three levels, and left his pursuers temporarily baffled, it had been Gable, lagging behind, who had been on the landing level and managed to keep up pursuit. Prosther and Sem were still attempting to catch up, riding the lines down the city levels, while Gable attempted to catch the masked man on foot.

It wasn’t easy. The man in the mask ducked behind a house, into the back where they kept the birds. Gable was temporarily slowed – the path was narrow, the birds were vulnerable, and his lineriding pole was getting in the way, scraping against the side of the brown brick house, knocking over a cage of birds, and soon the masked man was another level below.

Gable scowled, yanking his dark hair out from his line of sight, gasping for breath. Prosther and Sem still hadn’t caught up. He’d have to ride the line if they didn’t want to lose their target completely.

With great hesitation, he hooked the end of his lineriding pole – a plain thing, barely more than a staff, were it not for the intricate grip, and the great sharp hook on the top – onto the glowing blue line separating this house from the one forward and below. He leapt downward, cringing at the sick feeling in his stomach as he flew downward. They were almost into another level completely, out of their jurisdiction, but the chase had began at the Sanctuary, and the Sanctuary was their territory, and so the chase was theirs.

It took little more than a moment for him to reach the end of the line, at which point he twisted the grip, and dropped right through it, as though it were little more than air. The landing on the wooden balcony jarred his ankles, and for a moment he considered if perhaps the rest of the squad had been right – if he wore a proper Corali linerider uniform, not his Kesmer guardsman’s getup, then perhaps he’d be a better linerider. But it was a matter of pride – this was not Gable’s city, not his culture, and he was going to remain who he was. But it was at moments like this that the long, reinforced boots worn by the rest of them would have been nice – his were little more than ceremonial; they weren’t designed for this sort of an impact.

He barely had time to catch his breath and regain his balance before he saw that the man he chased had descended yet another level. Damn. Policing Durston had never been like this. Streets were streets. You run down a street, you run around corners, you can follow. Sanctuary City could hardly be called a city, Gable thought. Built up and up, level upon level, movement worked in an extra dimension and, not raised to think in these terms as the Corali were, it hurt Gable’s brain to try to dodge about, to think as they could.

He was just considering the real consequences of letting the man escape when he saw Prosther, almost as breathless as he was, come running onto the level he’d just left. “He’s down there!” called Gable, and pointed.

The look on Prosther’s face said “Well, why aren’t you following him?”, but she didn’t question. Instead, she just latched on to the line and, halfway across, twisted the end of her pole, dropping off it in the middle and hooking on to the line directly below in midair. In seconds, she was down below Gable, after the running man, who was several bridges away at this point. Scowling again, Gable remained where he was. Prosther was faster than he was anyhow, slowly gaining ground – she was younger, slighter, and while Gable had some measure of raw speed or power on his side, he lacked what really mattered in Sanctuary City – agility. The place was a dangerous maze and, as he watched Prosther dodge around each object that impeded her path, and a fair number of people, he couldn’t help but feel the smallest amount of admiration.

Sem was next to arrive – Prosther and the man in the mask were nearly out of sight, but still on the same level. “Well?” yelled Sem, the squad leader, as he skidded to a halt on the upper level.

“Seems to me like Prosther’s got it all under control,” said Gable dismissively, with a shrug. He was tired, he had never been good at chases, and chases in this quite literally godforsaken place were a new matter entirely.

“She’s caught him?” Sem was already swinging down to his level.

“They’re over there somewhere.” He pointed, but they were out of sight.

Sem’s thick goggles made it hard to see his eyes, so Gable couldn’t be sure, but he suspected that his expression was one of absolute rage. “We’ll talk about this later,” is all Sem said. “We’re moving. Now.” Gable took up his pole again – it had been leaning against the railing.

“There’s no way we’ll catch up now. I don’t even know what level they’re on.”

“Gable.” Sem’s voice was harsher than usual, a low and gravelly tone that seemed unusual coming from such a lithe man. Sem turned and leapt off the railing, catching the line as he fell. He didn’t even turn to check whether Gable was following, so certain of his own power of command. And Gable did follow – perhaps a little more slowly than the situation would dictate, but he followed.

A small crowd had gathered. People were coming out of their homes, milling into the balconies and bridges, looking to see what the commotion could be, who the lineriders were after. Sem, already far ahead of Gable, stopped momentarily and barked out a question at a shocked-looking middle-aged woman. Flustered though she was, she nodded in a certain direction, and Sem took off again. The stop had given Gable time to regain some ground, but when Sem reached a certain bridge and leapt off, right at the middle, Gable came to a sudden halt to watch his progress downward. There was a line that came directly under the bridge, although the bridge wasn’t a lauch point as such. It was a tough one to catch. Cursing loudly, and ignoring the offended and bemused stares of the crowd, Gable leapt.

He missed the first line, the one Sem had caught. There was another one, slightly below, and the fact he caught that one was little more than pure chance – if he’d fallen any farther he’d have found himself in one of the nets, unable to continue with the chase, and with precious little dignity intact.

Gable fell, unsteadily hooked on to the line, swinging side to side. He landed heavily on a balcony, just outside a shop, barely missing a patron just leaving the small store. The storegoer – a small girl, carrying a bag – stepped back and gave him an almost skeptical look. He was used to it, by now. The idea of somebody in a Kesmark uniform swinging around as though they had a right to be a Corali linerider was foreign to most of the people of the city and, Gable thought, was a silly idea anyhow. He really wasn’t very good at this.

He considered ascending the line again, following Sem, searching for Prosther, but he caught a flash of movement to his right, faster than the normal pace, as people were shoved aside. It was the man, dodging the flow of pedestrians, shoving his way through the crowd, and Prosther was nowhere in sight. She’d lost him, had she? So once more it came down to Gable, who really had no right to be in any sort of pursuit in a mixed-up city like this one.

The man was one level up from Gable, but far ahead of him. There was a small bridge, and then another line. He raced forward, hooked on to it, and twisted the handle in a certain way. Immediately, he felt himself rising upwards, jerked forward in a swift and sudden movement. Going upwards was Gable’s least favourite part of lineriding. At least going down, there was the feeling that gravity was doing the work, and that it was part of a natural and explainable world. But the mysterious force, the backwards gravity, upset him and he was relieved when he hit the ground.

The masked man was close, so close, but were they really going to catch him? There were so many people, and all that had to be done was for somebody to stick out a foot and trip the man, or grab him, and yet nobody did. Suddenly, Gable was angry with the whole process. He had had enough.

In a swift, well-learned motion, Gable lifted the loose leg of his pants and grabbed, heavily clipped to the side of his left boot, a small firearm. This was more like it. The Corali way was unnatural.

Off at a run again, he noticed both Prosther and Sem shouting at him from behind. He ignored them. He was gaining ground. He was waiting for a clear shot.

The weight of the pistol in his hand was comforting – he had left his lineriding pole back where he had last landed, certain that he wouldn’t be needing it. If the man in the mask leapt down another level it would be difficult to follow, but all he needed was one chance.

It came in a flash – the man ran across a small bridge, and Gable, nearby, was parallel. As the man’s back retreated, he took the shot. There were people around, too many people, he hated this city. But the chance was perfect and the shot was good. It struck the man in the leg.

He stumbled, obviously pained, and tried to take another step, failing. To his credit, as near as Gable could hear, he didn’t scream. Gable didn’t try to go to him – it was obvious that the man wasn’t going to get any farther and, Gable reasoned, if he had meant to hurt passersby he would have already. He had deliberately avoided causing anybody harm.

But Gable hadn’t expected what happened next – who would have? The man stumbled to the edge of the bridge and, a trail of blood dragged behind him, he lifted himself onto the rail and tumbled over the edge.

Gable leaned over the rail of his own bridge, passively watching the fall. The nets would catch the man, he was certain. Except…

Instead of pausing midair, descent halted in a field of blue light, there was a flash, a ripple, as if the bleeding man had cut through the surface of the ocean but then found only air on the other side, and he kept falling. It was a good spot to fall, from an escape perspective. Gable watched the ripples as the man fell through another three nets, and then he was too far gone, to obscured by other obstacles, to see. Surely it wouldn’t be long until he crashed into a bridge, or a balcony, or some other errant object. There was no way to survive a fall like that…

Moments after the fall, Gable felt a rough hand on his shoulder, spinning him. He found himself facing Sem and Prosther – Prosther annoyed, but Sem livid.

“He fell through the nets,” said Gable. “I didn’t know that was possible. I thought those things were supposed to catch anybody that hit ‘em.”

“He what?” asked Prosther, but Sem was temporarily distracted. He pulled his goggles off his eyes, resting them on his forehead, band still tangled in his short, dark hair.

“Tell me I didn’t just see you shoot a man, Gable.” But it was rhetorical – the gun was still dangling from Gable’s fingertips. As Sem ripped it from his fingers, Gable’s expression remained largely unconcerned. “No firearms within city limits. It’s against everything we stand for here, it’s against our culture, it’s against our religion, and, since I know you rarely stop to bother mustering some respect for either of those, at least consider how crowded this place is. Do you know how lucky you are that you didn’t kill somebody? Wound some innocent person? Do you ever listen to anything I tell you?”

“Don’t talk to me about your city,” said Gable. “People could see were were chasing that man, and we’re the law. Crowds of people saw. Did anybody do anything to stop him? I did.”

“And yet now he got away.”

“He fell through the nets!” growled Gable. “Nobody told me you could fall through the nets.”

“Yes, well…” Sem’s anger was receding slightly, giving way to bafflement. “Wait. He fell through the nets?”

“Right through them.” Gable waved an arm, miming the descent. “Plop.”

“You can’t fall through the nets. Nobody falls through the nets. The preists set them up. Powered by Cora’s own power. They’re safe.”

“Yes, well, it seems that Cora didn’t want to catch this particular thief.”

“We should send a scout to look for the body,” said Prosther, obviously slightly shaken by this blatant disregard for natural law. “There’s bound to be one. You can only hit so many nets before you hit solid ground, and even if he doesn’t, he was wounded.”

“He was shot, you mean.”

“Yes, Sem, he was shot, and now it’s likely he’s dead. I’ll go look for the body, okay? You two might want to get back to the Sanctuary and find out what exactly he was doing.”

Sem sighed. “None of this makes sense. He had a mask – one of the priest’s masks. No Corali would dare… and yet, that man was Corali, no question.” It was true – tan skinned and dark haired, there was no way that the escaped (and likely dead) man was Kesmer, as pale Gable was. “And that thing he was wearing – it looked almost like a linerider’s uniform. Not quite, but…”

“An old one, maybe?” suggested Prosther.

“Could be.” There were similarities. Prosther and Sem wore tight leather vests, high necked and laced up tautly, with panels coming down off the sides, and pouches for equipment. Every aspect of the linerider’s uniform had been designed to provide protection for somebody who needed both protection and agility, as a linerider did. They constantly tried to press Gable into wearing one of their uniforms, on safety grounds alone, they said. The goggles for eye protection, the leather vest, the thick pants, the scales of armour along their arms, the shells around the knees, the boots… all meant to guard against sudden impact and flying debris. Gable had been adamant since his arrival that, safety be damned, he was a soldier of Kesmark and even forced to work elsewhere, work as if he belonged there, he was going to dress as he was, and he had paid for it. There were scratches on his skin, constant tears in his clothes, and an aching in his joints from every bad impact, but still he wouldn’t give this up.

And the thing that the masked man had been wearing – it looked like a linerider’s uniform, perhaps as if designed by somebody who had a vague idea of it – the structure was almost identical, but the details were off. The ties were different, simple cords pulled across the chest instead of complex lacing. Only two panels on the sides, protecting the hips, without one across the front as well. And the rest of his outfit looked as though it had been assembled piecemeal, bits and pieces that didn’t match.

And there was the mask…

After a sullen pause in conversation, Sem snapped back to full attention. Gable noticed the sudden change in him – it was rare to see Sem affected by anything, and when he was, it was as though he simply had to acknowledge the emotion, and then turn it off with a click. “We’ve got things to do. Prosther, look for the body. Gable, you’re on general duty for the next half hour until we switch over to the night watch, but first I want you to find a scout or two and get word to the rest of the team. I think we all need to be there to figure this one out. Shanter had the day off, so she’s probably at home with her kids, and Simon and Farewell should be out on general patrol, not too hard to find. We’re meeting at the guardhouse at end of shift, agreed?”

“This sure is a lot to go to for a simple thief. Likely a dead thief too, wouldn’t you say?”

Again, that flash of emotion from Sem, that subsided almost immediately into a hard stare. “You’re pushing your luck, Gable. I don’t care what kind of diplomatic immunity you think you have, but between the gun and now this… if you’re not going to take the time to learn even the simplest things about our city, our culture, and our laws, then I don’t think you ought to have the rights that you do. We’ll talk about this later. Just get word. The scouts can tell the others that the Sanctuary was robbed by a man in a priest’s mask.” The look on Prosther’s face at this statement was almost sickened. She shook her head as Sem finished, “That should be enough for them.”

***

The scout was small, little more than a boy, really, and knowing that it was her own advancing age creating the illusion didn’t stop Farewell’s feeling that they got younger and younger every year. She’d been one herself, years ago, worn that parody of a lineriding uniform, ran about the city, delivered messages… it seemed so long ago.

The boy, perhaps sixteen, certainly a newer scout, was breathless. He leaned on his lineriding pole as he panted out, “Farewell Green? News for you. Get back to the guardhouse immediately when the swap comes to night. They say…” The scout paused, obviously unable to believe what he was about to say. “They say the Sanctuary was just robbed by a man in a priest’s mask.”

Farewell stepped back and stared down at him – he wasn’t a short young man, but he was stooped over and she was a tall woman. “You can’t be serious. Kesmer? Some sort of hate crime?”

“Corali, I hear. The rumour around the city is that it was just a priest from one of the outer tribes, but I think the rest of your team are shaken enough that it can be ruled out. They say he’s dead, too. They say Gable shot him.”

“Who’s they?” Farewell was already adjusting her gloves, preparing to take off towards the guardhouse – tall clock on a spindly pole nearby on the street showed the time to be mere minutes to crossover.

“Well, uh…” The boy looked slightly guilty, as though he’d been caught lying. “Gable, actually. He passed on the message. I don’t think he understood what it meant.”

“He wouldn’t, would he?” grumbled Farewell. “That man doesn’t give a shit about the most basic parts of life in this city. You know…” She pulled her goggles down over her eyes, and squinted. “I heard a rumour that the only reason they chose him for the exchange was because nobody in his unit back in Kesmark could stand him, but he had too many useful skills to justify firing him. A tradeoff for a top Corali guardsman would be perfect. Just a rumour, of course. Probably little more than an urban legend.” She smiled humourlessly. “But I wouldn’t be shocked, would you?”

There was no time for the scout to reply before Farewell took off at a run for the nearest line, leaping into midair for an expert catch, shifting the grip so that it pulled her upwards, and she barely paused when she hit the ground before taking off towards the next one. She’d always wanted to be a linerider, even when she was a child. She’d always imagined it was something like flying. And while many of her childhood illusions had faded with time, this one had proved to be absolutely correct.

A man in a priest’s mask? Corali? No Corali would dare.

She hit the guardhouse just as the night shift was starting. She nodded hello to the familiar faces emerging from inside. They looked shaken.

“Is it true?” asked one, a small, aging man.

Farewell didn’t even ask what he meant. “So I hear, although you probably know about as much as I do right now. Sem’s going to fill us in. We can send out some scouts when we know more. Keep you in the loop. And of course, Kierlen probably needs to know…”

The other linerider shook his head. “It’s just surreal, that’s all. I heard he was shot and he fell right through the nets.”

That part, Farewell hadn’t heard, but instead of engaging in a battle of speculation with somebody only marginally better informed than she was, she just nodded and walked into the guardhouse.

It was a comfort. Farewell had a small home, barely an apartment – more of a simple, rented room. She was hardly there, except perhaps to sleep, and even then, she often slept at the guardhouse. This was her real home, and something about the solidness of it, the warm glow of the lighted lamps, gave her a feeling of calm that she hadn’t quite felt since she’d heard the news.

Simon was there already, likely having arrived only minutes before she did. He was sitting on a short, long bench near the wall, half out of his uniform, slumped over in deep contemplation. He glanced up as she entered. “I just got word from Prosther, by scout – she’ll be here soon, but she wanted us to know she’s found no sign of a body.”

“Were you there?” Simon shook his head. He was pale – being Kesmer by birth, of course he was far too pale by Corali standards, but he looked paler than normal.

“No. Just heard from a scout. But I heard you talking as you came in – do you really think he fell through the nets?”

“There’s always some story going around. Kids tell tales, and all that. But it’s never happened, not in recorded history, and I don’t see any reason for it to start happening now.” Farewell tried to put conviction into her voice, but she couldn’t quite believe it. Nobody would dare joke about such a thing, not even Gable – Gable was a bastard, but he wasn’t a liar, and even if he was, Farewell doubted he’d understand well enough to concoct such a jarring lie.

Before any further speculation could continue, Shanter entered, followed by Sem – they were chatting softly. Likely, they’d met on the way there.

Neither looked particularly affected, but that meant nothing. Shanter, especially, wore a cold, hard shell of a face that made it hard for most to believe that she could be a mother, have a family, live a life outside of this one. Certainly, not a lot of people could. Shanter had started young, been a scout, been a linerider, but when she had her first child, had decided it was too dangerous to continue. It was only after her husband, a fellow linerider, was injured too badly to continue work that she realized that first of all, she needed an income for the family and second of all, there was only one thing she really wanted to do. No matter the circumstances, if it was work, then Shanter was cold, as though she was saving up all her emotions for her family, and now was no exception.

“Prosther sent word,” repeated Simon. “She can’t find a body.”

Sem’s brow furrowed. “Somebody must have removed it, then. I doubt he would have survived the fall, with wounds like those, and certainly he couldn’t have escaped unaided. If there’s no body, then at least there should be some sort of wounded criminal, lying in the streets…”

“Check for yourself,” said Prosther, as she came in through the door. “I looked everywhere and, beyond that, there were witnesses who stated in very clear terms that they saw a wounded man in a priest’s mask escaping the city.

“Civil responsibility,” muttered Farewell. “Didn’t it occur to a single one of them to stop him? Help him even? A bleeding man in a priest’s mask on his way out of the city… either a bad thing, or somebody worth of medical attention. Either way…”

“Maybe they were scared?” All eyes turned to Simon. “Well, it’s possible. You never see priests outside the Sanctuary. I doubt most people would have known what to make of it, whether or not they believed he truly was a priest. Frankly, the whole situation makes me uncomfortable, and I don’t think I’d even be discussing this now if it weren’t my job to do so.”

They all sat in silence for a while, before Farewell turned towards the door and announced, “Hey, Simon, your twin’s arrived!”

It was a joke, of course, and more of a habit than any particular form of humour. It was Gable entering, and certainly Gable was of no relation to Simon. The problem was their shared name – Gable was actually Simon Gable, but he preferred his surname and, upon his arrival in Sanctuary City, had no trouble using it exclusively to prevent confusion. Simon – Simon Maxwell by name – stuck with his first. And then there was the issue of them both being Kesmer by race, paler and stockier than most Corali. The differences in appearance ended there, though. Simon was tall and muscular, with pale blond hair and an innocent face. Gable was small and solid, with rough, dark, long hair and a short but wild beard, his face etched in a permanent expression of annoyance.

“No twin of mine,” muttered Gable. “Anyhow, I’m about to be rebuked over one thing or another, so before we get into that, how’s about somebody gives me some idea of what’s actually going on here?”

“He doesn’t get it,” said Prosther to Simon by way of explanation.

“No, he doesn’t, and we’re going to have a long and serious discussion about that at a future date. For now, though, in order to concentrate on the subject at hand, here’s the short version. You’ve been to the Sanctuary. You know about the priests. You know about the masks.”

Gable nodded. The masks were one of the things he found hardest to get used to in Sanctuary City. They’d made him uncomfortable as long as he’d been there, and only recently was he starting to become desensitized. They were in every house, every building, hung on a wall – on the guardhouse, there was one just inside the door.

It was a simple, wooden mask, cheap-looking by most standards, although that was a false assessment. They had been a Corali tradition for as long as history could recall – a mask in the image of their beloved god – and it had been carved from wood because, in the deserts from whence the Corali came, wood had always been a scarce resource. These things changed with time, but the tradition remained.

And it was frightening, even in its simplicity. Simple, staring holes for eyes, a slit of a nose, and a wide gash of a mouth. It was part of Corali belief that their god was ugly and terrifying, but ultimately kind. It was the other gods, the ones that had disfigured Cora – for that was her name – that were the beautiful ones, but they had considered themselves too good, and left the world behind. It was said that those were the ones who the people of Kesmark and further abroad worshipped – the departed gods, they called them. Certainly, this could be true. Cora was the only god who ever actually appeared to her people.

Or, at least she had. Things had changed.

“The masks are on the walls, and the priests wear them. I got that much,” said Gable. “But the things are everywhere. What’s stopping somebody from taking one down and putting it on, as a disguise? Seems simple enough to me.”

“But nobody would,” said Simon. “No Corali, not the most hardened criminal, would dare. We’re taught from when we’re young that you don’t. And… there are stories.”

“Talking like you’re Corali,” muttered Shanter, but Sem shot her a look, then turned to Gable.

“It’s true. Bad things happen to people who wear masks. Other than the priests, of course. It’s just… it’s wrong. It’s difficult to explain to somebody who hasn’t lived with it. Only the priests wear masks, and they don’t wear them outside of the Sanctuary. Even if it was a priest from an outer tribe, he wouldn’t be on the streets.”

“So it’s jarring to you because you haven’t seen it before. Apparently it’s happened, if such stories exist – and by your logic, they’ve been proven relatively true, since getting shot certainly counts as a bad thing.”

“Gable, he was robbing the Sanctuary. He fell through the nets.” Farewell was indignant.

“He probably thought it was a good disguise. And the nets…”

“Even if you discount the mask, nobody’s fallen through the nets before. Nobody. Ever. It doesn’t happen.” It was Simon speaking, and he was near hysteria.

“And how do the nets work, exactly?” They were staring at Gable, but he shrugged. “Well?”

“The priests take care of them, like they take care of the lines. It’s Cora’s magic. Only the priests have it, these days, since the spark sickness.” The rest nodded at Farewell’s words. The nets were key to the city, a city built up in levels and layers to a dizzying height, with only thin bridges and shaky linecarts for transportation upwards and downwards and around. People would fall – not often, not in such a place where they had learned safety since childhood, but accidents happened. Thus there were the nets, an invisible field – invisible until somebody found themselves caught in it, when it revealed itself as a crackling sheet of blue – that caught and cushioned in midair, holding the faller in place. You fell in the nets and you were stuck, until somebody helped pull you back to the edge. It wasn’t always a perfect system, but it was safe, and it had worked forever.

“So he was stealing something from the Sanctuary of the priests who take care of the nets, wearing a mask he wasn’t supposed to wear, and you find it shocking that he might have done something impossible? Lineriders move through the nets every day.”

“It’s the sparkwood in our poles – enchanted so it can move as it needs to. It’s how we move upward along the lines, instead of just down.”

“Well, there you go, then. Sparkwood comes from the Sanctuary, doesn’t it?”

This gave the group pause. None of them had considered it, and Farewell knew why – because to her, and to the others, it was just so far outside what they would consider that it seemed as strange an idea as a fish taking flight.

“Further investigation, then. Tomorrow. Prosther, I want you to find a scout who can get news to the night watch that we still haven’t found the man – it is possible that some witnesses were unreliable, and that he’s within city limits still. Somebody could be taking care of his wounds, if he survived, or perhaps he had an ally here. Something’s going on, and they need to know. Tomorrow, you can go with Farewell to the Sanctuary to find out if the priests can tell us anything. See if the man could have stolen sparkwood, and if it would have helped him through the nets somehow, or allowed him to survive. I doubt it, but there’s a lot we don’t know.” Sem turned to the rest. “Simon, I know tomorrow’s your day off, but it would help if you could work anyhow, with everything going on. We’ll make it up to you another day. Shanter, you’re on general duty, as am I. And Gable…”

The expression on Gable’s face said here it comes and it said it in such a sarcastic way that words weren’t required. “Gable, first of all, if you’re caught with a gun again, it doesn’t matter who you are and what sort of diplomatic rights you believe you have, you will lose this job and you will be arrested. If you’re not going to respect our laws and customs, then you have no right to be here. And as for your punishment… well, I was going to give you this assignment anyhow, to be perfectly honest, but now you’ve officially given up your right to complain.”

“Dare I ask?”

Sem sat on the long bench near the wall and stared up at Gable. “There’s a family of Kesmer nobles coming to visit. Apparently one of them, a certain Mr. Erwin Carter, is a man of some influence. Heard of him?”

“He’s a politician, of sorts. He’s been pushing for war with the Corali territories for years – say we should give up all this trade and diplomacy and just take what we need.” There was no hint of emotion in Gable’s voice to determine whether he necessarily agreed or disagreed with the man, and Farewell found this unsettling.

“Yes, well, I’m told that he’s softened his position as of late, and he’s coming to visit. Supposedly it’s for a visit to the theatre with his family, but really it’s a grand diplomatic gesture and we ought to take it very seriously. So our squad has been charged with guarding and guiding the lot of them. It’s not an unreasonable request, considering some people are likely to know who he is, and certainly he’s not popular. And you, Gable… you’re going to meet them with me, tomorrow. Then, they’re all yours.”

Gable’s face fell. “I’m not some bodyguard-”

“I said no complaints. I thought you’d be happy to reconnect with some of your own people, considering how much you seem to love them.” Sem’s words were harsh, but Farewell couldn’t help but smile a little. Sem knew as well as the rest of them that Gable didn’t like anybody, and people in power least of all. He loved his home country and his home city and his job, but people, actual people, he couldn’t care less about.

“Why us, though?” asked Simon. “Certainly they’re coming in through the lower city, and the theatre’s in the high city, where they’d likely be staying… what makes it part of our juristiction?”

“I think it should be obvious to you, of all people,” said Gable, defeated. “They’re trying to ease an anti-Corali politician into the only major Corali city, so who’re they going to ask? Just look at this squad. I’m Kesmer, you’re Kesmer, Farewell’s half, Prosther’s one-quarter… only Sem and Shanter are pure. How many even partial Kesmers are lineriders, do you think? We’re the only proper ones here, aside from the others on exchange like I am, and of the four or five of them there’s only one per squad, and there’re perhaps five or six others with some Kesmer blood, but if they want to make somebody from Kesmark feel at home, of course you’d want to show him his own kind.”

“Simon’s not Kesmer,” said Farewell. “He was raised in this city. He’s as Corali as I am, or as Sem is. While some people-” - she shot Shanter a meaningful look – “-don’t agree with this particular assessment, nearly everybody else does. The place you were born or the place that your parents were born doesn’t determine who you are. That’s what Corali believe.”

“Yes, well, it’s not what Kesmers believe. That’s why we’ve been saddled with this, although frankly, considering the things you say about my lack of diplomacy, I don’t know why you’d bother making me the representative of this particular city.”

“You’re not. You’re a representative of Kesmark who happens to be living in the city – a perfect guide to outsiders. Besides, none of us want to deal with them. And as much of a bastard as you are, I doubt you’d intentionally provoke war. You like law and order too much.”

Gable raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“You’re going to meet me in the lower city tomorrow an hour after the shift would normally begin, since you’re going to be working late. You know the place – the gate where sparkshells come in.”

“They’re travelling by sparkshell?” asked Prosther, with something close to awe.

“Of course they are,” said Shanter. “Noble types always do. Powering their proud machines with our sparkwood… I don’t know what they think gives them the right.”

“Shanter, now is not the time. You all know what you’re meant to be doing tomorrow, so unless anybody has some questions, or perhaps some theories as to what the hell might be going on, you’re all dismissed. Oh, and to the ones investigating – if you manage to find anything, send a scout. I want to be the first to know.”

“Actually…”

“Yes, Prosther?”

“I can only work the morning. I’m representing my family at Cora’s Waiting this year.”

Sem paused, then nodded. “Right, I remember you mentioning that. Farewell, I thought it was your turn?”

“No, that’s next year. This year, my neice gets the honour.” She patted Prosther on the shoulder and smiled, as the girl looked up at her with some measure of pride.

“Anybody else?” asked Sem. Shanter and Simon shook their heads.

“My mother’s going this year. I’m sort of sad… then again, I get the chance far, far more often than most. We’re the only two Maxwells in the city, after all.”

“Not a lot of Greens in the city either,” said Farewell. “It’s what we get for having a Kesmer surname.”

Shanter frowned. “Too many Haidos around here. I haven’t been in years. Such an extended family, we’ve got. It hardly seems fair.”

Simon turned to Gable. “You could go, you know. I’m certain you’re the only Gable in the city. I know you don’t consider yourself Corali, don’t really believe, but it’s an honour, and you could…”

Gable frowned, and leaned against the cold wall. “I feel like I’m missing something.”

“Cora’s Waiting,” said Prosther. “It used to be Cora’s Coming, back in the day, but that’s long over. But we keep on going, every year, because she’ll come back some day, I know. The whole city used to go, hundereds of years back, but times have changed. These days, only one of each family can attend.” Prosther looked at Farewell. “Grandma was there, the last time Cora actually came, wasn’t she?”

Farewell nodded, but said nothing. Her mother had indeed been there, just a child, those sixty years ago. For years, Farewell had asked if there had been anything the god had said, any indication that she was displeased, but as near as anybody could tell, there was nothing. Nobody knew what they’d done, why she’d abandoned them. There were even rumours that Cora was dead, rumours that others disputed – gods could not die, they said, and Cora would never abandon them as the departed gods had abandoned the Kesmers. Plus, Cora’s magic, the spark, still held the city together, still grew into the sparkwood, still gave them power and hope. But then there was the spark sickness, coming in tandem with Cora’s abandonment, leaving any child found with the spark deathly ill…

“Well, I see no reason to be there. I’ve got better things to do than wait around for your long-lost god, even if it’s bloody bodyguarding.” Gable eyed Sem carefully. “Just past sunup at the sparkshell gates. I’ll be there. Think they’ll let me take the elevator? I hate lineriding to the lower city.”

“It’s possible,” said Sem noncommitally. Farewell got the impression he secretly hoped they wouldn’t.

Gable left, followed by Simon, Prosther, and Shanter, leaving only Farewell and Sem alone in the guardhouse. “Do you really think it’s a good idea, leaving him of all people with a Kesmer family? He’s not a nice man. He knows full well he isn’t, and he’s not going to change his ways for anybody.”

Sem just shrugged. “I have my reasons. Besides, at worst, he’ll make the rest of us look good.”

Farewell laughed slightly, but only slightly, as she pulled her hair out of its tight bun. “I don’t know whether or not that ought to come as a comfort. Do you really think Erwin Carter’s changed his ways? It’s not some sort of trick?”

“That remains to be seen, really. Again, the official line is that he just wants his family to experience the famous Corali theatre for themselves. What his real motives are are completely unknown, but I doubt he’d attempt any complex political manouevers in the presence of his wife and family. And Gable, well… if anything’s off, he’d notice. He’s a sour man and a poor linerider, but if there’s anything we know, he’s probably the best detective we have.”

“I was wondering why you didn’t have him on the mask case, obvious reasons aside.”

“He’s not likely to notice strange things on the mask case, since he doesn’t know what to look for – I’m leaving that to you and Prosther. Hopefully the priests will cooperate; they should be just as upset by having the Sanctuary broken into as we were, if not more. No, if anybody’s going to notice anything off about Kesmers, it’ll be Gable.” Sem was slowly stripping out of his lineriding uniform, replacing the tight vest with a comfortable shirt, and the boots with simple shoes. He would lineride home, of course, but he could do so at a leasurely pace, and he worried less about dangers then. Farewell, on the other hand, remained mostly in uniform.

“I just don’t like any of this,” said Farewell. “Something feels off. Has Kierlen been told about the mask?”

“I’ve sent a scout. I’ll expect he’ll want to talk to me tomorrow. He might put some other squads on it, if we’ve got the Carters to take care of.”

“I hope so. I’m not too sure I want to be involved in this one, frankly.”

“Hey,” said Sem, and he put a hand on Farewell’s shoulder. “We’ll find the body.”

Farewell just shook her head and turned away, heading slowly out the door. “If you see Mela, say hi to her for me.”

“Can do,” called Sem, but she could barely hear him – she was already out the door, leaping into the air, flying on the lines, finding her way home.