Arrows of Time - Kim Falconer [93]
He wouldn’t. He’s a canine, remember?
‘I do.’
And this place?
‘I don’t think it’s a dump.’
The valley below poured out of a long funnel-shaped landscape. It rushed away from her feet, tumbling down towards the city below. The sloping ground was nearly bare, spotted here and there with strange trees, their trunks dull and twisted, their hoary branches tangled like an orphan’s hair. It might have been an orchard once, but it was more a graveyard now. Dry stocks of grass jutted up in clumps. The ground was grey and cold, the smell sour.
Fynn had dashed straight out of the portal, sniffing the turf and squatting to pee before continuing on his olfactory investigations. He started to run towards the township, doubling back the instant Rosette whistled. ‘Not so fast, little lad.’ She reached down to stroke the top of his head. He sat on her feet. ‘Let’s assess the situation first.’
He doesn’t understand why we don’t run down the path. Says there’re new scents—peculiar scents. He wants to explore. Drayco’s voice was warm in her mind, a temple cat’s chuckle.
‘Peculiar scents, eh?’ She patted Fynn again. ‘All the more reason for caution.’ Rosette took in a deep breath and licked her lips. She wouldn’t classify the air as peculiar; the predominant smells were much like a tannery—decidedly chemical. They left a tingling feeling on her tongue and made her eyes water. ‘Curious,’ she said, tilting her head. ‘This reminds me of something I can’t quite recall.’
Me too, and I don’t like it.
‘Maybe it’s a medicinal plant.’
Or paint thinner?
She scanned the valley down to the rooftops, looking for the source of the thin, metallic scent that made her senses cringe. It certainly wasn’t coming from any flowers or growing vegetation. The place was as barren as the gates she’d just left behind, spattered with a similar array of dead wood.
I don’t sense any inhabitants, Maudi.
‘There must be,’ she said. ‘And plenty of them. Look how tall those buildings are. Like towers.’
High rooftops glittered in the pale sunlight, rising over dark streets. The closer buildings were pushed together in a hodgepodge fashion as if little thought had been given to their construction or overall design—elongated rectangles shooting up to scrape the skyline. She was certain they did not practise the ancient Earth art of Feng Shui here. It was much too haphazard and cluttered for that. Beyond the old buildings appeared newer structures, their organisation more streamlined. Each shape, corner and line was a carbon copy of the next, though the height and breadth varied from thin to very narrow, tall to soaring. All were tinged dull shades of grey, like a charcoal drawing left out in the rain.
Drayco was right. She detected no signs of life. Nothing moved on the streets. Nothing rustled in the dead grass. A wan yellow light touched her hands, though she could not see the sun. There were no clouds—the light obscured by haze. The place was silent. ‘Where are the birds?’ she whispered.
The trees lining the track were ghosts, leafless and brittle, though it did not feel like winter. It didn’t feel like spring or summer either. There was an absence of season around her, the air void of the rich aromas that proclaimed the time of year—the pungency of grazing cattle, wet grass and herbs, ducks on a lake, feathered nests. There was nothing like that here. No taste on the breeze, save that strange tang of an alchemist’s laboratory. The sky was empty, the ground barren and silent. It felt like an alien place. She gripped her sword hilt, taking comfort in its cool familiarity.
‘Do you recognise any of this, Drayco?’ She reached out to touch her familiar, her hand searching for his head. She couldn’t feel him. ‘Drayco? Where are you?’
I’m still inside.
‘You may not need to come out. I don’t think I want to stay.’
She whistled to Fynn, who had wandered again, nose to the ground and tail wagging. He trotted back and she scooped him up into her arms, mesmerised by the scene in front of her. It was like looking at a photograph—a picture