Dancing With Bears - Michael Swanwick [8]
“Nowhere is there any sign of life. If one of the feral camels that live in the desert surrounding it comes within their range, it is killed. If a flower grows, it is uprooted. Such is the hatred that the wicked offspring of man’s folly feel for all that is natural. Yet some animals they keep alive and by cunning surgical operations merge with subtle mechanisms of their own devising, so that they may send agents into the larger world for purposes known only to them. If the animal used to create such an abomination chances to die, still may it be operated by indwelling machinery. The creature from which you rescued me was exactly such a combination of wolf and machine.”
Conversing, they traveled back the way the caravan had originally come. After several miles, the road crossed a barren stretch of rocks and sand and Gulagsky said, “This is the turnoff.”
“But it is no more than a goat trail!” Surplus exclaimed.
“So you would think. These are terrible times, sirs, and my townsfolk have carefully degraded the intersection in order to keep our location obscure. If we follow the track for roughly half a mile, we will come upon a recognizable road.”
“I feel better,” Darger said, “for missing it earlier.”
In less than an hour, the new road had dipped into a small, dark wood. When it emerged, they found themselves in sight of Gulagsky’s town. It was a tidy place clustered atop a low hill, gables and chimneypots black against the sunset. Here and there a candle glowed yellow in a window. Had it not been for the impenetrable military-grade wall of thorn-hedges that surrounded it, and the armed guards who watched alertly from a tower above the thick gates, it would have been the homiest sight imaginable.
Darger sighed appreciatively. “I shall be glad to sleep on a proper mattress.”
“My town has few travelers and thus no taverns in which to house them. Yet have no fear. You shall stay in my house!” Gulagsky said. “You will have my own bed, piled high with blankets and pillows and feather bolsters, and I shall sleep downstairs in my son’s room and he on the floor in the kitchen.”
Darger coughed embarrassedly into his hand.
“Well, you see…” Surplus began. “Regrettably, that is not possible. We require an entire building for the embassy. A tavern would have been better, but a private house will do if it has sufficient rooms. In neither case, however, can it be shared with any other person. Not even servants. Its owners are straight out of the question. Nothing less will do.”
Gulagsky gaped at them. “You reject my hospitality?
“We have no choice,” Darger said. “We are bound for Muscovy, you see, bearing a particularly fine gift for its duke—a treasure so rare and wondrous as to impress even that mighty lord. So extraordinary are the Pearls of Byzantium that a mere glimpse of them would excite avarice in the most saintly of men. Thus—and I do regret this—they must be kept away from prying eyes as much as possible. Simply to prevent strife.”
“You think I would steal from the men who saved my life?”
“It is rather hard to explain.”
“Nevertheless,” Surplus said, “and with our sincerest apologies, we must insist.”
Gulagsky turned red, though whether from anger or humiliation could not be told. Rubbing his beard fiercely, he said, “I have never been so insulted before. By God, I have not. To be turned out of my own house! From anyone else, I would not take it.”
“Then we are agreed,” Darger said. “You truly are a generous fellow, my friend.”
“We thank you, sir, for your understanding,” Surplus said firmly.
In the town above them, church bells began to ring.
...2...
Arkady Ivanovich Gulagsky was drunk on poetry. He lay on his back on the roof of his father’s house singing:
“Last cloud of a storm that is scattered and over,
“Alone in the skies of bright azure you hover…”
Which