“May I help?” it said.
Sharrow smiled. “May we borrow your car for a while?”
“The vehicle is a little temperamental,” Feril told them, sounding apologetic. “Might I suggest I drive you wherever you wish to go?”
Sharrow and the others exchanged looks. Feril looked up at the ceiling and said, “I know it wouldn’t even cross your mind, but just supposing you were thinking of taking something from the trove, it would be wise not to let the caretaker observe you doing so. I myself am quite neutral in the matter.”
Sharrow opened her jacket and concealed the bulky dials inside as best she could. “We’ll accept your offer of the lift, Feril, thank you.”
“My pleasure,” the android said.
Grey waves dashed themselves against black boulders; spray flew up, sunset lit, to blow across the tumble of stones in quick veils of grey-pink mist, dropping and whirling into the crannies between the rocks.
The wind blew into her face, strong and cool and damp. The sunset was a wide stain of red at the ocean’s edge. She turned and looked up the grassy slope to the road, where the car sat hissing quietly. Strands of steam leaked from beneath the vehicle and were torn away on the curling wind. There was a light on in the automobile’s rear compartment, and through the open door she could see Miz and Dloan peering at a screen they’d unfurled over the floor of the car.
Feril and Zefla sat on a couple of boulders at the side of the road about fifty metres away, looking out to sea, talking.
Miz got out of the car and walked down to her. He stood by her side, making a show of breathing in the brine-laced air.
“Well?” Sharrow asked him.
“I’ll tell you if you’ll tell me how the book led to the tomb,” Miz said, smiling faintly.
Sharrow shrugged. “The message in the casing,” she said.
Miz frowned for a moment. “What? ‘Things Will Change’?”
Sharrow nodded. “That’s the inscription on Gorko’s tomb.”
“But the tomb’s only… what?”
“Thirty years old,” she said. “And the book was missing for twelve centuries.” She smiled thinly at the sunset. “Gorko must have found out what was in the casing, even if he never got to the book itself. Maybe it was just good Antiquities research; maybe one of his agents was able to inspect the book, or remote-scan it while it was in Pharpech. But somehow he found out what the inscription was and had it duplicated on his tomb.”
Miz looked vaguely disappointed. “Huh,” he said.
She looked up at Miz, who was nodding slowly. “So,” she said, “where do the dials point?”
Miz pursed his lips and nodded out across the ocean.
“Over the sea and far away,” he said.
“Caltasp?” she asked.
“Sort of,” he said. He glanced at her. “The Areas,” he added.
She closed her eyes for a moment. “Are you sure?”
“Come and see.”
They walked back to the car. She stood at the opened door, one hand resting on the car’s slatted wooden roof.
The flex-screen lying on the floor displayed a flat map of Golter’s southern hemisphere, distorted to show true direction. They both watched as Dloan traced a line from a compass-rosed point in southern Jonolrey across the Phirar to the region between Caltasp and Lantskaar.
“Depends how accurate these gauges are,” Dloan said, tapping numbers into the calculator display at the side of the map. “And on whether the direction display is working on the GPS or magnetic. But if the speedo shows true direction and the rev counter is kilometres times one hundred, then it’s the Embargoed Areas.”
“Oh, shit,” Sharrow breathed.
They had driven eighty kilometres out of Vembyr along the pitted surface of the deserted coastal highway, heading south and west. They had passed the entombed ruins of the ancient reactor a couple of kilometres back, just before the cut-off for the point. They were about fifty kilometres further west than they had been in the city, and the needle on the bike’s fake tachometer had moved one half of a division on its scale, indicating fifty-nine and a half revolutions per second rather than the sixty it had shown in the warehouse.
“We can get a more accurate fix with a better map,” Dloan said, laying the static-stiffened screen over the dials, then turning it briefly transparent. “And maybe triangulate if we can get a reading from a good way north of the city.”
“I’ll get the copter back,” Miz told Sharrow, nodding.
“That should narrow it down pretty well,” Dloan said, tapping out more figures and studying the result. “But just going on this, if it isn’t under the ocean it’s somewhere in the fjords, in the Areas.”
Sharrow looked up the road at Zefla and Feril. The two were standing now; Zefla was pointing out to sea, her long, blonde hair blown cloud-ragged by the wind. Red light reflected from the polished surfaces of the android’s head and body.
A gust rocked Sharrow on her feet. Her skirt whipped at her boots and she stuck her hands in her jacket pockets, feeling the cold weight of the gun against her left hand.
She saw Zefla glance towards the car, and waved at her. The woman and the android began walking back to the car.
That night she did not dream of Cenuij, but instead dreamt that her arm died; her left arm became paralysed and numb, then began to wither and shrink but somehow remained the same size it had always been, but was still dead, and so she had to find somebody who would bury it for her, and wandered round a city that seemed to be crowded but where she could only find people who looked just like her but weren’t, and nobody would bury the arm for her.
Eventually she tried to make a box, a coffin, for the arm, to carry it around in, but it was difficult to make with just one arm.
She woke in the middle of the night, in the wide, white bed in the shadows of the tall, white room in the apartment block Feril was renovating. She was lying on her left arm, which had gone to sleep. She got up and sat in a seat by the side of the bed for a while, drinking a glass of water and massaging her tingling arm as blood and feeling returned to it.
She thought she would be awake for the rest of the night, but then fell asleep there, to wake up stiff and sore in the morning, her right hand still clutching the other arm as though comforting it.
The monthly auction started the next day. Aircraft arrived from all over Golter, filling the City Hotel with mercenary chiefs, arms dealers, militaria collectors, weapon-fund managers, contract army reps and a scattering of specialist media people. The auction hall itself was an old conference centre three blocks from the warehouse where the Tzant trove was stored.
Sharrow had refused to hide away while the auction was held, and she and Zefla, both wearing veiled hats and dull, loose-fitting suits, sat in a small drinks lounge attached to the conference facility, watching the people come and go.
Miz and Dloan had left the city to travel up the coast in one of Miz’s company helicopters, getting another fix on the position the bike dials were indicating. If the triangulation confirmed the dials were pointing where they seemed to be, Dloan would attend the auction’s second and final day so he could buy the sort of gear they’d need if they were to mount an expedition to the Areas.
“You’re mad,” Zefla said quietly, lifting her veil to drink from her glass as she leaned closer to Sharrow. “You should be hiding.” She sipped her drink, finishing it. “I’m mad, too, for letting you talk me into this. I should have told Dloan, or Miz, or just locked you up. You talk me into the most insane things.”
“Oh, stop whining and go and get us another drink,” Sharrow whispered. Zefla sat back sharply, then made a grunting noise and started to get up.
“Good grief,” Sharrow said, taking Zefla’s arm. “Look who’s here.”
Elson Roa stood at the bar. He was dressed in a sober business robe and carried a sensible hat. A similarly garbed young woman they didn’t recognise stood at Roa’s side, toting a briefcase.