Annoyed at himself, he twitched the curtain. The window was long and narrow, tiny panes of – was that mica? – stretching floor to ceiling and allowing him to see outwards into the weird, pale-yellow light.
Stone walls, dark archways, narrow, twisting streets. The moon... moons... gave everything a bizarre, cross-hatched shadowing that warped the scene into a comic-book fantasyscape, something unreal – a world as beautiful and alien as the voice had been –
He was gonna puke.
He let the curtain go and edged right back under the desk, cloak covered, his hand over his mouth. His gut was churning like the back wheel of Lugan’s bike, the adrenal rush had left him shaking like a –
Again, he heard the door.
What now? This place was like fucking Clapham Central. Secure in his stealth mode, he raised the front of his cowl high enough to watch.
It was the owner of the voice.
That same not quite familiarity shivered in Ecko’s skin, made his heart lurch with anticipation. Like seeing a brain-rig actor in the street – or a celeb you’d once had a crush on – you knew them though you’d never seen them before.
The man who came into the room was tall – as tall as Lugan – but rangy, long legged and dressed like a ponce. Black boots and black pants looked like the bottom half of a highwayman costume; a loose pale shirt was stark against deeply tanned skin. Long, heavy black hair was tied back in a tail – in the light from the rock, it shone almost blue.
Ecko’s heatseeker showed no weapons, no enhancements, not even jewellery – fucking diddly-squat.
He needed his Tech – Mom – to run a full diagnostic.
Yeah right – and he needed a radio. And Salva’s rifle. And a coupla grenades. And maybe some plastic explosive...
He needed forty thousand hit points and a sword of bad guy slaying.
What he needed was a fucking way out of here.
The man stopped, apparently scanning the room.
“The nausea’s a side effect of your transition,” he said. “It’ll pass. Kale’s cooking something that’ll help you – but you’re strong. It won’t be ready just yet.”
That was the second time Ecko had heard the word “transition”. He swallowed convulsively; they had to be pulling his chain. They’d boxed him up for sure but they wouldn’t try anything that dumb...
The man closed the door. The sound had a distinct finality.
Ecko shuddered.
“I’m Roderick of Avesyr,” the man said, “usually known as the ‘Bard’, though I fear the moniker is somewhat ironic. This illustrious drinking establishment is The Wanderer, it has the occasional habit of collecting strays – both local and otherwise. And you, my friend, would seem to be an ‘otherwise’. If you let me, I can help you.”
An “otherwise”? What was that: a Connecticut Yankee in the King Arthur’s Arms? Silently, he watched.
Roderick crossed the centre of the room, stopped. “Know that neither I nor anyone in this building will threaten you. Please, I understand you’re confused, but there’s no need to conceal yourself.”
He said, “Trust me.”
“Trust you?” In a snap decision that surged ahead of nausea, fear and incomprehension, Ecko exploded from under the desk. “You work for Grey, don’tcha? You plug me into this shit, you question me, I tell you everything, then it’s Experimentation Time?” He leapt four steps and was on the table, crouched like a confrontation. “Yeah, well, I’ve seen through your little ruse. Bring it on, asswipe, let’s see whatcha got.”
“Answers.” The Bard was neither startled nor slow; he spread his long hands in a shrug. “I’m welcoming you, trying to help. Your anger and disorientation are completely understandable – I’d like to try and make this easy, if I can. Sketch out the basics.”
Ecko bared his teeth. “Don’t turn your fuckin’ vocal charms on me or I’ll use your skull for a piss-pot.”
“I know you’re confused –”
“Confused! You got five seconds to tell me what’s what or I start breaking shit. An’ you can begin with those moons.”
“The light’s making you queasy?”
“The light,” Ecko said, “is reflected sunlight –”
“The light,” the Bard said with a half-smile, “comes from the Gods.”
“The moons are gods?” He had to be kidding. “That’s one hell of an interrogation technique. What, d’you sacrifice virgins to the sun in your spare time?”
“Round here, I’d only have to trade for them first.” His supple voice made the statement rich with amusement.
“You’re a fuckin’ scream,” Ecko said. “Now. You tell me what’s goin’ on or I start burning shit down.”
“Take it easy, there, my friend.” The Bard’s tone was humorous, gentle. “There’s no need to be burning anything. I understand this is bewildering, and I came in to help make you welcome – firstly to The Wanderer, purveyor of fine ales, and currently in the city of Roviarath.”
Without taking his eyes from Ecko, he gave a half bow, spreading his hands, and his expression flickered mischief. His face was lean and bore a tracery of age lines; his eyes were violet and so long lashed he looked like he wore make-up. Watching him, Ecko had no clue how old he was.
But he was still speaking. “Roviarath is our culture’s pivot and lynchpin, the heart of our trade. All around it are the Varchinde, the open Grasslands. Beyond that, I come from the north, the Khavan Circle. The Kuanne to the west is lifeless; the Archipelago to the east scarcely populated. To the south, the Red Desert is home to nomads, a hundred banners with a hundred cultures. They’re a short-lived people, but fiery.”
As the Bard spoke, so Ecko’s surroundings took on shape and form, became more solid. The nausea began to ease. Yet the map the man drew made the whispering realisation louder... this was already far too complex, far too real...
Real? Chrissakes, this was insane – even more insane than two fucking god-moons that disobeyed every physical law...
They’d never make him believe this shit!
“Okay, smart-ass, what’s the time: what year is it?” Panic in his throat, Ecko pressed for flaws, watching the Bard, the room. “Year? Jeez, three hundred and sixty-five an’ a quarter days, one cycle of the seasons?”
“The Count of Time will be different for you – perhaps that’s no real surprise. Here, we call the seasons a ‘return’ – a Return of the Spring – broken down into cycles and halfcycles, twenty days and ten, each measured by the Moons –”
“All right, already; enough.” Ecko tried another attack, pressing for the flaw, the crack, anything that would bring the walls down. “So – what – I just ‘woke up’ here?” He snorted. “An’ I’m s’posed to think this shit is real?”
“I’m supposed to think it’s not?” The Bard sat back, lines of amusement creasing around his eyes. He stretched long legs under the table. “Perhaps you aren’t here. Are you a pathwalker, or a lucid dreamer? Or has someone placed you here for a purpose?”
A purpose... the understanding was a fist in the face.
Oh, for chrissakes.
You get this right, mate, an’ she’s promised she’ll have Eliza fix you up proper...
Ecko found he’d forgotten to breathe. In the ice calm of realisation, everything froze perfectly into place.
You don’t understand how important this is – an’ I ain’t explainin’ it, not now. Behave yourself.
It hadn’t been a recce – it’d been a fucking test.
No radio, no rifle. No back up. A piece of rare and experimental robotics that he couldn’t hope to take down. A top, corporate, City location where gunfire would be ignored by the cops.