Janex, if it were possible for a creature built like a machine, looked smug. “Grist, me,” it said. “Good smell, Aryl.”
Aryl sniffed cautiously. The fresh lake, something musky from Pilip’s direction. “I don’t understand.”
Marcus looked from her to his companion. “I don’t understand,” he agreed.
“Problem, not.” Janex waved a jaunty claw. “Go on. Show Aryl.”
Aryl, equally willing to avoid the topic of what grist smelled like, or what it was, continued walking.
They took her to the roof, up a winding solid ramp that suited the Carasian’s bulk and maneuverability, though it wasted too much of the building’s interior to Aryl’s way of thinking. Pilip, on the other hand, clung desperately to a railing until they were again on a flat surface. She tried not to pity it.
The roof itself was cluttered with more of the plain white boxes, but most of these bore some kind of symbol, the lines sharper and more angular than the Tikitik’s. A few larger boxes had doors, implying they were more than boxes, but these weren’t, apparently, what she was here to be shown.
Around a pile of loosely coiled ropes—Marcus and his companions were, Aryl judged, remarkably sloppy for all their technology—she found herself at a step that led to a raised solid circle. Around its rim were six identical stalks, plantlike in that they were topped by something else. The something else was like a box, but this time with metal twigs and balls sticking out at all angles.
Not decoration. Aryl was reminded of the poles that protruded from the stalk of the Cloisters.
There were obstacles in the way: folded white petal-things that they had to walk over or around. Aryl bent to touch one. It looked like window gauze, but felt hard and strong.
“Cover,” Janex explained, doing a fair job with its smaller claws to pantomime the petals rising up to protect the circle and its stalks.
Aryl . . .?
Seeing the immediate swivel of eyes her way, Aryl sent a hasty later . . . then made herself smile at the Carasian. This could become, she warned herself, a problem. “Cover,” she nodded.
“Aryl,” Marcus called from atop the circle. Pilip followed him, going at once to one of the metal stalks. Aryl stepped up, feeling the floor shake slightly as the Carasian did the same. The Trant made a scolding noise. Odd. Why would this floor shake, and no other?
Aryl controlled her curiosity. Marcus was eagerly waving her to one of the stalks. When she came closer, cautiously, he gestured. “Seeker. Look.”
She wasn’t sure if he meant to look at the lake surrounding them, or at what appeared to be a larger version of the colored panel of the bioscanner device. Marcus, guessing why she hesitated, indicated the panel. “Watch.”
He spoke to Pilip in their words; the Trant did something to its stalk. Aryl jumped as a round disk rose from amid the mass of boxes on the roof to hover directly over them. She craned her neck to study it, recognizing features she’d captured in her drawing. The device from the Harvest!
Her triumph faded. Thought Traveler had been right; it had been the strangers. She had its proof. But knowing that wasn’t enough, not anymore. Not to her. They had names. Marcus, Janex, Pilip. They had a place, here. Above all, they had a purpose—and whatever else, it wasn’t harmless. Those who had died, she reminded herself grimly, had had names, too.
This close, she could see inside the device. Its components were suspended within a clear material; none had a function she could guess.
It floated away, over the roof railing, to hover in midair above the lake. It seemed to wait for instructions.
“How does it fly?” Aryl asked.
Marcus shrugged, another familiar movement. “Pilip?”
The Trant glanced at her from its stalk, pressing its lips shut in a thin line. Meaning no, in any language, Aryl thought. She scowled back.
“It is tool,” rumbled Janex. “Seeker tool.”
The Tikitik wanted her to connect the strangers to the device. Much better, Aryl thought, to learn why it had been at the Harvest in the first place. “What does it seek?” she asked. Her voice was strained to her own ears; none of them seemed to notice. After her initial reaction to the bioscanner, maybe they expected her to be uncomfortable around any of their technology.
She didn’t care about their opinion.
“Look. Here, look.”
“Look here,” she said and obeyed Marcus’ summons to direct her eyes at the panel. “What—” Aryl closed her mouth, concentrating on what she saw.
Instead of blank, now the panel was a window showing this roof. She considered the view—too high, too far—and turned to point at the hovering device. “From that?” she asked.
The Human looked astonished. Aryl frowned at him. What did he think? That an Om’ray, used to seeing images from other minds, couldn’t grasp something so obvious? “It looks this way,” she told him dryly, gesturing her meaning. “I understand.”
How it looked was probably as secret as how it flew, but now she was more concerned with the possibilities. It was a spy. That was clear. What wasn’t clear was why it would spy on the Harvest—why it would interfere.
A breeze ruffled her hair against her cheeks as she looked at Marcus, at a loss. How to ask such questions?
“Aryl, where?” This with a gesture to the panel. “Look.”
It was a place to start, though she was unsure what he wanted. This time, the image was of a distant shoreline, moving past quickly. A quick glance at the device showed her it was now higher and had turned. She looked back at the panel. “Can it go closer?” she asked. Pilip muttered something, but the shore leaped toward her.
Not where she’d ridden the osst—that was immediately apparent. This must be the far side of the Lake of Fire, beyond their view. Lifeless stone rose in great steps from the water. At the top? Aryl blinked in amazement. The top was a different land altogether, flat as far as the image showed, covered with an even growth of brown hair. Not hair, she realized in the next instant, grasping at the distances the device so effortlessly revealed. Plants—all the same plants, with thin leaves that moved like water in the wind. “Oud,” she said. Her inner sense confirmed the direction of the device had turned. “Pana,” she pronounced, pointing away from the panel. She shaded her eyes with one hand, able to see only a line on the horizon, below building clouds.
“ ‘Pana?’ ” repeated Marcus, looking where she indicated. “Pana, Aryl?”
“No.” She snorted with exasperation. “That’s Pana.” A stab of her finger. “Amna.” Aryl turned and pointed again. “Rayna, Vyna.” She continued to turn and point, “Grona.” Back almost to Pana. “Tuana.” Then, with an ache in her heart, she faced home. “Yena. I’m from Yena. There.”
The strangers appeared paralyzed, as if she’d grown another head.
“What’s wrong?” she asked finally. Had they no idea of the shape of the world?
“Vy, Ray, So, Gro, Ne, Tua, Ye, Pa, Am,” Marcus said, quickly and easily, for some reason dropping the final half of each clan name while keeping them in order by place and adding two of his words. He was smiling, not at her, but at the other strangers. He continued, his voice growing stronger. “Nor, Xro, Fa.” More words she didn’t know.
“Vy-NA, Ray-NA!” this a triumphant bellow from the Carasian. Even Pilip appeared cheerful for once, its twig fingers wiggling in the air and eyes bright.
She must have shown her bewilderment, for when Marcus looked at her, his smile faded. “Sorry, am. You don’t understand. Seekers, we. Seek these words: Vy-na, Ray-na, all. Thank you.” He made the gesture of gratitude, imperfectly, but close enough. “Thank you.”
If they were sane, something on which she reserved judgment, then they had found something in the clan names of greater meaning than an Om’ray knew. But if Cersi wasn’t their world—Aryl shivered despite her new, warm stranger-shirt—how could that be?