Ardan leaned forward, took the glass lens Bialin held ready for him, and began to examine the objects. The rough skin just below the edge of his pearly skull started to furrow with interest.
The vapor-lights hanging overhead misted in the cool damp air, and Moon waited, tracking the bead of sweat working its way down his back. With the sea kingdom woman lying stuffed in his grand hall like an animal, Moon had half-expected Ardan to look like a monster. He didn’t. He just looked like a clever man.
He’s not a monster because he doesn’t see that woman as a person, Moon thought. If he had known Moon was a Raksura, he wouldn’t see him as a person, either, just another potential collector’s item. Moon was suddenly glad he had bothered with the boots.
Ardan examined the knife, belt, and wristband for a long silent moment. Then he looked up and studied Moon, his hooded eyes thoughtful. “What are you called?”
“Niran.” Giving a fake name might be overcautious. In both Kedaic and Altanic, Moon’s name was just a random sound, meaningless. But Moon looked into Ardan’s eyes again and decided he couldn’t be too careful.
He gestured to the collection on the table. “You’re selling these things?”
“No, I’m selling the information.” He would hand over the knife and the wristband if he had to, but he didn’t think a real trader would be eager to part with them either. “You’re not interested in trinkets.”
Ardan conceded that with a faint smile. “No, I’m not.” He was now clearly intrigued. “How did you know that container was a… queen’s funerary urn?”
Moon had absolutely no idea how Stone had identified it as a queen’s urn, but then it didn’t matter if Ardan thought he was lying for effect. “It was like the others we found. The scholar I was with said that’s what they were. His name was Delin-Evran-lindel, from the Golden Isles in the Yellow Sea.”
“You found other urns?”
“In an abandoned Raksuran—” Moon reminded himself not to be too exact with the terminology. “Hive.”
Ardan nodded. “And where was this abandoned hive?”
“Near the edge of the Reaches.” And Moon began to describe a journey on a flying boat to the old Indigo Cloud colony, the one that had been built into the groundling ruin straddling the river valley, but with the location transposed to the lakes they had passed before entering the forest.
As Ardan’s expression grew even more intent, Moon populated this version of the colony with scattered bones and other grisly remains, to explain why these Raksura had left all their belongings behind. Finally Ardan lifted a hand. “Stop. I wish someone else to hear this.” He called one of the guards over and spoke to him briefly. Moon caught the words, “Bring Negal.”
Bringing someone else in to listen was possibly a trick to catch Moon in a lie, to see if he changed his story with repetition, or if the details sounded memorized. He wasn’t worried; the details were all true, just arranged in different ways from how they had actually happened.
As they waited, Ardan set the knife aside, saying, “You’ll get this back when you leave here.” He handed the belt and wristband to Bialin, who handed them to his subordinate, who handed them back to Moon. Moon buckled on the belt, then slipped the band back onto his wrist, pulling his sleeve down over it. He hoped this was a good sign.
After a short time, another groundling was led into the room. He was from a different race than those common to the leviathan, with light brown skin, curly gray hair, and a trim gray beard. He wore dark pants and a shirt of a knit material in a coarse weave, a short jacket, and heavy low boots. Clothes meant for colder weather, and bearing a close resemblance to the kind of clothing left behind on the metal ship.
We were right, Moon thought. His skin prickled, something that happened when prey was in sight. He folded his arms, hoping he looked bored and impatient.
The man’s eyes were dark and wary. From the tension in his body he didn’t appear eager to be here. Ardan said briskly, “Negal, sit down. This man is called Niran. He’s an explorer who has been to the fringe of the eastern forest.”
Negal’s expression relaxed slightly. Whatever he had been afraid to hear, that wasn’t it. He took a seat on a stool, saying with some irony, “Ah, how interesting.” He spoke Kedaic too, but with a different accent than the others.
At a nod from Ardan, Moon described the old colony again, throwing in a few additional details.
Negal sat forward, listening with growing interest. When Moon paused for breath, he said, “Were there carvings of both types of Raksura, those with wings and those without? Was there anything to indicate what the relationship between them was?”
“I saw some carvings of wingless Raksura.” Moon didn’t think a trader would be much interested in what Raksuran daily life was like. “I didn’t pay attention. I was more interested in the jewels and metal.”
Negal leaned back, clearly displeased by that answer. Ardan eyed Negal with an air of satisfaction. He seemed about to end the interview, and Moon took his chance. Trying to keep his tone even, he said, “There were these things, like big seeds.” He held up his hands, shaping something the right size. “Three of them. They were wood, or shell, with a rough surface. The scholar I was with said they could be valuable, but not to him.”
Negal glanced at Ardan, as if expecting a reaction. Ardan only looked thoughtful, and said, “Did you take them?”
“No.” Moon hoped that Ardan had no extra-keen senses and couldn’t hear his pulse pounding. “The others wanted to leave them there. I couldn’t see a use for them, so I didn’t argue.”
Ardan nodded, still thoughtful. “Thank you for bringing me this information. You’ll be paid well, but we’ll have to speak of all this further. You will stay the night here.”
Moon didn’t want to appear relieved. He said, “I have friends waiting for me outside.”
“Surely they knew it would take you some time to convince me to pay for your tale.” Ardan smiled, and it even reached his eyes. “Let them wait.”
Bialin and two guards took Moon up a large winding stair. The walls were covered with carved figures, mostly male groundlings dressed in elaborate robes, staring down with grim expressions.
They passed landings with big double doors, all tightly closed. Finally they stopped and Bialin took out a ring of large keys, unlocked the doors, and stepped back for the guard to push them open.
They walked into an anteroom with yet more closed doors, with an arch opening into a hallway.
“You’ll sleep here.” Bialin gestured briskly and the guard opened a door. “You will not be allowed to leave this level. The Magister will send for you when he wishes to speak to you again.”
Moon stepped into the room. The guard shut the door behind him and he listened for a bolt to click. It didn’t. So Ardan allowed his guests at least limited freedom of movement. That was a relief.
The room didn’t look like a cell, either, except for the general oppressive air of the heavy carving. There was a bed with dark blankets against the far wall, and a woven rug to warm the gray slate floor. In a curtained alcove there was even a metal water basin with a tap, and a wooden cabinet that probably held a chamber pot. There were also clips that held the furniture fixed to the stone floor, like the broken ones in the abandoned tower. A vapor-light in a chased metal holder hung from the high ceiling. There was no window, no bolt on the inside of the door, but there was a narrow opening at the top. It might be meant for ventilation, but anyone standing in the hall would be able to hear what the occupants were doing.