Quartz: The Sunless World, #1

By Rabia Gale

A sunless world. The lost Tower of Light. And the race to claim it.

 

Rafe Grenfeld, diplomat and spy, has problems.

 

He's just learned of the discovery of a legendary quartz pillar: his world's most precious resource. But his informer died before revealing its location, and Rafe's on the run in the hostile state of Blackstone.

 

Once, quartz powered magical devices, but the mages who created them are long gone. Now, veins of quartz give light to a dying world, and Rafe has competition.

Karzov, the notorious chief of Blackstone's secret police, is also hunting for the pillar. Determined to claim it for his own country, Rafe forms an uneasy alliance with the mysterious and maddening Isabella. As dangerous magical artifacts resurface and dark forces close in, Rafe must tap into the lost powers of the mages to find and secure the quartz—before his world is torn apart by famine and war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rabia Gale
• Release date: Mar 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386377320

Book preview

Chapter One

Blackstone

RAFAEL GRENFELD BURROWED DEEPER into his nest of potato peelings and rotted cabbage leaves. The piercing wind-shriek of the stazis’ whistles had been silent for eight long gongs. His trousers were thoroughly soaked with old tea, soup, and other things he didn’t dare think about, and his sense of smell had shut down out of sheer self-defense.

It’s all gone wrong. So much for all the negotiating and debating that had preceded the diplomatic mission to Blackstone. Even Lord Aynworth’s instructions for Rafe to be tactful—or at least just quiet—had been for nothing. The secret police had arrested Oakhaven’s embassy to a man, diplomatic immunity notwithstanding. Rafe had only escaped arrest because he’d broken curfew and gone out to retrieve a battered badge from behind a loose brick in Liberty Block. By the time he returned from his unsanctioned expedition, the embassy was surrounded.

Now Rafe was the only one who had even a hope of making the meeting with the Blackstone resistance.

Rafe shifted, trying to ease his cramped muscles. The compost dumpster shuddered, and he froze. It was a flimsy thing, a box made of thin sheets of steel, already deformed and rusting. Luckily, dumpsters in Blackstone were not emptied every day. Unluckily, they were bound to attract rats.

Solemn bronze notes shattered the silence, signaling the start of second shift. Blackstonians did not even get the last day of the year as a holiday. Poor bastards.

Nonetheless, this was Rafe’s chance to move, unless he wanted to inhale the fumes of fermenting tea and sour soup for an entire workshift. Rafe moved the dumpster lid aside, inch by inch, and unfolded himself. The dumpster groaned as he clambered out, its sounds masked as doors banged, men called, and the overseers’ whistles blew.

Rafe eased out into the alleyway. Gas hissed as it flowed into the street-lamps. The steady click-click of the lighters preceded the dim blossoming of blue flames. Their dull flickering painted everything in pallor and shadow.

The dumpster lay between two of the workers’ compounds. The windows overlooking it were small and dark—Blackstone was much more frugal with light than Oakhaven. Clotheslines sagged at head-height. Mouthing an apology to the hapless owner, Rafe took a tunic and a pair of drawstring trousers, the shapeless faded garments of a Blackstone drone.

Except they didn’t call them drones here. Blackstone workers were citizens, comrades, brothers. Rafe stripped off his own well-tailored garments—dark trousers, brown jacket, and the once-white shirt—and donned his disguise.

He held the badge on his palm for a moment. It was shaped like a clenched fist and had taken Oakhaven two years and one death to acquire. Perhaps today it would prove its worth. Rafe tucked the badge into a pocket and pitched his Oakhaven clothes into the dumpster.

Rafe slipped out of the alley and hurried towards the sounds of muttering voices and shuffling feet. A crowd pooled in the brick-paved meeting square, growing ever larger as streams of men flowed in from the gated, concrete compounds. Selene, low in the sky, was a dirty white smudge peeking out from behind a squat building. Rafe clenched his hands to keep from making a good-luck gesture at his world’s only luminary. That was an Oakhaven affectation.

A chief overseer, holding the long staff of his office, bellowed instructions from a speaking box placed beneath a picture of the Father. The paint was pocked and bubbled, as if the Father of the People had broken out in boils.

Sections Six and Seven to the pottery in Liberty Block!

Rafe muscled into the crowd. He would be more suspicious if he lurked on the fringes. The stench of sweat and oil emanating from his companions was a relief. His stint in the compost dumpster had actually helped his disguise.

Sections Eight and Nine to the foundry in Fraternity Square. Section Ten on unloading duty at the docks.

The docks. Unattended boats and bridges beckoned, enticing him with escape. Rafe was a fair swimmer. He might even make it across the river.

No. There was no way he could return to Oakhaven, to Uncle Leo, without the information the Blackstone dissidents were so desperate to share.

Rafe put his head down and joined Sections Eight and Nine.

The note he’d received from the resistance had simply said, In the old theater, three gongs into second shift, day before Greater Girdlesday. The old theater lay in a rundown district not far off the route to Fraternity Square.

The men of Sections Eight and Nine formed a loose knot as they followed their overseer, a short bandy-legged man with a baton stuck through his belt, through the narrow streets. The gas lamps were turned low and spaced widely, with long stretches of shadow between them. Rafe stumbled over a loose stone, and muttered a curse. One or two men gave him incurious looks, the rest yawned or stared at their feet as they trudged along.

Rafe wished he had grabbed a cap. Every time they passed through a splash of light, Rafe was conscious that he, of average height in Oakhaven, was taller than the compact Blackstonians. His hair was brown and longer than their dark, cropped heads. He hunched his shoulders and made himself small.

Stazi whistles in the distance sheared through the night air, followed by yells and a scream that set Rafe’s heart pounding. Sweat prickled the back of his neck.

The men stopped, muttering. The overseer peered over his shoulder and grinned fiercely. Section Ten at the docks was a trap. Hopin’ to lure one of them flamin’ royal ass-kissers out into the open. Looks like they found their man.

A cheer went up. Rafe joined in with a wordless cry that might have meant anything.

Had another member of the Oakhaven party escaped the arrest at the embassy? Hope bloomed and withered in an instant. If yes, the stazi had just caught him and Rafe could do nothing about it.

He had to keep that appointment at the old theater.

One of his companions peered at him, glance sharp as a knife. Hey, you. You the new fella from Three? His voice was too loud in the chill dead air.

The gazes of the surrounding men focused on him, no longer sleepy, but suspicious and alert.

Rafe was caught in the middle. There was nowhere to run.

About time you noticed, citizens, he snapped. You’ve performed poorly, very poorly, all of you. He straightened, using his height to command their attention, and glared as if they were sloppy new recruits. What if I had been an enemy? I could’ve used you as cover, slipped into the foundry, sabotaged our work, carried our secrets to those dancing dandies in Oakhaven. Then what, eh? The Protector relies on your zeal to keep us safe and you have proven unworthy.

The men cringed. The overseer strode up to Rafe. What’s goin’ on here? I was told nothing of this. Who are you?

Rafe turned a look on him the intensity of a Shimmer megalamp. Do not question the Secret Fist. He raised his clenched hand, opened his fingers. Light caught the curves of the metal badge.

The terror was palpable. The men nearest him swayed back, though their feet seemed to have fused to the pitted street. The overseer paled.

Time to make a graceful exit. Rafe bestowed a thin-lipped smile on the man. However. Tardy as it might’ve been, you did notice that something was amiss. My report shall not be entirely negative. A few weeks of half rations and a dozen gongs of drill shall suffice. For all of you. He glared at their stricken faces. A whiff of urine wafted to his already-besieged nose.

Impressive. The Secret Fist really were as bad as the reports indicated. Rafe could almost admire their fear-inducing qualities—in this instance it was very helpful—if he weren’t so set against their very existence. Carry on, then, he commanded. To the foundry. And mind you do not speak of this to your comrades in other sections. Their time of testing will come.

The overseer managed a garbled, Yes, Citizen-Commander-Comrade! and bowed and backed his way out to the front of his group. He squeaked out orders and the men formed themselves into a tight terrified square. They marched away at a military pace dangerously close to a run.

Rafe waited until they disappeared from sight and melted into the darkness in a way he hoped a real member of the Fist would’ve done.

---

Rafe pressed against the crumbling brick of one of the buildings that surrounded the old Royal Theater. Most of these buildings were abandoned, their windows boarded up and blind, their backs turned on this fallen symbol of hated noble privilege. That the Royal Theater still stood was a testament to its sturdy design and good workmanship. Its gilt and silver had long been stripped and its statuary defaced. Pale gashes in the smoke-blackened façade showed where marble had been carved out and removed.

The front of the theater, he noted, was dimly lit by the only working gas lamp in the square. Why would that be on, with no one living here and few to pass this way?

Rafe’s gaze swept beyond the theater and over the other buildings, probing. Some of the windows were unshuttered. He scanned them, and was rewarded with a flicker of movement in one.

Rafe slid along the walls until he found the entrance to the occupied building. Had the dissidents posted a guard?

Or was this another trap?

Rafe slid out of his scuffed boots and soft-stepped up concrete stairs in his stockinged feet. There’d been movement here, and recently. There was a disturbed quality to the air, the suggestion of sweat, the faint trace of food.

Boots trudged overhead. Rafe paused, listening. The tread spoke of a weary boredom. Whoever it was had been doing this a while. Rafe counted steps coming and going, then waited for the scuffle of the guard turning around. He inched up the last few steps and peeked out at the landing.

A hallway ran the length of the building, and the guard who paced it looked glazed, as if he’d been subjected to a history lecture by Rafe’s old tutor. Faint light came through the doorway of the one room that had been opened.

It was no great feat to slip into the room behind the guard’s back, to walk up to the two stazi crouched sill-level at the window, and tap the leader—identified by the rank bars on his uniform—on the shoulder.

Your guard, he said conversationally, as the men spun and fixed him with the barrels of their guns, needs a shift in the stocks, a whipping, and demotion to mine work. A child could’ve gotten past him.

He turned down the collar of the coat he’d pilfered on his way to the theater, and briefly showed the fist-shaped badge pinned there. Their eyes widened, showing glistening whites. Behind Rafe, the guard entered the room, his footsteps quick and his breathing harsh. The stazi captain, stocky and balding, shook his head and made a cutting gesture, and his men lowered their weapons.

Rafe ignored them all and knelt at the window. The theater’s portico was the most brightly-lit area of the whole square.

Anyone go in? he asked, quiet but authoritative, a tone of voice he’d picked up as an officer in the Oakhaven army.

Just the traitors, sir, said the stazi captain. The two we know.

Furin and Berlioz had been discovered, then. Or betrayed.

Good. Lie low till I give the word. I’m going in to see what I can get out of them—he let his tones modulate back to those of an Oakhaven gentleman—complaining about the lack of light, and my poor dark vision, and the soot and what it’s done to my coat. Rafe fastidiously dusted his coat as the stazi laughed in a nervous way that told him they didn’t think he was very funny. Think I’ll make a good Oakie?

Without waiting for an answer, Rafe pointed a finger at the captain. You. Your name?

Er… Gorvich, sir. The man was all but bowing.

Don’t move. Sit tight. Do not bungle this operation. He let his gaze linger on the young guard lurking in the doorway. Go back to your posts.

He left on silent feet, feeling them trying hard not to watch him go. He kept his posture confident, all the while wondering just how he was going to warn the dissidents, get their information, and get them all out of the jaws of this trap.

---

There was trash in the portico.

Rafe sidestepped it and reached out a hand. His fingers brushed against cool marble, glided over its surface, found rusty hinges, splintered wood and a gap. He went inside, boots crunching over rubble. The light from outside did not illuminate the darkness so much as reveal its different textures, the shadows amidst more shadows.

Rafe felt his way along the wall, stumbling over debris. He went past one doorway, a skeletal staircase like the rib-cage of a sea monster, two nooks, and then into the theater itself. He paused, scarcely breathing. Velvet darkness blindfolded him. His ears buzzed with heightened alertness.

He listened.

A startle of movement, a catch of breath. A shushing sound, a smack of flesh meeting flesh.

The snick of a weapon.

Rafe’s mouth was dry; he hadn’t had anything to drink for most of a day. He licked his lips, pursed them, whistled. A jaunty tune, turned to a ghost in this dark of ages gone by.

Who’s there? The voice was hard-edged.

The one you were to meet. The man from across the mountains. Rafe strained, but could make out nothing besides two indistinct forms. We must leave. The stazi are watching this place.

A second voice, shrill with fear, Ah! I’ve heard the whistles! The tramping, searching, poking—

Quiet, Morvis. The first voice, like a block of granite, quashed the other’s rising hysteria.

Morvis. That was a new name. Rafe spoke to the first voice, the in-charge one. Who are you? Furin or Berlioz?

Furin was taken. Berlioz’s voice was bleak. And it seems so will we be.

Morvis let out a sob.

Rafe shook his head, though the others couldn’t see. There are back ways out of this place—I explored them just yesterday. I’ve bought us some time. They won’t follow me in for a while. We can lose them among the buildings—surely you have safehouses?

A sound, half-gasp, half-laugh, from Morvis. You? How can you help us? You’re a fugitive! They’re looking for you. You both. They’ll find you… and me, if I go with you. Why should I go? Why did Furin bring me into this? His voice grew loud. Rafe lunged and grabbed Morvis’ arm. Fingers clawed at his face. Rafe fended them off and twisted. The man cried out and Rafe shook him. Quiet! You’ll bring the stazi down on our heads!

This filthy darkness! sobbed Morvis. We can’t see a thing! We need light!

I have a lantern. Berlioz fumbled with something.

Rafe released Morvis, but stayed close. A small orange light bloomed and Rafe saw Morvis’ sweat-sheened face, wide-eyed, double-chinned, soft and pudgy. The rest of the man did not inspire confidence: paunchy with doughy hands that fluttered uselessly. Berlioz was older and grayer, like weathered rock. He held the lantern low, the light mostly shuttered, shielded with his body.

Morvis gabbled as they picked their way towards the stage, past rows of scarred wooden benches. "Furin was my flatmate. I knew he had found something big, could tell from the look in his eye when he came back from that last survey. He told me that if I joined him, I could get away from here. That the stazi would never know, that Oakhaven would take me away. Then… several weeks ago, I came home from my shift and he was gone. There was nothing out of place, nothing missing, but I knew they had been there. The Secret Fist. I knew that they had taken him. They’d made sure to leave everything the way it was supposed to be. Furin’s bed made, sheets tucked in, boots lined up by the door. Morvis’ head drooped. Furin never made his bed unless there was an inspection." He shuddered.

Berlioz broke in. Others were taken too. Men I trusted, men who’d been part of the resistance since the earliest days. Taken who knows where. They found us. I don’t know how. We were so careful. His voice cracked with despair.

The information, prompted Rafe.

Berlioz grabbed Rafe’s collar. You have to help us! I won’t tell you anything unless I have Oakhaven’s support against the Protector and his cursed Fist.

Calm down. Rafe gently detached the man’s grip. We are your friends and cousins. I’ve been authorized to offer you ten thousand marls through Clearwater banks—

Marls! We don’t need mere marls. We need weapons, an army at our backs! Berlioz’s shoulders slumped and he stopped. It’s too little, too late, he mumbled, almost to himself. It’s all for naught. When Rafe took his arm and tried to urge him on, he didn’t respond. The lantern dangled from his slack fingers and Morvis snatched it before it fell.

A coward and a strong man crushed with failure. Was there any difference between them now? These were not the allies Rafe had hoped to find.

Morvis fiddled with the lantern. Unshuttered, an orange eye glowered through the darkness.

Right through a gap in the otherwise boarded-up window.

Don’t! Rafe grabbed for the lantern. Morvis recoiled.

Whistles ripped the air.

Fear and relief chased each other over Morvis’ face.

You— Rafe’s fists clenched. Morvis backed away, but Rafe hit the floor instead. Bullets sprayed around them; there was a stench of sulfur in the air. Rafe struck out at the lantern, knocking it out of Morvis’ hand, and sent him tumbling into the seating area. Oil hissed and sizzled. Rafe smothered the flames with his sleeve.

A body thudded to the ground.

Berlioz. Rafe crawled over to the other man.

I’m done for, gasped Berlioz. The resistance is no more. It’s up to Oakhaven now. He thrust something at Rafe, something sweaty and papery that crumpled in Rafe’s hand. His breath, tainted metallic with blood, hissed in Rafe’s ear, Pyotr. Find Pyotr in Moon Alley.

Here! shrieked Morvis. He’s over here!

Halt! I order you, in the name of the Protector, to halt!

Rafe, crouched over, ran blind towards the stage. Unknown things jabbed into his thighs and stomach, caught his ankles, pinched his toes. Something twanged as his foot hit it. Curses filled the air behind him.

That way! Morvis, shrill and indignant. He went back… Gunshots cracked. Rafe hunched, making himself a smaller target, and slammed into the stage. He grabbed the edge, scrambled up, and ran across. He half-fell, half-rushed down the stairs at the back.

Good thing he’d memorized a map of this place.

A headlong flight down a corridor, then down some more stairs. Acid air rasped down Rafe’s throat and scoured his lungs. His muscles burned.

Rafe tripped, rolled down the last flight of stairs and clanged into metal. Pipes—huge, rusty, long disused. Water pipes, sewer pipes, heating pipes.

The way underground.

Rafe groped, following the tangle of pipes to where they sprung out from the ground. A large grate was set in the floor. Rafe tried the latch but it was rusted shut. He jiggled the grate, but the weakened hinges still held. He found he still held the paper Berlioz had given him in one slick hand and thrust it into a pocket.

Footsteps on the stairs, light and confident. Only one person. Rafe pounded on the grate in renewed frenzy, clawed at the latch and hinges. Then he turned and rose in one swift movement, lunging at his pursuer, committing his whole body to the tackle.

He found empty air. Rafe took the fall on his shoulder and crashed into a pipe. His temple clanged against metal. Fireworks exploded in his head.

Very good. The voice was female, low and amused. Now that you’ve proven you’re still full of vinegar, Grenfeld, shall we get out of here?

Rafe fought to see past the swirl of pinprick lights in his vision. Faint light came from tiny windows set high in the wall. He made out a hand extended to help him. He took it.

A strong pull brought him to his feet. Rafe had only an instant to note that the woman was almost as tall as he was before she dropped to her heels by the grate. Four snaps and the grate protested as she shoved it aside.

How do you know my name? Why are you helping me? Rafe rubbed his aching shoulder.

You really want an explanation now?

He heard distant crashing and the sound of running footsteps. No.

Then follow me. She slipped down with boneless grace, unhesitating. Rafe took another mouthful of burning breath, hissed as pain flared in his abdominal muscles, and clambered down the iron ladder after her.

Of course, it had to crumple under his weight halfway down.

---

Eli Gorvich stood stiff and sweating as he gave his report in a toneless voice. He was not a man given to nervous fancies, but he was well aware of how he’d been tricked by the Oakie. Even worse, he knew the reputation of the Shadow. The grate in the old boiler room was uncovered. He must’ve escaped into the underground tunnels.

The Shadow had his head tipped back as he examined the theater’s ceiling. Remarkable. One can almost see Haust’s murals through all that grime and soot. There! I think that might be the kayan binding the Dragon Salerus.

Gorvich squinted but even though industrial lamps flooded the theater with hot white light, he could barely make out the ceiling, much less any pictures on it. If you say so, sir.

I must see if I can have them cleaned, mused the Shadow. I trust you’ve set your men after our fugitive?

Yes, sir. Gorvich stuck out his chest and tried to look enterprising.

I thought so. Quite a waste of manpower. They’ll all get lost and we may never recover any of them. This is a task for the machines.

Gorvich deflated.

The Shadow patted his shoulder, no doubt noticing the tension in Gorvich’s muscles. Never mind. The chances of Grenfeld dying down there are very good. And the chances of his being found by the machines are even greater. The situation may yet be salvaged. Now, how about you and I go and have some tea and biscuits? It has been a rather trying evening. Gorvich tried not to let his eyes widen in horror at this less-than-delightful prospect.

Help… me.

The Shadow looked down with comical dismay at the blood-soaked pile on the floor. Morvis, isn’t it? How very careless of you to get in the way of those bullets. No, don’t touch those. A hand had reached out to pluck at his tightly-fitted bone-white trousers. Stains are so hard to get out. The Shadow stepped on Morvis’ groping hand. Bones crunched. Morvis gave a small scream.

Gorvich winced. What shall we do with him, sir?

The Shadow sighed and addressed the wounded man. You were supposed to keep him occupied until we got here, Morvis. Surely you could’ve held on to him. Your dead weight—ha! note the pun!—would’ve slowed him down considerably. Alas, you have outlived your usefulness. Luckily for you, that state of affairs won’t last long.

Gorvich’s face felt as if it had turned to stone. He pulled out his pistol. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to do this, but this time it would a mercy for the poor sod.

The Shadow raised his eyebrows. My dear Gorvich. Do put that way. Any more noise might seriously weaken the supports and I do want that mural.

But… Gorvich gestured towards Morvis.

Oh, him? There’s no need to waste a bullet on him. He’s going to die regardless. Come away now.

Gorvich dared not protest. Morvis began pleading, then screaming, but the Shadow herded the stazi out, and they took all the lights with them.

The ragged cries of mercy! mercy! followed Gorvich all the way into the square.

Chapter Two

Blackstone

WHO ARE YOU? RAFE trudged after the woman, ankle-deep in hot sticky muck. Her progress through the slush was barely a tickle at the edge of his hearing. In spite of himself, he was impressed, but he thrust that aside in favor of the adrenaline-fueled anger that kept both exhaustion and terror at bay.

She half-turned, a dim figure lit by the luminescent growth on the tunnel walls. Like you, I was invited to the meeting with Furin and Berlioz. Her accent was hard to place. Those cool crisp tones and that blandness of expression could’ve belonged to any well-educated woman.

Do you represent another state? Clearwater, perhaps? Was the resistance looking to sell Blackstone military secrets to the highest bidder?

They need funds in order to overthrow the Blackstone regime. Surely you can sympathize with their plight?

He refused to be led off-track into exploring his personal feelings. Did they give any indication of what kind of information they had? Weapons development? Troop movements?

Nothing whatsoever.

Rafe muttered a curse under his breath. Darkness and the weight of stone and earth above lay heavily upon him. Once in a while, diluted light filtered in from a high-set grill, or a breath of cold air caressed his cheek. Not often, but enough to hold back the sweating terror, the racing of his heart, the imagined screams of wounded men and tortured metal, and the dull roar of flames in the deeps.

He’d thought he’d left this all behind with his soldiering days.

To distract himself, Rafe said, We’ll not be able to leave Blackstone through these tunnels. The exits are few and heavily guarded.

I know of a safe place within the city.

They must be under some factory now, ironworks, perhaps, or the great composting facilities, for the air was hotter, full of moisture and the reek of a hundred noxious things. Bars of light—orange, red, yellow—fell like blows from high grilled windows and the steady drone of machinery and the pounding of hammers filled his ears. He saw the woman clearly for the first time, painted in lurid colors, eyes dark as wells, a twist of mockery on her lips. Don’t worry. I won’t leave you behind.

If you can get past the machines, that is. Rafe answered her with a mirthless smile of his own. Because they’re coming behind us, and from that tunnel to the right. He jerked his head to indicate the direction.

Her eyes narrowed, her look sharpened to a razor-slash. You can hear them?

Like a nail file down my nerves. Rafe nodded, teeth clenched against the vibrations that scored his bones and sawed at his ears. The machines were communicating with their Primary in that indecipherable language that only he could hear.

This peculiarity of his had made him a great asset in the last war against Blackstone. On the front lines, of course.

Then we have an advantage. The woman took a leftward-leading tunnel, and Rafe followed her, fighting down the throbbing ache that accompanied the buzzing. From the quality of the vibrations, they were military machines, fast-moving, maneuverable, probably with nozzles for throwing fire or disseminating gas.

He hurried over to the woman, to tap her shoulder. She slid out of his way before his fingers could connect. Yes?

Rafe dropped his hand. They’re going to herd us into a closed-in area, away from the factories and ventilation shafts. A place they can seal us into. They won’t even need to catch us—they could just use gas. Sleeping or poison, it won’t matter.

It will to me, she said, with a touch of humor. I can’t escape being dead. What do you suggest, then?

We go where they least expect us to. The Protectorate.

They will be guarding that.

They always do. But Blackstone conscripts workers to run the Primary. The poor sods barely learn how to run it before they break. They’ll be focused more on the death machines after us than those on routine guard duty. And if they do start talking to the guard machines…

…you’ll be able to hear the increase in communication, she finished. Useful talent of yours, that.

Then let’s not wait. Rafe winced as a new voice joined the cacophony in his bones, a tortured-metal screech. They just called in some raptors.

---

Rafe had lost all sense of time. Even with his good sense of direction, he’d gotten turned around and muddled a long time ago, distracted by the oppression of the tunnels and the distant scream of raptors. Blackstone didn’t have many of those left, but raptors were man-hunters, low and light and very fast, with whip-like appendages and iron mouths full of nasty teeth.

Rafe had scars on his leg from his last encounter with them. He could almost wish he were back on the streets, being hunted by men.

The woman seemed to know where she was going. Either that, or she was very good at projecting confidence. They had left the factories behind. Now the air was cooler, though his feet were uncomfortably warm from the heat rising from the earth. The walls were plush with fungus, pulsing with iridescent colors. An indecent abandon of white moonlings as large around as dinner plates covered one long section. Purple and blue creepgrass bruised colonies of green flatbed. In Oakhaven, the moss men—boys, really—would’ve stripped these off for the dye vats or the food markets. A small fortune’s worth of black diamonddust spread like a tapestry just beyond his fingertips. Rafe’s stomach growled. His fingers met spongy texture, but the woman grabbed his hand away, shaking her head.

Rafe flushed. The outer layer of diamonddust was coated with an oily irritant that could only be removed by a process jealously guarded by the finest cooks. Lots of salt and boiling water also worked, at the risk of losing much of the flavor, but he had neither.

I had not thought to bring water or food. I’m sorry. The woman sounded surprised at mere human needs.

Rafe couldn’t help replying with exaggerated nobility, There is no need. I am quite well, thank you.