"Nophel, king of all the city," he muttered, laughing as he reconnected the western tube. Echo City's last king had been quartered and sent to the far corners fifteen hundred years before, and Nophel's utterance was an amusement only to himself.
For the next hour he controlled the Western Scope with a series of levers and dials. Rising within the reading tubes were the thin pipes that carried Nophel's hydraulic commands, and from his seat he could spur the Scope to turn its head left and right, up and down, and to extend its neck, thereby turning the great lens of its eye and bringing distant things in close. He imagined the chopped creature grunting as he turned dials and pulled or pushed levers, and perhaps it still had the taste of chickpig in its mouth as it obeyed promptings it did not understand. The Marcellans viewed the Scopes as little more than machines; Nophel alone acknowledged their spark of life.
From the expansive farmland of Crescent Canton to the water refineries of Course, he focused in and out, enjoying the sense of flying across the city. Smoke rose from tall chimneys close to the western wall, steam drifted southward from the refineries, canals flowed, streets bustled, rathawks drifted and swooped. He could see straight along the river from here, and he tweaked a lever, commanding the Scope to close along the Tharin as far as it could. The image on the viewing mirror grew, quickly passing the city walls and reaching far out into the haze of the desert. The image paused, Nophel nudged the lever impatiently, and the Scope stretched farther. The view was now simply a mass of hazy air and pale desert landscape, but he sat staring at it for some time. The Marcellans said there was nothing beyond the city, yet here he was. He reveled in this slight rebellion, realizing that it was foolish yet enjoying it nonetheless. If the Marcellans knew where he looked, he would be in trouble-yet nothing like that worried him. He sometimes believed that Dane Marcellan-the one who had taken it upon himself to look after Nophel-was even a little scared of him. One day that fear might serve him well, but for now he simply toyed with it.
Nophel worked for the Marcellans, but he lived for himself.
The image began to waver as the Scope grew tired, and he stroked the dial that gave it permission to draw back into itself. As it did so, its sight passed across the area to the north of Course where the Baker had practiced her monstrous arts until two decades before. Nophel smiled grimly and went about switching Scopes.
A hiss of escaping gas, the soft click of well-oiled gears, and he pumped the footrest that boosted pressure in the hydraulic systems. Draining his five-bean and going to pour more, Nophel felt the familiar thrill at what he would see next. Dragar's Canton was always motionless, quiet, enigmatic, yet he could watch its stillness for hours. They're down there, he would think, or maybe not, and both stark possibilities held him enraptured. The streets were full of rumors, of course, but there had been no verified sighting of a Dragarian for almost forty years.
When he returned to the viewing mirror and turned a dial, he dropped his mug of five-bean. He barely sensed the pain as the liquid scalded his foot.
Then he lifted his hood, closed his robe, and rushed from the room, heading down.
There were several Scarlet Blades in the corridor outside the Marcellans' rooms. They were lounging in wide leather seats, playing lob dice and laughing as one unfortunate lost more and more shillings. They glanced up at Nophel's approach, and the laughter chilled.
"I need to see Dane Marcellan," he said.
"Dane's busy," one of the tall female soldiers replied. Someone chuckled.
"Then I'll fucking un-busy him!" Nophel roared. One Blade stood and drew his knife; another took a step back. Nophel shook, his surprise at how he'd raged at them smothered by the fear and excitement that had taken hold.
"Fine," the woman said. "I'll pick you a nice spot on the wall." She kicked at the door handle behind her and shoved the door open with her boot. They all knew that Nophel would never hang on the wall. If and when the time came, he'd disappear quickly and quietly, and his body would float down into the Chasm with so many others.
I scare them, he thought, and he glared at the soldiers as he passed by. A couple of them glowered back, but their eyes flickered away before his did. The others did not watch him through the door at all.
He entered the long, wide corridor that ran the length of the Marcellans' living quarters, hurrying quickly past displays of rare artwork, sculptures, and religious artifacts from thousands of years of Hanharan dominance. As always, he spared a quick glance for the glass-enclosed finger bone-the priests and their more-devout followers believed fervently that it was the index finger from Hanharan's left hand-then paused outside Dane's door.
A moment of doubt gripped him. Is it really Dane I need to tell? But of all the Marcellans, Dane was the closest to a friend he had. And there really was no one else.
Heart thumping from exertion, eye wide as though it could retain the dread image of what he had seen, he thumped once on the door and then entered.
Dane was standing naked at a table in the far corner of the room, cooking slash and inhaling the fumes through a series of wet pipes. The flesh of his ample thighs and buttocks quivered as he breathed in, and Nophel heard the sighs of gentle pleasure. In the center of the room, reclining on the vast round bed, two naked women idly stroked each other. One of them glanced up, apparently unconcerned at being disturbed. And then she saw Nophel.
"Oh!" she gasped. She stared at his face, still shadowed by the hood, her brazen nakedness a sign of her sick fascination. I'm not a person to her, Nophel thought, and he felt the familiar flush of shame that he had spent his entire life trying to push down.
Dane turned around, taking a moment to focus. "Nophel," he said.
"We must talk," Nophel said.
Dane pulled the pipe to his lips again and pursed them around its end-a delicate action for such a fat man. His rounded stomach hung so low that his genitals were almost hidden from view.
"Poor man," the other naked woman said. She had slipped from the bed and stood, unashamed, scratching idly at her stomach with one hand while she looked at him.
"Leave us if you will, ladies," Dane said.
"But, Dane," the first woman began, "we were just getting-"
"It's important," Nophel said. He was looking at the women as he spoke, and he took several steps forward, knowing that the burning oil lamps would cast more light onto his face from this angle.
The standing woman stepped back, crossing both hands over her sex.
"Tomorrow," Dane said. He turned his back on the women and breathed in more slash, waving Nophel over.
The women left without dressing, exiting through a door hidden in an expanse of books lining one wall. Nophel had never been in there, though he knew it led to a series of stairs and corridors-Dane's own private route down into the vastness of Hanharan Heights. He felt a pang of jealousy that Dane would let two whores use this way yet not let him, but he shoved it aside. This was not about favors, or even trust. Both men wanted what was best for the city, and though their outlooks might differ, they came together about the bigger picture.
"It's been a while," Dane said. He turned and smiled. "You're sure I can't interest you in…?" He nodded at the door through which the women had vanished. "Rebec really is very good. She does things with her lips and a mouthful of dart root that'll have you calling to Hanharan's divine cock for mercy."
Nophel shook his head. Dane's blasphemy never surprised him. "They pity me," he said.
"You interest them. They'd explore you."
"A gateway opened in Dragar's Canton."
For a moment Dane's smile remained as he blinked away the effects of slash, absorbing what Nophel had said. Then his face dropped and he became the politician Nophel knew so well.