"Dyes-kynna?"
Thorn smiled and nodded at the boatman. Yes, he was going down. The old man shrugged and turned away.
"My a-vyn," Thorn said. 1 want to.
The boatman half turned, then shook his head.
A ragged group of locals had gathered on the quay opposite. They stared at him malevolently. Ignoring them, he lifted the heavy pack onto his shoulder and began to climb the path, his right hand on the haft of the dagger beneath his cloak.
He was a small dark-haired man with green eyes and a neatly trimmed beard. He was dressed simply but effectively against the cold. As he walked, his eyes searched the houses up ahead. The old cottages were dilapidated, mostly abandoned. Only those at the harbor's edge were still inhabited. Toward the end he climbed between ruins, the window gaping, roofs collapsed and open to the elements.
He went without hesitation, knowing the way. Others had come before him; traders like himself. He was nearing the entrance when the challenge came.
"Saf yn-nes!"
Stop where you are. He turned to his left and saw them. Two men, one standing in the doorway, glowering at him, the other sat at an empty window, a gap-toothed smile on his face—an old balding man with a wind-tanned face. Thorn addressed him.
"Gwycor," he said, placing his hand against his chest. Trader. Then he nodded toward the entrance. "My a-vyn . . . dyes-kynna. Yn dan cyta." He fumbled with the words, as if they were unfamiliar. I want to go down. Under the City.
The old man scratched the stubble on his chin and considered for a moment, then he leaned forward, his hand extended, palm open. The young man in the doorway straightened.
They were no real threat to him, yet he wanted no trouble. If he wanted to come out this way it might prove awkward later. He reached into his belt and removed two heavy coins. Five yuan each—more than enough to bribe his way in. He weighed them in his palm a moment, then placed them in the old man's hand.
He watched the old man bite at the solid plastic coins, then grunt his satisfaction. He waved Thorn on.
HE STOOD AT THE tunnel's mouth, looking inward at the blackness of the Clay. The air was warm and close, like the air in a small, unventilated room, fetid with animal smells. He reached into his cloak and drew a small strip of tape from an inner pocket then fastened it across his eyes. At once he could see, the uniform darkness resolved into a thousand shades of red, dissolving into black.
Securing the pack about his neck and shoulders he went in.
The land fell away sharply, then rose until it met the floor of the City. That floor formed a lid to the Clay, containing the vast and desolate lands beneath the City. Huge pillars thrust down into the earth, regularly spaced, holding the weight of the City: cold strokes of black against the multitextured redness of the land. The roof was just above him where he stood. On tiptoe he could stretch and touch its smooth, unyielding surface. Beyond was Level One.
Thorn was looking east, toward old Lelant, looking down on a barren, almost lifeless land. Almost. Nothing grew here in the Clay, and yet men still struggled to make a living in this awful place.
The Clay . . . The very words were like a curse.
He rearranged his pack then began the descent, looking from side to side as he went. It was possible that the Myghtem would know of this entrance and have it watched. If so news would get back and they would try to intercept him. He would have to move fast, skirting likely settlements, heading east and then south, until he came to the town where the Myghtern—the great "King under the City"—held his court.
As he made his way down he went over once again just what he knew of this place. Back before the City this place had had a name, Cornwall, but the land, once rich and green, was dust now. No sunlight ever pierced the Stygian gloom and the rain never fell. The air was stale and heavy. There was no doubting it. Two centuries of barrenness had left their mark. These were dead lands now.
Thorn went quickly, his legs moving in an easy, tireless rhythm. He skirted Lelant, then went directly east, meeting no one in that desolate landscape, covering more than fifteen Ji before he stopped. He had three days to get to the town. At most it would take one. That left him two days to find out what was happening before they came.
He had just crossed the old road northwest of Crowan. He stood there, his back to a layered stone wall. Ahead the land rose to the floor of the City in a huge wedge twenty li across. He would have to trace its outer rim north and then sharply south, following the plateau's contours. It would force him into the outskirts of Cambome, but that was preferable to the southern route. That led through Helston, now a dumping ground for City wastes.
He glanced down at the timer inset into his wrist. It was his only link to the outside in this timeless, seasonless place. Two hours had passed. He looked north, using long-sight, searching for activity on the slopes. Still there was nothing.
His luck was too good. Some sixth sense prickled his neck, making him hasten on, climbing the slope toward the Camborne road, then clambering over the wall at a low point where the stone had collapsed.
He looked again. The road was clear for several li ahead, but then it dropped out of sight. He began to walk, wary now, looking from side to side, his hand clutching the knife's haft.
They were waiting just beyond the crest of the road, a dozen of them seated casually, looking toward him as he came up over the top. He turned and saw more of them climb over the wall stealthily and then stand there, cudgels in their hands, blocking his retreat.
There was laughter from front and back. Feral, braying laughter. They had him. Twenty to one. Impossible odds. His hand slipped from the dagger's handle. Slowly, carefully, he raised his hands, showing they were empty. Then, smiling, Thorn walked on toward the seated men.
THEY TOOK His PACK, his dagger, then stripped him. He stood there before them, naked, ignoring their mocking eyes. After all, they themselves were scrawny specimens, malnourished and sparsely fleshed.
He saw how their eyes widened, seeing what was in his pack. It was a tiny treasure trove: Above toys, mainly—gifts for the Myghtern. Head-Stims, Enhancers, MedFac Sensorbs. Few of them would make any sense to these savages, even so they were in awe of the Above and its works.
One of them took charge of Thorn's things, snarling as he plucked them from unwilling hands and returned them to the sack. He was some inches taller than the rest and broader at the shoulder, but that said little. Like all here, his frame was small, stunted. Things grew trythro in the Clay. Twisted.
"Gwycor.7" he asked, coming up close to Thorn and poking him in the chest. His breath stank. His grimacing face seemed demonic, the eyes two vivid pits of crimson in a mask of red. As in all cases of malnutrition, his head seemed too large for his body, the skull's shape clear through the stretched skin. Thorn looked back blankly, pretending not to understand.
The dayman stared at him a moment longer, insolently studying his features, then turned away. "Map orth caugh," he said loudly. The men nearby laughed shrilly, like jackals baying.
Son of shit yourself, thought Thorn.
The laughter faded and with it came a sudden change of mood.
Thorn saw the transformation in their faces. They were uneasy now they had him. Their heads moved jerkily from side to side, eyes searching the darkness of the nearby slopes. He understood at once. They were intruders here. He frowned, reassessing things. He had thought they were the Myghtern's men.