Musquel looks as if it had nothing.”
She nodded, running her hand lightly along the top of the well, sending a stream of dust and pebbles to tumble into darkness. The jade-and-silver shone dull red on her left arm, catching Dirk’s eye and making him wince and wonder once again. What was it? A slave’s mark, or a token of love, what? But he pushed the thought aside, reluctant to consider it.
“The people who built Musquel had very little,” she was saying. “They came from the Forgotten Colony, which is sometimes called Letheland by the other outworlders, and is always called Earth by its own people. On High Kavalaan the people themselves are called the Lostfolk. Who they are, how they got to their world, where they came from . . .” She smiled and shrugged. “No one knows. They were here before the Kavalars, though, and possibly before the
Mao Tse-tung,
which history records as the first human starship to breach the Tempter’s Veil. The traditional Kavalars are certain all the Lostfolk are mockmen and Hrangan demons, but they have proved that they can interbreed with other human stocks from better-known worlds. But mostly the Forgotten Colony is a solitary globe, with not much interest in the rest of space. They have a Bronze Age culture, fisherfolk mostly, and they keep to themselves.”
“I’m surprised they even came here at all then,” Dirk said, “or bothered to build a city.”
“Ah,” she said, smiling and brushing loose more crumbling stone to fall into the well with tiny splashes. “But everyone had to build a city, all fourteen outworld cultures. That was the idea. Wolfheim had found the Forgotten Colony a few centuries ago, and so Wolfheim and Tober between them dragged the Lostfolk here. They had no starships of their own. Fisherfolk back on their homeworld so were they made fisherfolk here. Again it was Wolfheim, with the World of the Blackwine Ocean, who stocked the seas for them. They fished with woven nets from little boats, small black men and women bare to the waist, and they fried the catch in open pits for the visitors. They had bards and street singers to bring their alleys joy. Everyone stopped at Musquel during the Festival to listen to their odd myths and eat the fried fish and rent boats. But I don’t think the Lostfolk loved the city much. Within a month of the Festival’s end, every one of them was gone. They didn’t even take down their awnings, and you can still find fish knives and clothing and a bone or two if you prowl through the buildings.”
“Have you?”
“No. But I hear stories. Kirak Redsteel Cavis, the poet who lives in Larteyn, stayed here once and wandered and wrote some songs.”
Dirk looked around, but there was nothing to see. Fading bricks and empty streets, unglassed windows like the sockets of a thousand blind eyes, painted awnings flapping loudly in the wind. Nothing. “Another city of ghosts,” he commented.
“No,” Gwen said. “No, I don’t think so. The Lostfolk never gave their souls to Musquel, or to Worlorn. Their ghosts all went home with them.”
Dirk shivered, and the city felt suddenly even emptier than it had a moment before. Emptier than empty. It was a strange idea. “Is Larteyn the only city that has any life at all?” he asked.
“No,” she said, turning from the wall. They walked down the alley together, back in the direction of the waterfront. “No, I’ll show you life now, if you’d like. Come on.”
Airborne again, they were on another ride through the gathering gloom. They had consumed most of the afternoon reaching Musquel and wandering through it; Fat Satan was low on the western horizon, and one of the four yellow attendants had already sunk out of sight. It was twilight again, in fact as well as in appearance.
Very restless, Dirk took the controls this time, while Gwen sat at his side with her arm resting very lightly on his, giving curt directions. Most of the day was gone already, and he had so much to say,
She nodded, running her hand lightly along the top of the well, sending a stream of dust and pebbles to tumble into darkness. The jade-and-silver shone dull red on her left arm, catching Dirk’s eye and making him wince and wonder once again. What was it? A slave’s mark, or a token of love, what? But he pushed the thought aside, reluctant to consider it.
“The people who built Musquel had very little,” she was saying. “They came from the Forgotten Colony, which is sometimes called Letheland by the other outworlders, and is always called Earth by its own people. On High Kavalaan the people themselves are called the Lostfolk. Who they are, how they got to their world, where they came from . . .” She smiled and shrugged. “No one knows. They were here before the Kavalars, though, and possibly before the
Mao Tse-tung,
which history records as the first human starship to breach the Tempter’s Veil. The traditional Kavalars are certain all the Lostfolk are mockmen and Hrangan demons, but they have proved that they can interbreed with other human stocks from better-known worlds. But mostly the Forgotten Colony is a solitary globe, with not much interest in the rest of space. They have a Bronze Age culture, fisherfolk mostly, and they keep to themselves.”
“I’m surprised they even came here at all then,” Dirk said, “or bothered to build a city.”
“Ah,” she said, smiling and brushing loose more crumbling stone to fall into the well with tiny splashes. “But everyone had to build a city, all fourteen outworld cultures. That was the idea. Wolfheim had found the Forgotten Colony a few centuries ago, and so Wolfheim and Tober between them dragged the Lostfolk here. They had no starships of their own. Fisherfolk back on their homeworld so were they made fisherfolk here. Again it was Wolfheim, with the World of the Blackwine Ocean, who stocked the seas for them. They fished with woven nets from little boats, small black men and women bare to the waist, and they fried the catch in open pits for the visitors. They had bards and street singers to bring their alleys joy. Everyone stopped at Musquel during the Festival to listen to their odd myths and eat the fried fish and rent boats. But I don’t think the Lostfolk loved the city much. Within a month of the Festival’s end, every one of them was gone. They didn’t even take down their awnings, and you can still find fish knives and clothing and a bone or two if you prowl through the buildings.”
“Have you?”
“No. But I hear stories. Kirak Redsteel Cavis, the poet who lives in Larteyn, stayed here once and wandered and wrote some songs.”
Dirk looked around, but there was nothing to see. Fading bricks and empty streets, unglassed windows like the sockets of a thousand blind eyes, painted awnings flapping loudly in the wind. Nothing. “Another city of ghosts,” he commented.
“No,” Gwen said. “No, I don’t think so. The Lostfolk never gave their souls to Musquel, or to Worlorn. Their ghosts all went home with them.”
Dirk shivered, and the city felt suddenly even emptier than it had a moment before. Emptier than empty. It was a strange idea. “Is Larteyn the only city that has any life at all?” he asked.
“No,” she said, turning from the wall. They walked down the alley together, back in the direction of the waterfront. “No, I’ll show you life now, if you’d like. Come on.”
Airborne again, they were on another ride through the gathering gloom. They had consumed most of the afternoon reaching Musquel and wandering through it; Fat Satan was low on the western horizon, and one of the four yellow attendants had already sunk out of sight. It was twilight again, in fact as well as in appearance.
Very restless, Dirk took the controls this time, while Gwen sat at his side with her arm resting very lightly on his, giving curt directions. Most of the day was gone already, and he had so much to say,
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