The Forever Hero by L. E. Modesitt Jr. Page A

uphill to the roughly four meter height of the shambletown wall, running as it did slightly more than half a kay from the eastern end of the Maze to the western corner.
    The shambletowners kept the area immediately downslope of the wall clear of debris, grubushes, and skinned carcasses. The debris and bushes offered too much concealment for both rats and coyotes, while carcasses, those too poisonous to eat, would have attracted the rats.
    His nose twitched. In the confines of the more fastidious Imperial society, the odors were muted. Machine oil and deodorants, while strong, were blandly dulling as well. The mix of unwashed shambletowners, excrement, assorted garbage, and the underlying bitter stench of omnipresent rat all reached him, although he was well outside the walls and a good three hundred meters east of the gate.
    The lone wall sentry had marked the Imperial uniform and passed the word, so well that by the time he had reached the gate, several others awaited him.
    One—older by years than the last time they had crossed paths—he recognized immediately. Fynian, still squat and hulking, stood behind the conslor. Gerswin had not met the conslor, not this one or any of his predecessors, and he was amused by the indrawn breath as the man looked into his eyes.
    While the conslor said nothing, Gerswin could hear Fynian’s muttered “devulkid.”
    â€œLieutenant Gerswin, Imperial Service,” he announced.
    â€œConslor Weddin. What you want?” answered the other in clipped shambletalk.
    â€œWant see shamble,” Gerswin replied in kind, even getting the lilts in the right places.
    â€œDevulkid,” repeated Fynian under his breath, loudly enough for Gerswin to hear clearly.
    â€œAll right, stand? No kill, stand? No woman, stand?”
    Loosely translated, “You’re welcome, but keep your hands off everyone, and don’t try to make off with anyone’s woman or all bets are off.”
    â€œNo kill. No woman, stand,” repeated the pilot. “You no kill, no fun, stand?”
    Conslor Weddin frowned. That a visitor should place reciprocal conditions on a shambletowner was unheard of.
    As the conslor debated, Gerswin discarded the idea of displaying the stunner and its powers. Using it would only induce some idiot to try to take it. He wished he had developed a few other weapons skills besides stunners, lasers, and hand-to-hand. None were exactly suited to his situation. The Imperial policy stated clearly that advanced and lethal weapons were prohibited for use against any civilians. And hand-to-hand combat was chancy merely as a display of force.
    At last the conslor, presumably after meditating on the flitters and skitters that crossed the cloud-covered skies, nodded.
    â€œStand.”
    Gerswin bared his teeth in response, and to signify his agreement.
    Weddin and his party stood aside, but Gerswin motioned for them to precede him, which, after a moment’s delay, they did.
    Inside the gate, a cobbled-together mass of twisted metal and woven grubush that screeched as it was dragged back into place, the stench was as high as Gerswin had remembered. He swallowed hard to keep the contents of his stomach in place and thanked himself for his foresight in eating only a light meal before setting out.
    The one-, two-, and occasional three-story clay brick buildings were crammed together, with narrow streets, narrower alleyways. Unlike the plains clay, the building clay was reddish-brown, without the purple tint that usually signified some degree of landpoison.
    The pilot nodded. He had seen the outside clayworks often enough, had even stolen a food basket or two from the clayworkers as they turned the clay into a slurry and let it settle, then repeated the process time after time.
    The “finished” clay was lightly fired in grubush-fueled ovens. Once the bricks were mortared in place, the walls were covered with a sandpaint mixture that hardened the bricks