He stood on the rimrock, looking inwards, and was confronted by a staggered confusion of buildings and houses and streets and steps and storm drains and railway lines, all grey and misty in filmy layers under a foggy-red setting sun.
Like slow waters from a broken dam, nebulous rollers of cloud swung down the canyon; they foundered persistently among the juts and cracks of the architecture, and seeped away like tired thoughts.
In a very few places, the topmost buildings had over-reached the rimrock and spilled onto the desert, but the rest of the city gave the impression that it lacked the energy or the momentum to proceed that far, and so had kept within the canyon, sheltered from the winds and kept temperate by the canyon’s own natural microclimate.
The city, speckled with dim lights, seemed strangely silent and motionless. He listened hard, and finally caught what sounded like the high howl of some animal, from deep inside some misty suburb. Searching the skies, he could see the far specks of circling birds, wheeling in the still and coldly heavy air. Gliding in the deep distance over the cluttered terraces, stepped streets and zig-zagging roads, they were the source of a far, hoarse crying.
Further down, he saw some silent trains, thin lines of light, slowly crossing between tunnels. Water showed as black lines, in aqueducts and canals. Roads ran everywhere, and vehicles crawled along them, lights like sparks as they scuttled like the tiny prey of the wheeling birds.
It was a cold autumn evening, and the air was bitter. He’d taken off the combat suit and left it in the capsule, which had buried itself in a sandy hollow. Now he wore the baggy clothes that were popular here again; they had been in fashion when he’d worked here last time, and he felt oddly pleased that he’d been away long enough for the style to cycle round again. He was not superstitious, but the coincidence amused him.
He squatted down and touched the rimrock. He lifted a handful of pebbles and topweeds, then let them sift through his fingers. He sighed and got to his feet, pulling on gloves, putting on a hat.
The city was called Solotol, and Tsoldrin Beychae was here.
He dusted a little sand from his coat – an old raincoat from far away, and of purely sentimental value – placed a pair of very dark glasses on his nose, picked up a modest case, and went down into the city.
‘Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?’
‘I’d like your two top floors, please.’
The clerk looked confused, then leaned forward. ‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘The two top floors of the hotel; I’d like them.’ He smiled. ‘I haven’t made a reservation; sorry.’
‘Aah…’ the clerk said. He appeared a little worried as he looked at his reflection in the dark glasses. ‘The two…?’
‘Not a room, not a suite, not a floor, but two floors, and not any two floors; the two top floors. If you have any guests presently occupying any of the rooms in the top two floors, I suggest you ask them politely to accept a room on another floor; I’ll pay their bills up till now.’
‘I see…’ the hotel clerk said. He seemed unsure whether to take all this seriously or not. ‘And… how long was sir thinking of staying?’
‘Indefinitely. I’ll pay for a month, in advance. My lawyers will cable the funds by lunchtime tomorrow.’ He opened the case and took out a wad of paper money, placing it on the desk. I’ll pay for one night in cash, if you like.’
‘I see,’ the clerk said, eyes fixed on the money. ‘Well, if sir would like to fill in this form…’
‘Thank you. Also, I’ll want an elevator for my personal use, and access to the roof. I expect a pass key will be the best solution.’
‘Aah. Indeed. I see. Excuse me just a moment, sir.’ The clerk went off to get the manager.
He negotiated a bulk discount for the two floors, then agreed a fee for the use of the lift and the roof that brought the deal back to what it had been in the first place. He just liked haggling.
‘And sir’s name?’
‘I’m called Staberinde,’ he said.
He chose a suite on the top floor, on a corner which looked out into the great depth of canyon city. He unlocked all the cupboards and closets and doors, window shutters, balcony covers and drug cabinets, and left everything open. He tested the bath in the suite; the water ran hot. He took a couple of small chairs out of the bedroom, and another set of four from the lounge, and put them in another suite alongside. He turned all the lights on, looking at everything.
He looked at patterns of coverings and curtains and hangings and carpets, at the murals and paintings on the walls, and at the design of the furniture. He rang for some food to be delivered, and when it came, on a small trolley, he pushed the trolley in front of him from room to room, eating on the move while he wandered through the quiet spaces of the hotel, gazing all about, and occasionally looking at a tiny sensor which was supposed to tell him if there were any surveillance devices around. There weren’t.
He paused at a window, looking out, and rubbed absently at a small puckered mark on his chest that was not there any more.
‘Zakalwe?’ said a tiny voice from his breast. He looked down, took a thing like a bead out of a shirt pocket. He clipped it to one ear, taking off his dark glasses and putting them in the pocket instead.
‘Hello.’
‘It’s me; Diziet. You all right?’
‘Yeah. I found a place to stay.’
‘Great. Listen; we’ve found something. It’s perfect!’
‘What?’ he said, smiling at the excitement in Sma’s voice. He pressed a button to close the curtains.
‘Three thousand years ago here there was a guy who became a famous poet; wrote on wax tablets set in wooden frames. He did a group of one hundred short poems he always maintained were the best things he ever wrote. But he couldn’t get them published, and he decided to become a sculptor instead; he melted the wax from ninety-eight of the tablets – keeping numbers one and one hundred – to carve a wax model, made a sand mould around it, and cast a bronze figure which still exists.’
‘Sma, is this leading anywhere?’ he said, pressing another button to open the curtains again. He rather liked the way they swished.
‘Wait! When we first found Voerenhutz and did the standard total scan of each planet, we naturally took a holo of the bronze statue; found some traces of the original casting sand and the wax in a cranny.
‘And it wasn’t the right wax!
‘It didn’t match the two surviving tablets! So the GCU waited till it had finished the total scan and then did some detective work. The guy who did the bronze, and who had done the poems, later became a monk, and ended up an abbot of a monastery. There was one building added while he was head man; legend has it he used to go there and contemplate the vanished ninety-eight poems. The building has a double wall.’ Sma’s voice rose triumphantly; ‘Guess what’s in the cavity!’
‘Walled-in disobedient monks?’
‘The poems! The waxes!’ Sma yelled. Then her voice dropped a little. ‘Well, most of them. The monastery was abandoned a couple of hundred years ago, and it looks like some shepherd lit a fire against a wall sometime and melted three or four of them… but the rest are there!’
‘Is that good?’
‘Zakalwe; they’re one of the great lost literary treasures of the planet! The university of Jarnsaromol, where your pal Beychae’s hanging out, has most of the guy’s parchment manuscripts, the other two tablets and the famous bronze. They’d give anything to get their hands on those tablets! Don’t you see? It’s perfect!’
‘Sounds all right, I suppose.’
‘Damn you, Zakalwe! Is that all you can say?’
‘Dizzy, luck this good never lasts long; it’ll average out.’
‘Don’t be so pessimistic, Zakalwe.’
‘Okay, I won’t,’ he sighed, closing the curtains again.
There was a noise of exasperation from Diziet Sma. ‘Well; I just thought I’d tell you. We’ll be going soon. Sleep well.’
The channel beeped closed. He smiled ruefully. He left the little terminal where it was, like an earring.
He gave orders he was not to be disturbed, and as the night deepened, he turned all the heating up full and opened all the windows. He spent some time testing the balconies and drainage pipes around the outer walls; he climbed nearly to the ground and all the way round the facade as he tested ledges and pipes and sills and cornices for their strength. He saw lights in less than a dozen other guest rooms. When he was satisfied he knew the outside of the hotel, he returned to his floor.