children?”
“Yes. Runaways and orphans, most of them. The boy with a broken head is better, by the way.”
“Glad to hear it.”
They were in the back alleys now, approaching a dark hole in the road.
“The Undercliff again?”
“After you.”
The huge cavern below bustled with people, as crowded as the square above. Some were Overcliffers in their bright, holiday clothes. Others were Undercliffers, more subdued. Many seemed to be from outside the city, farmers and herders, perhaps, and some even from the Wastes, notable for their blue cheches .
“This is best seen from above,” said Kroaky. He made another grab for her arm, and grinned when she evaded him. They climbed the stair to the children’s sleeping cave. Fang met them, scowling, at the top.
“Why did you bring her ?”
Kroaky attempted to put an arm around each and was rebuffed by both.
“Now, ladies.”
Jame sat down on the ledge overlooking the cavern, followed by Kroaky and, reluctantly, by Fang, who placed herself on his far side.
“How far back do the caves go?” Jame asked.
“Miles and miles,” said Kroaky, dreamily, “getting smaller and smaller and smaller. That’s where the Old Ones live. Oh, there are wonders in the depths—draperies of stone, cascading water, lace-thin shelves, caverns that glow with even a hint of outside light, silent pools where eyeless fish swim and nameless creatures eat them. Just think of it: all that below and above, tower on tower of marble, limestone, and travertine. They say that only the god-king keeps one from collapsing into the other.”
Fang snorted. “If so, he doesn’t always succeed. What about those rock falls this past spring? We lost one whole branch of side caves and the river nearly broke through.”
“That wasn’t his fault,” said Kroaky, with a rare show of defensiveness. “He was distracted during the last Change.”
“He always is. And it’s getting worse.”
“As I understand it,” said Jame, “King Kruin exiled the Old Pantheon Undercliff. Why?”
“His precious prophet didn’t want any competition, did he?” said Fang. “Not when he claimed to represent the one true god.”
“What prophet?”
“The leader of the Karnids, of course.”
“What god?”
“As to that, all I know is that they claim this world is only a shadow of the one to come where the faithful will be rewarded and the rest of us will suffer.”
Jame had heard of such beliefs before, and of other prophets, but this one somehow sounded different. Perhaps it was because of the black history that the Kencyrath shared with Urakarn.
“I take it that Kruin’s son Krothen doesn’t share that view,” she said. “Why hasn’t he welcomed the old gods back?”
“How many d’you think we need Overcliff?” Kroaky demanded. “Krothen is enough for us topside.”
“And the guild lords.”
“Huh. Them.”
“And the grandmasters.” Now Jame was goading him, but she was also unclear about the difference between the three lords and each guild’s individual grandmaster.
“You call them gods?” Kroaky laughed scornfully. “All right, so they have special powers, but they aren’t immortal. What’s a god without that?”
“Still,” said Fang, “you have to admit that the Changes have come more frequently and hit harder since the Old Pantheon gods were exiled. The king should think about inviting them back.”
Jame agreed. “It isn’t safe to lock up gods in your cellar, so to speak.”
Kroaky harrumphed, then pointed as if glad for the interruption. “Hush. Here they come now.”
Faint music sounded from the back of the cavern and the crowd stilled. It drew nearer, echoing—pipes, flutes, drums, something eldritch that might have been the wind whistling between the worlds. Figures advanced carrying torches. Their shadows preceded them, casting fantastic shapes on the cavern’s fissured walls. The crowd drew back as the procession entered the body of the cave.
Jame was
“Yes. Runaways and orphans, most of them. The boy with a broken head is better, by the way.”
“Glad to hear it.”
They were in the back alleys now, approaching a dark hole in the road.
“The Undercliff again?”
“After you.”
The huge cavern below bustled with people, as crowded as the square above. Some were Overcliffers in their bright, holiday clothes. Others were Undercliffers, more subdued. Many seemed to be from outside the city, farmers and herders, perhaps, and some even from the Wastes, notable for their blue cheches .
“This is best seen from above,” said Kroaky. He made another grab for her arm, and grinned when she evaded him. They climbed the stair to the children’s sleeping cave. Fang met them, scowling, at the top.
“Why did you bring her ?”
Kroaky attempted to put an arm around each and was rebuffed by both.
“Now, ladies.”
Jame sat down on the ledge overlooking the cavern, followed by Kroaky and, reluctantly, by Fang, who placed herself on his far side.
“How far back do the caves go?” Jame asked.
“Miles and miles,” said Kroaky, dreamily, “getting smaller and smaller and smaller. That’s where the Old Ones live. Oh, there are wonders in the depths—draperies of stone, cascading water, lace-thin shelves, caverns that glow with even a hint of outside light, silent pools where eyeless fish swim and nameless creatures eat them. Just think of it: all that below and above, tower on tower of marble, limestone, and travertine. They say that only the god-king keeps one from collapsing into the other.”
Fang snorted. “If so, he doesn’t always succeed. What about those rock falls this past spring? We lost one whole branch of side caves and the river nearly broke through.”
“That wasn’t his fault,” said Kroaky, with a rare show of defensiveness. “He was distracted during the last Change.”
“He always is. And it’s getting worse.”
“As I understand it,” said Jame, “King Kruin exiled the Old Pantheon Undercliff. Why?”
“His precious prophet didn’t want any competition, did he?” said Fang. “Not when he claimed to represent the one true god.”
“What prophet?”
“The leader of the Karnids, of course.”
“What god?”
“As to that, all I know is that they claim this world is only a shadow of the one to come where the faithful will be rewarded and the rest of us will suffer.”
Jame had heard of such beliefs before, and of other prophets, but this one somehow sounded different. Perhaps it was because of the black history that the Kencyrath shared with Urakarn.
“I take it that Kruin’s son Krothen doesn’t share that view,” she said. “Why hasn’t he welcomed the old gods back?”
“How many d’you think we need Overcliff?” Kroaky demanded. “Krothen is enough for us topside.”
“And the guild lords.”
“Huh. Them.”
“And the grandmasters.” Now Jame was goading him, but she was also unclear about the difference between the three lords and each guild’s individual grandmaster.
“You call them gods?” Kroaky laughed scornfully. “All right, so they have special powers, but they aren’t immortal. What’s a god without that?”
“Still,” said Fang, “you have to admit that the Changes have come more frequently and hit harder since the Old Pantheon gods were exiled. The king should think about inviting them back.”
Jame agreed. “It isn’t safe to lock up gods in your cellar, so to speak.”
Kroaky harrumphed, then pointed as if glad for the interruption. “Hush. Here they come now.”
Faint music sounded from the back of the cavern and the crowd stilled. It drew nearer, echoing—pipes, flutes, drums, something eldritch that might have been the wind whistling between the worlds. Figures advanced carrying torches. Their shadows preceded them, casting fantastic shapes on the cavern’s fissured walls. The crowd drew back as the procession entered the body of the cave.
Jame was
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