Mitchell Smith - Moonrise

Baj heard a curse and scramble back among the Shrikes – turned and saw one of the tribesmen wrestling, dragging a young Boston boy along. The Boston boy, furred in dotted colors, had a knife. He took a javelin-thrust through his belly and fell kicking, looking astonished as the Shrike ran on.

Baj drew his rapier, and ran with it in his hand. Beside him, Nancy had her scimitar out. And glancing over, he saw Patience had drawn also. There was a run of bright blood – from her killing down the North Gate – still frozen along the curved blade.

As they ran the streets of ice – smaller ice buildings standing on each side, their doorways seeming to be sheeted iron, painted black – as they ran, Patience leading fast, the great bell of alarm still rang, its vibrations hanging in the air.

… They'd left the turn, the Street of Flowers, well behind, and Baj – feeling now tireless, though Boston's frigid wind was numbing his face – wondered as they went, why "Street of Flowers," and supposed snow flowers might have been meant. Or whores, perhaps… He saw – and his boot-soles felt – small lumps and bumps of debris frozen into the street's frosted pavement. Things people had thrown away: scraps of food, broken matters, certainly little frozen turds left by dog-pets. All become a pavement of garbage – wonderful WT word. "Garbage" frozen into the streets of the glittering city. A city whose lamps cast constant shadows, constant light – where no sun, no moon, shone for day or night.

"Obvious rhyme there," Baj thought, congratulated himself for some remnant of poetry still kept – and his mind off his feet, tripped on nothing much in the street, skidded on ice trying to recover, and went down hard onto his right knee.

"Baj." Nancy sliding to a stop.

"I'm up – I'm up!" And he was, with a Shrike shoving him along to hobble at a ran on an unhappy knee. It seemed to Baj that stopping to fight someone would be a great relief from this forever running the streets of Boston… Streets – their citizens also now rushing here or there – where running boot-steps gave back flat rapid echoes from ice buildings close on either side. Echoes, and different smells than Island's rich scents of river, fish, and granite. Boston's odors were of humans, freezing air, and perhaps a drift of coal smoke lingering before the cavern wind blew it away.

And, as if his prayer for relief had been answered with a fighting pause, a man came out of Warm-time's "nowhere" and struck at Richard with something – an iron something – and was struck back so Richard had to wrench his great ax free… then gallop to keep up.

More trouble behind them with the Shrikes as well. Baj heard it, heard a woman screaming, but didn't look back.

They all turned again as Patience turned, to run down a quiet narrower street with no one watching, no Bostons hurrying after with iron in their hands. Only the hard-rain sounds of their boots as they passed staring men and women, and the soft squeaks and clinks of leather and steel. Baj's knee, having complained, was feeling better.

… Though panting for breath, still they went swiftly – trained by weeks of sled-running. They followed Patience to the right around another corner through bright revealing light, under constellations of hanging lamps glowing on their chains above them. Chains depending now from slightly lower ice ceilings, whose vaults still no thrown spear might reach, nor even the most forceful arrow. They ran on ridged and frosted white, pacing beside their active shadows.

The narrow street was fenced each side by walls of ice rising three, four stories, and pierced in regular rows with small square windows where – in many – lamplight glowed. Between those close walls of window lights, Patience half-ran, half-flew with Baj and the others after her like hounds.

People shouted from those windows as they went, and Nancy said, "Apartments…" She caught her breath. "They keep everyone together, but still apart."

Apartments of ice, not Island's stone… Baj was sorry to be reminded of what was missed by this charging like cattle-broke-loose, running past bright-lit wonders all the Map-Country had heard of, and almost none had seen… And he here for nothing but murder, so he ran in darkness, despite the light.

Over a building's high roof (tiles of ice shone there), he saw a flight of several Walkers-in-air. Men or women – they were too high, too far away to tell – sitting up, sailing just beneath the gleaming ceilings, sailing past bright lamps and wind-stirred banners. Tiny birds they might have been – bluebirds with their blue coats – passing out of sight in echelon. Going south.

There was shouting from apartment windows. A Shrike, Christopher, sprinted up and called, "Dolphus says chasers!"

Baj skipped steps as he looked back, and saw, where the narrow street began, men, citizens, coming after them.

Patience rose above them in the air and turned back to see, her coat's colored cloth ruffling out around her. "They will slow us, fighting!… Dolphus!"

Baj thought he heard the Shrike answer her.

Patience, sailing backward in billowing stripes, shouted again, a war-goddess's trumpet call. "Leave six… to hold them!"

Baj thought he heard the Shrike answer – skipped again to look back, and saw five… six of the tribesmen trot to a halt, left behind.

Then Baj bent himself again to running, though now the cold air poured into his lungs like hot ashes as he wearied. Errol galloped up beside, keeping close, tongue-clicking in excitement.

It was surprising how soon the noise of their passage was sliced with screams sounding the street behind them, as six Shrikes held the narrow way they could not hold for long.

Nancy stumbled and would have gone down, but Baj caught her arm. He called "Slower!" but Patience paid no attention, bounding, flying on as if they could fly after her.

Richard lunged, reached up and caught her coat-tail, hauled her in like a fish. "Slower …" He caught his breath. "Slower, my dear… or you'll lose us."

"Slower, then," she said, but gave them a cold look – then settled to the ice-road and trotted away, her scimitar swinging in her hand.

A little farther on, she went up a flight of wide steps, their ice worn clear blue, and Baj and the others followed then down a long way of mirror-ice colonades, past a confusion of Boston people rushing – likely to their homes or places of duty – with children being hauled along wide-eyed, and two… three little dogs tugging on their collar cords. Some adults called out as Patience led past…

Baj and the others went reflected in the columns' gleaming rounds, so they seemed to meet themselves again and again, running figures – though running slower, now – with familiar faces appearing, then smeared, stretched away, and gone.

There were shops along those streets. Shops deep in niches between the pillars, with men and women hurrying to put their various goods away – goods laid out on ice counters or likely rare wooden counters, or counters apparently made from slabs of stone. Wonders in all shapes and colors. Great soft drifts of fur displayed, black, striped, spotted-gray, and white. And a niche of trays of southern fruit, brought somehow – on the frozen sea? – all that long way north… Then stacks of knitted-wool clothes… shelves of bright steel tools.

All wonders, for Baj, in a town of wonders – marvels being passed by at a labored run – and all for a purpose of murder. It occurred to him how delighted old Lord Peter Wilson would have been to see it all… A city so magical.

Were there Boston poets for this… this frozen city? Perhaps crouching naked, warmed by their minds over desks of ice, and writing of the souls of Persons their Talents had made, souls now grown richer than their own.