Tim Lebbon: Echo city

The final door closed behind them and the Pserans slipped away. As Gorham glanced around to see where they had gone, he heard a low chuckle, and when he turned forward again the Baker was there.

"Gorham," she said. She seemed amused. "You look hungry. You like my Pserans?"

Nadielle was the only woman who knew how to make him blush.

"And Malia. It's nice to see you again." She sounded so sincere.

"And you, Baker," Malia said. "Your Pserans said you have a feast for us."

"They don't lie," Nadielle said. "Not unless I tell them to." She was staring at Gorham, enjoying his embarrassment, and she was more beautiful than ever. Last time down here, as they were rolling on Nadielle's bed, her legs wrapped around his back to hold him deep within her, she'd whispered into his ear: They watch. He'd known who she meant, because she was so proud of her chopped. They were like her children. It had given him a strange thrill then, and now that sensation returned. He glanced around again, feeling their eyes on him still, realizing that was what they were made to do.

Nadielle laughed out loud and turned, leading them deep into her laboratory.

Her seven womb vats were all full, condensation bejeweling their surfaces and dripping in a steady stream to the stone floor. The vats were made from metal or heavy gray stone-Gorham had never been entirely sure which, and he dared not touch one-and they stood propped with thick wooden buttresses wedged against the floor, giving the impression of a temporary placement. There were drainage holes around the vats to take any spillages, and bubbles of strange gas popped thickly from several of them. I wonder what she's chopping now, Gorham thought. The awe he felt each time he visited her down here was rightly placed, because she could do something that no one else in Echo City was able to do. Many attempted to copy, and the results were the twin-twatted whore, soldiers with clubs instead of fists, men with cocks like a third leg… and, sometimes, monsters. But no one could match Nadielle's talent or finesse, passed down to her from Bakers long past. No one ever had.

They left the vat room and entered a place of chaos. There were tables and chairs, cupboards and shelving units, baskets slung in chains that could be raised and lowered from the ceiling when required, boxes strewn around the room's perimeter, books piled high or pressed open on the surfaces, and many fine glass containers bearing all kinds of matter-some fluid, some more solid, and some that looked like heavy gas. Other containers held material not so easily identifiable.

Nadielle weaved across the room and through a curtained doorway. Gorham followed, and the smells of Nadielle's living quarters inspired a rush of memories. He glanced at her bed-blankets awry, pillows propped up, books strewn across its surface-and wished that Malia had not come.

But their purpose here was serious, and Nadielle was aware of that. She guided them to her table and sat down.

"I know you've come for something important," she said. "It's not just another visit to read my mother's books or to pore over the maps and charts I have down here. Not even…" She nodded toward the stacked bookshelf where the three Old Texts were hidden away. Gorham had read them, and the power and intelligence evident in books purported to be more than four thousand years old still staggered him.

"No," he said, "not them. Although what we came to discuss might concern them more than ever before."

"You Watchers," Nadielle said, a smile pricking up the corners of her mouth.

"What do you mean by that?" Malia asked defensively.

"Always so serious. Always waiting for the end-"

"Not waiting for it," Gorham said. "Expecting it. The city might have been here for five thousand years, or fifty thousand, but nothing lasts forever. We watch for Echo City's inevitable end so we can be ready for it."

"Don't mock our purpose," Malia added coldly. "When the end comes, we'll have our way across the desert."

"Maybe you will," Nadielle said, nodding, and the smile was still there. "For now let's eat. You've been on the road for a while, and no good decisions are ever made on an empty stomach."

So the three of them ate. The food was cold but delightful. There were breads and cheeses, smoked meats, dried fruit, yogurts flavored with some of the finest spices, and a sake-fish whose pinkness and subtlety meant it must have come from the Northern Reservoir. Malia ate quickly beside him, eager to get to why they had come, but Nadielle savored each mouthful. Gorham wondered yet again how she managed to procure such good food. The bread had the taste and texture of the very best of the Marcellan bakers, and the cheese must have been matured for a long time. He could ask, but he knew that her answer would be misleading.

"How are you, Malia?" Nadielle asked. The question's meaning was obvious.

Malia shrugged, chewing a mouthful of mixed dried fruit.

Nadielle nodded slowly. "It heals, with time."

"You're twenty years old! If Bren and I'd had children, you could have been one of them." Malia trailed off, staring down at the tabletop but seeing something much farther away.

"My apologies," Nadielle said, but Gorham could see that she was not sorry at all. There was something about Nadielle that removed her from the world of Echo City. It wasn't even the fact that she chose to live belowground, with only the Echoes and her strange creations for company. Sometimes when he looked into her bright young eyes, there was such age there that it terrified him.

"It doesn't matter," Malia said, still staring down at the table.

They ate in silence for a while, Gorham trying to catch Nadielle's eye. But she looked down at her plate, cutting food very precisely, building meat on bread on cheese to gain the most of their blend of tastes. He watched her smooth hands and remembered them working at him with equal dexterity. Everyone who knew of her feared the Baker, and he wondered what his friends would think if they knew about their liaison.

When they had finished eating, Nadielle sat back in her chair and stretched her lithe body beneath the roomy clothes she always wore. Then she poured them each another glass of fine Crescent wine, raised her glass in silent toast, and waited for them to begin.

"We have people all over the city," Malia said. "Watchers, like us, and sometimes just people ready to earn a few shillings. They're instructed or paid to watch for certain things. Signs. Events out of the ordinary. Anything that might signify change. There are frequent false alarms, of course. Messages passed along that have already lost their meaning by the time they reach us. Lies, from people bored of waiting and wanting some money."

"But this is no false alarm," Gorham said.

Nadielle raised an amused eyebrow, but he saw a flash of something darker. Interest? Fear?

"What is no false alarm?"

Gorham glanced at Malia, and she nodded that he should continue. "It comes from three sources," he said. "First, Malia knows an explorer of the Echoes, Sprote Felder, and he has limited contact with the Garthans. He studies them, believes he has their trust, and he says there is concern among several of their deepest settlements. He wasn't specific, other than saying they were unsettled."

"Sprote is a mad old fool," Nadielle said, laughing.

Gorham blinked in surprise. She told me she never leaves this place. "He's a historian," he said. "His work on the Course Canton Echoes is well respected."

"Respected by some," Nadielle countered. "And I didn't say he was stupid, I said he was mad. He spends all his time down in the past."

"As do you," Malia said.

"You know nothing about me," Nadielle said after a pause, staring at Malia until she looked away. "So, the second source?"