Weasel
Fierce
gave
his
short,
barking
laugh.
The
sound chilled Cloud Runner to the
bone.
Two Heads
Talking stalked past
the
city's
open
gates.
The stench
assailed
his nostrils.
His concentration
faltered,
and he could
feel the
spirits
struggling
to escape.
He exerted his iron will, and
the
spell of protection
fell into place.
Studying
his surroundings,
he realised that
he had
no need
to worry. There were no
guards,
only
a
toll-house
where
a pasty
faced clerk sat,
ticking off accounts.
In its own way
this
was
ominous:
the
city's
builders obviously
did
not
feel threatened enough
to post
sentries.
Two Heads
Talking studied
the
scribe. He sat
at a
little
window,
poring
over
a
ledger.
In
his
hand
was
a
quill
pen.
He was writing by the
light of a small lantern. Momentarily, he seemed to sense
the
Librarian's presence
and
looked up. He had
the
high cheek-bones
and
ruddy
skin of the
Plains People. but
there
the
resemblance
ended.
His limbs seemed
stunted
and
weak.
His
features
had
an unhealthy
pallor.
He
gave
a
hacking cough
and
returned
to his
work.
His
face
showed
no
sign
of
manhood
scars.
His
clothes
were
made
of
some
coarse-woven
cloth,
not
elk leather. No weapon
sat
near
at
hand,
and
he
showed
no
resentment
at
being cooped
up
in
the
tiny
office
rather
than being
under
the
open
sky.
Two
Heads
Talking
found
it
hard
to
believe
that
this
was
a
descendant
of
his
warrior culture.
He
pushed on
into
the
city,
picking
his
way
fastidiously through
the
narrow,
dirty
streets
that
ran
between
the enormous
buildings.
The place was laid out
with no rhyme or reason.
Vast squares
lay between
the
great
factories,
but there
was no apparent
pattern.
The city had
grown uncontrolled,
like a cancer.
There were no sewers,
and
the
roads
were full of filth. The smell of human waste
mingled with the
odour
of
frying
food and
the
sharp
tang
of cheap
alcohol. Low shadowy doors
of inns
and
food
booths
rimmed each
square.
Unwashed
children scuttled
everywhere.
Now
and
again,
huge, well-fed
men
in
long,
blue coats
pushed
their
way through
the
throng.
They
had
facial
scar-tattoos
and
they
walked
with
an
air
of
swaggering
pride.
If anyone
got
in their
way,
they
lashed
out
at
them
with
wooden batons.
To
Two
Heads
Talking's
surprise,
no-one hit
back.
They seemed
too
weak-spirited to fight.
As
he wandered,
the
Librarian noticed
something
even
more horrible. All the
members of the
crowd, except
the
urchins
and
the
bluecoats,
were
maimed.
Men
and
women
both
had
mangled
limbs
or scorched
faces.
Some
hobbled
on wooden
crutches,
swinging
the
stumps
of legs
before them. Others
were blind and
were led about
by children. A
dwarf with
no
legs
waddled
past,
using
his
arms
for
motion,
walking
on
the
palms
of
his hands.
They
all
seemed
to
be
the accidental
victims of some huge,
industrial process.
In the
darkness.
by the
light dancing
from the
hellish chimneys, they
moved like shadows,
scrabbling about
crying
for alms,
for
succour,
for
deliverance.
They
called
on
the
Heavenly
Father,
Fierce
gave
his
short,
barking
laugh.
The
sound chilled Cloud Runner to the
bone.
Two Heads
Talking stalked past
the
city's
open
gates.
The stench
assailed
his nostrils.
His concentration
faltered,
and he could
feel the
spirits
struggling
to escape.
He exerted his iron will, and
the
spell of protection
fell into place.
Studying
his surroundings,
he realised that
he had
no need
to worry. There were no
guards,
only
a
toll-house
where
a pasty
faced clerk sat,
ticking off accounts.
In its own way
this
was
ominous:
the
city's
builders obviously
did
not
feel threatened enough
to post
sentries.
Two Heads
Talking studied
the
scribe. He sat
at a
little
window,
poring
over
a
ledger.
In
his
hand
was
a
quill
pen.
He was writing by the
light of a small lantern. Momentarily, he seemed to sense
the
Librarian's presence
and
looked up. He had
the
high cheek-bones
and
ruddy
skin of the
Plains People. but
there
the
resemblance
ended.
His limbs seemed
stunted
and
weak.
His
features
had
an unhealthy
pallor.
He
gave
a
hacking cough
and
returned
to his
work.
His
face
showed
no
sign
of
manhood
scars.
His
clothes
were
made
of
some
coarse-woven
cloth,
not
elk leather. No weapon
sat
near
at
hand,
and
he
showed
no
resentment
at
being cooped
up
in
the
tiny
office
rather
than being
under
the
open
sky.
Two
Heads
Talking
found
it
hard
to
believe
that
this
was
a
descendant
of
his
warrior culture.
He
pushed on
into
the
city,
picking
his
way
fastidiously through
the
narrow,
dirty
streets
that
ran
between
the enormous
buildings.
The place was laid out
with no rhyme or reason.
Vast squares
lay between
the
great
factories,
but there
was no apparent
pattern.
The city had
grown uncontrolled,
like a cancer.
There were no sewers,
and
the
roads
were full of filth. The smell of human waste
mingled with the
odour
of
frying
food and
the
sharp
tang
of cheap
alcohol. Low shadowy doors
of inns
and
food
booths
rimmed each
square.
Unwashed
children scuttled
everywhere.
Now
and
again,
huge, well-fed
men
in
long,
blue coats
pushed
their
way through
the
throng.
They
had
facial
scar-tattoos
and
they
walked
with
an
air
of
swaggering
pride.
If anyone
got
in their
way,
they
lashed
out
at
them
with
wooden batons.
To
Two
Heads
Talking's
surprise,
no-one hit
back.
They seemed
too
weak-spirited to fight.
As
he wandered,
the
Librarian noticed
something
even
more horrible. All the
members of the
crowd, except
the
urchins
and
the
bluecoats,
were
maimed.
Men
and
women
both
had
mangled
limbs
or scorched
faces.
Some
hobbled
on wooden
crutches,
swinging
the
stumps
of legs
before them. Others
were blind and
were led about
by children. A
dwarf with
no
legs
waddled
past,
using
his
arms
for
motion,
walking
on
the
palms
of
his hands.
They
all
seemed
to
be
the accidental
victims of some huge,
industrial process.
In the
darkness.
by the
light dancing
from the
hellish chimneys, they
moved like shadows,
scrabbling about
crying
for alms,
for
succour,
for
deliverance.
They
called
on
the
Heavenly
Father,