Cities of the Air by Karl Schroeder

Author:Karl Schroeder
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9789780765323
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

1

A LOW BEAMED ceiling swam into focus. Venera Fanning frowned at it, then winced as pain shot through her jaw. She was definitely alive, she decided ruefully.

She was—but was Chaison Fanning also among the living, or was Venera now a widow? That was it, she had been trying to get back to her husband, Chaison Fanning. Trying to get home—

Sitting up proved impossible. The slightest motion sent waves of pain through her; she felt like she’d been skinned. She moaned involuntarily.

“You’re awake?” The thickly accented words had the crackle of age to them. She turned her head gingerly and made out a dim form moving to sit next to her. She was lying on a bed—probably—and he was on a stool or something. She blinked, trying to take in more of the long low room.

“Don’t try to move,” said the old man. “You’ve got severe sunburn and sunstroke too. Plus a few cuts and bruises. I’ve been wetting down the sheets to give you some relief. Gave you water too. Don’t know what else to do.”

“Th-thanks.” She looked down at herself. “Where are my clothes?”

His face cracked in a smile and for a second he looked much younger. He had slablike features with prominent cheekbones and piercing gray eyes. Eyes like that could send chills through you, and from his confident grin he seemed to know it. But as he shifted in the firelight she saw that lines of care and disappointment had cut away much of his handsomeness.

“Your clothes are here,” he said, patting a chair or table nearby. “Don’t worry, I’ve done nothing to you. Not out of virtue, mind; I’m not a big fan of virtue, mine or anyone else’s. No, you can thank arthritis, old wounds, and age for your safety.” He grinned again. “I’m Garth Diamandis. And you are a foreigner.”

Venera sighed listlessly. “Probably. What does that mean around here?”

Diamandis leaned back, crossing his arms. “Much, or nothing, depending.”

“And here is . . . ?”

“Spyre,” he said.

“Spyre . . .” She thought she should remember that name. But Venera was already falling asleep. She let herself do it; after all, it was so cool here. . . .

When she awoke again it was to find herself propped half-upright in a chair. Her forehead, upper body, and arms were draped with moist sheets. Blankets swaddled her below that.

Venera was facing a leaded-glass window. Outside, green foliage made a sunlit screen. She heard birds. That suggested the kind of garden you only got in the bigger towns—a gravity-bound garden where trees grew short and squat and soil stayed in one place. Such things were rare—and that, in turn, implied wealth.

But this room . . . As she turned her head her hopes faded. This was a hovel, for all that it too seemed built for gravity. The floor was the relentless iron of a town foundation, though surprisingly she could feel no vibration from engines or slipstream vanes through her feet. The silence was uncanny, in fact.

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