Argelo sneaks up on us: I don’t even realize we’re in the city until I can’t find my way out again. A few mud-and-brick shanties hug the rocks, and the muddy trail from the shore turns to slate, and then the next time I look up the buildings are cement and brick, taller and wider than before. The slate path becomes tar and then cement, and the buildings clump into city blocks. Argelo has no skin, and its bones jut almost at random, and none of this feels like a real city to me, after Xiosphant.
Argelo doesn’t have a convenient mountain range to protect it from the day and night, or a beautifully landscaped valley, or a street grid, let alone one that was partly carved from space. The people who founded this city were fleeing Xiosphant with whatever they could grab, Alyssa explains, though they did manage to dig the Pit, and a few other underground structures. The weather is a lot rougher here, and sometimes you get rainstorms or even ice storms. Gerry the pirate says they had a new kind of rainfall, a while back, made of some substance that burned your skin away.
I’m bent nearly double, holding up a big box of leather, plus my backpack, and I’m also supporting one corner of the improvised stretcher that contains Reynold. We’re all loaded down with whatever cargo we could salvage. Alyssa keeps saying that if Reynold dies, so will Gerry—until Reynold manages to lift his head. “Stop saying stupid shit, Aly. If I die, it won’t be Gerry’s fault, at least not personally.” Meanwhile, Yulya and Mouth are holding up Kendrick. Bianca stumbles and lurches next to me under her own load.
After the huge empty landscape on the road, everything feels too close. All these walls, all these people, pushing in on me.
My bracelet hasn’t stopped twitching since the Gelet left us on the shore. Like they’re reaching out from the darkness, their claim on me strengthened by this new debt. Even across all this light and piles of stone, they’re with me.
I look up and realize Bianca is staring at me. “I can’t believe you learned how to control the crocodiles and you didn’t tell me.” Her jaw tightens and releases. “All this time. You could have made them work for the Uprising. They could have rained frozen rocks on the Palace, and we could have won almost without a fight.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “I don’t control them. How could I?”
“I just saw you do it. Just now. You were telling them what to do and they did it. Fine, okay. You tamed them. Domesticated them. Is that better?” Her eyes stay fixed on me.
“They’re not pets. They’re my friends. They’re sentient creatures, just like us. They have a civilization of their own, with a huge city and everything. I call them the Gelet, because it’s the closest thing to how they think of themselves.”
Bianca snorts. “They’re animals. You remember the Biology lectures at the Gymnasium. You were still there when we did that unit. Crocodiles don’t have a complex nervous system.”
“That we recognize. That is similar to ours. The Gelet have something different.” I can’t believe that Bianca, who always taught me to question everything we were taught, is throwing textbooks in my face.
“Something different. Okay. Fine. But you have some kind of influence over them. Right? They do what you want. I knew you were amazing, but this … What else can you get them to do?”
I turn away from her, as far as I’m able, while we’re both holding up the same dying man. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, and you should stop talking about it.”
* * *
Everything smells like spicy food gone bad. After the knifepoints of sunlight reflected on the ocean, and then the blackout of the night, my eyes are still adjusting back to regular twilight. So my first impressions of Argelo are just scents and sounds. Music blares around us, and people shout in Argelan, a language that sounds like a throat disease. I’ve never had this experience of being surrounded by people speaking a language I don’t know, and I’m convinced everyone is yelling at me, or about me. The smoke comforts me with a coal-and-spice flavor one moment, then nauseates me with rancid fumes the next. So many fires, burning so many things, and meanwhile I haven’t heard a single bell since we got here. When I get used to the light, I see too many faces jammed close to mine, and I have to close my eyes again and convince myself that I’m not about to be carried away by a mob. At least there are almost no police here in Argelo—except a special force for certain crimes that threaten the whole city, Alyssa said.
I open my eyes again, and there’s another burst of disorientation. The streets weave and double back on themselves, widen and narrow, become tunnels or bridges, without warning. Lorries and handcarts clog the road ahead of us, and people selling food or clothes at the side of the road yell for our attention. I keep looking around for a timepiece, or burst of colored smoke, or some other cue to let me know whether people have just woken or are about to sleep, but I see a million details, all of which tell me nothing.
And everywhere I look, I see strange clothing. No ankle-skirts or chemises like back home, no coveralls or linens. People wear colorful one-piece suits or multilayered dresses made of some kind of shiny fabric, or else thick denim jackets and trousers. Or they wear outfits that celebrate whichever compartment on the Mothership they trace their ancestry to. Girls walk past, wearing glittering facsimiles of the carbon-fiber-polymer crowns for which Ulaanbaatar was famous, along with rugged woven jackets and long cotton skirts. A few people who look somewhat like me wear loose shifts and light high-waisted trousers that look like the CoolSuits people wore in old Nagpur. I see some Zagreb-style jackets and cravats that Hernan would appreciate, too. I’ve only seen tiny pictures of these clothing styles in history books. Alyssa sees me staring and says that most of the people who came to Argelo after the Great Insomnia were the ones who felt oppressed because of whichever compartment their families had arrived in, a few generations earlier, so there aren’t as many people from New Shanghai or Calgary.
Bianca shoots me another look. I ignore her.
Every joint in my body hurts and my breathing sounds like a busted motor, and even thinking about what Bianca said about the Gelet makes me want to scream. I still feel unsteady, seasick in retrospect, when I think about everything I said to her on the boat, but now that memory is cloaked with anger. But maybe I’m partly upset because Bianca’s right, on some level. She’s only seen me ask the Gelet for help with my own problems, because that’s all I’ve ever done. They’ve saved my life twice, and what did I do for them? Bring them a few nuggets of copper. Shed a few tears for their sick children and their butchered friends.
Alyssa keeps pointing out things around us and laughing. “There’s the tiny courtyard where we used to smoke and make plans for how we were going to own this city, the other Chancers and me.” She bounces, even though she’s carrying a large oak box and supporting one corner of a stretcher. “This here is where that old guy used to just turn up, selling the tastiest fish bread. Down that alley is where that saloon used to brew its own wine. God, this is a real city.”
“I thought you were sick of this place,” Mouth grunts.
Alyssa starts to answer—but a man comes out of the alley she just pointed at. He aims an oil-crusted harpoon gun at us, and says something in Argelan. Mouth is standing nearest to him, and she gets one hand on the harpoon gun and the other on his throat before I even have time to react. The man pulls the trigger without a good shot, and ends up impaled on his own weapon.
Afterward, Mouth is in an even uglier mood than usual, as if killing one more person makes any difference.
* * *
Soon everybody but Bianca and me is speaking Argelan, so we’ll make less obvious targets. I understand a word here and there, because some of the vocabulary is almost the same, and Yulya taught me a few phrases, including that confusing “Anchor-Banter” thing.
We’re passing through some neighborhood called Little Merida. The aromas of spiced meats and some kind of lime-scented fish broth come out of every doorway, and I hear strange rhythms echoing off the walls. According to Yulya, this neighborhood was where the Great Argelan Prosperity Company had its central office before they tore all that stuff down. By now, I’m sure none of us knows where we’re going. The longer I listen to the gargling racket of this language, the more I wish I could plug my ears. I’m getting lightsickness, which makes my head throb and fills my vision with streaks.