by Gavin Salisbury

excerpt from Panverse Three

This is our first halt in 5 for several orbits. It is Garoj’s wake to sit with our father, to rouse him from his sleep with stories and laughter if he can. So I must haggle and barter, or at least make a show of leadership while others close our deals.

I am not a natural trader. Others make quick laughter in the market on train business, roll with Junction boys and girls. I need time to steady my legs and heart, not to bounce off the static walls. I am Glider inside and out, always relieved to wheel out into the empty lands on the endless rails. My twin Garoj is bolder, starker. His land-legs are firm in negotiations. His heart is cold too in the Junctions, so he says, but he can pretend it beats fast if it means a deal, a girl—any chance to gain an advantage.

We are the Princes, our father’s sons—joint rulers of the Tarsus train, now that Jason lies on his back nursed by the coach machines. We miss his eye for the unusual and the profitable. I miss his voice. Now we are the reluctant premature owners of three hundred souls; they bear down on us as we hammock, rock and dream in the speeding sunshine.

Our time is good. We are at the Junction many hours before the meridian—much of the static day lies before us, if we need it. Our range of goods is currently adequate, but by no means exemplary. All the better, then, that no other Gliders are here on the parallels; nor have any trains stopped for a static month, according to the drive team’s track readings.

As custom dictates I stand in the cockpit with the drive team as the train grinds and screams to a stop. Tarsus doesn’t like halts—like all trains he was built for perpetual motion, powered by the sun.

“No greeting party,” Seren says. He is a strong man with no shadows on his character. Current chief of the drive team, he is dirty but utterly reliable. “But then they have never been ones to fuss overmuch here at 5.” Our stop signal preceded us, which would mean an official welcome and dancing children at some Junctions.

“That suits me well,” I say, smiling. “Are you with me, Seren? You have earned a stop if you wish it.”

His grin is broad in reply.

“Come, then. The other delegates await us in the vestibule.” I clap him on the back as he scrambles past me. Does he think I will change my decision?

All trains are unique inside, so they say, shaped by the organic history and personalities who have lived inside them and the random tastes and fads of their rulers. Our train is peppered with light tubes on the roof, floors and both sides, allowing as much light as possible to shine on our plain, pale walls at each level without the decadence of true windows. We do not care for the view—only pure light. Our line traditionally frowns upon ostentation and comfort. In our quarters we sit on small cushions on the ground, eschew sedans, and sleep on thin mattresses above wooden slats, with a hard roll for a pillow.

Five souls are gathered by the first exit door, awaiting my instructions. Three are my nominated negotiators, traders—the best we have. Farone is foremost among them, tallest soul on board, an intimidating presence in body and voice.

“Standard security,” I say to Jeroman, who has also earned a rest stop—no one would deny it. But he cannot be spared this time, and he knows and agrees it. “All loading and unloading must be complete before three after meridian.” I am more cautious than my brother, and I will take no chances.

“Yes, sire,” Jeroman says. His status is fourth on Tarsus after only my father, my brother and me. He might even rule the train some static day if Garoj and I remain childless. “All security stations have confirmed readiness. You are free to leave when you see fit.”

Luma presses forward to kiss me good-bye in unseemly fashion. Farone smiles with condescension. But my affection for her rises to smother my annoyance.

“Bring me pretty things,” she whispers in my ear. “Do not return without useless gifts!”

Suddenly I have no will to set foot off the train, but I must do my duty.

“Open the door,” I say to Jeroman, “and ready the loading bays for discharge and delivery.”

I jump down to the rough, parched ground by the tracks, followed by the others. We are on the edge line nearest the settlement, as we are the only Gliders here. If others should arrive closer to the meridian they will have to occupy one of the parallel lines further removed from Junction 5. For this static day we have primary trading rights. Any other delegation must wait until we leave—a risky business in time.

I walk back along the length of the train; I must at least cursorily glance at the loading bays. I nod towards Shamano, chief of the loading crew, who replies with a stiff bow.

“All is ready, sire.” His voice is as rigid as his back.

From the back of the train where the parallels branch a paved avenue sweeps down the side of the Junction plateau towards the town, which occupies the natural river valley to the north like a virulent growth.

Farone goes before me down the slope, my nominated lead. By my side walk Kelas and Seren in the long robes and close-fitting caps of glossy black cloth, which together form the traditional trading clothes of the Tarsus Gliders. My garb is of similar cut in deep blue, as befits my noble status on the train.

The day is warm, the sky cloudless. When we round the first broad corner we see Junction 5 sprawled out in the hollow below us, an ancient, organic melange of architectural styles. At this edge the buildings are mostly low and poor, belonging to those who farm the ill-favored land on the south side of the ridge. Children stop their games to stare, but none are bold enough to address us. A few adult Junctioners, mostly elderly folk, emerge from their houses to nod their heads.

“Good day,” we say to everyone whose gaze we catch. For us the phrase holds much power; the Junctioners know it, and despise us or smile at us condescendingly, according to their character.

The way winds down into the commercial centre of the settlement, where many people are abroad. They love light here as much as we do. But whereas we in Tarsus love to wear deep colors which love the sun, white (every variation of it) is the queen and ruler of all colors here—long robes for the women, tabards and three-quarter-length breeches for the men. In my limited experience of 5 only the local creed of witches flout the convention for paleness.

Our first task is to see to our basic nutritional needs. As ever, rather than haggling with individual farmers and traders, we make our way to the office of the Market Leader.

“This way, sire,” Farone says. “His name is Janno Pinen—a dour but fair trader.”

I do remember him, and once again I am glad that I have these three good men with me to strike the bargain. My role is to strike a serene pose, show no anxiety. Even that might be beyond me.

Junction 5’s central market is larger than most, and the variety of foodstuffs on offer is staggering. Pinen’s office stands like an overlord’s tower, centrally located inside a cavernous two-storey building. Lines of stalls radiate out from the building, like the tentacles of a gigantic sea-beast. We enter the central covered plaza through one of four equal gateways. The ceiling is glass, and allows precious sunlight to stream onto our faces like a blessing. Further shops—more substantial, permanent ones—line all sides of the building on both floors, like a mythical cloister of old. Functional eating places are scattered about the ground floor. The whole place is full of Junctioners, but none of them approach within meters of the centre, the secretive nucleus of the market.

My companions and I pass into the de facto forbidden zone. The door to Pinen’s tower is guarded by two men—giants with faces carved from grey stone. Farone shows them his Glider fob to gain entry and they step reluctantly aside. The door is unlocked.

Inside we face darkness, and the only light is artificial and insipid. I feel the first thrill of panic, and breathe deeply to calm myself.

Farone leads the way up the bare steps; I am second, followed by Kelas and Seren. We emerge from the drabness into a well-appointed office, with comfortable chairs set well away from the desk, and walls covered with hangings suggestive of ancient religions.

Pinen rises from a formal chair behind his desk. He is a tall, dark-skinned man with humor in his welcoming smile. He shows no trace of surprise at our entrance, perhaps because the men below have signaled to him. Or perhaps he is a man always ready for opportunity. He rounds his desk and shakes our hands in both of his.

“You choose an excellent cycle to stop in here at 5, gentlemen,” he says, smiling more broadly. “Food is plentiful, and we have a greater array of fine goods than in many months.”

He looks to me, and I nod and smile back appreciatively.

“Please sit down, gentlemen, and state your needs. I will send for refreshments.”

He pushes a button on his wristwatch, a device which most Junctioners affect to wear.

“We are grateful for your warm hospitality as ever, Janno,” Farone says smoothly. “And, of course, your directness.”

“There is no daylight to waste for those who follow the sun,” Pinen replies. He mocks us, but we are used to that from the static living.

Farone ignores the comment, and describes in detail our food requirements, while Pinen makes notes on a hand scriptor in some kind of shorthand. There are one or two special items, only available periodically, but Pinen is quick to confirm there will be no difficulty. They haggle briefly over the price, but the deal is soon done in principle.

“I will have the cargo gathered for delivery, and your men here can inspect it prior to loading. Will one hour be quick enough?”

Farone looks to me. To indicate my authority, I nod.

“Very well. No doubt you will be looking to build stocks of our craft goods while you are here. And I assume you have merchandise to sell?” Pinen pays little attention to decorum, but we appreciate such smoothness in our trading. “I suggest you deal with my good friend, Gest Nomen. He represents most of the necessary artisan groups, and has good links with many of the major outlets in 5. I’m sure you know him?”

We all nod this time.

“You and I will meet Nomen,” I say to Farone. I have little choice but to follow protocol.

“I leave the inspection of the bulk trade to you and Seren, Kelas. We will see you back at Tarsus when the deals are completed.”

I address Pinen directly for the first time. “Please inform Gest Nomen that we are on our way to see him. He should have a suitable array of sample goods prepared. Our buying appetite is high if the quality and price are right.”

“I will notify him at once, sire. Only the best goods will be presented.” Pinen’s voice is perhaps a trace sardonic.

I smile and shake his hand as if noticing no undertone.

“Perhaps you can direct us to Nomen?” Farone asks. “I’m not sure I am familiar with the way.”

I turn to Farone, but make an effort to show no surprise.

“Even better—I will assign you an escort,” Pinen replies. “I cannot have you delayed by wrong turnings!”

After a moment a Junctioner in middle age appears, who greets us with a short bow. Pinen does not introduce us, but I am content to let the matter pass.

“Good-bye, gentlemen, and happy trading,” Pinen says as we descend the steps. I raise my hand in acknowledgement, but do not turn round. It is important not to show too much friendliness in matters of trade.

Our guide leads us north away from the central market. He makes no conversation, for which I am grateful. Presently we turn down a side alley into a closed compound—evidently Nomen’s family residence, though I can see no sign. The gate is open when we enter, but I hear it close behind us.

“I remember the place now,” says Farone with satisfaction, but if he expects me to add my voice in agreement he is disappointed.

We pass through a doorway on the far side of the compound, into a narrow corridor gratifyingly filled with sunshine.

“Nomen will see you in his private quarters, sire.”

The Junctioner gestures that I should precede him through an internal door. Somehow Farone is no longer in front of me, but I do not want to appear weak: I walk inside first.

A cry of rage sounds from behind me and I feel a stabbing pain in the side of my neck. As I drop, all feeling gone from my legs, I strive to recognize the voice, but it slips away into silence.


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