Skyland (13 page)

The chair maker shivered. Again. He turned
his head.

"Ow."

His nose had knocked into something hard.
Rubbing his face with one hand, and his ear with the other, he
looked around. A sharp corner protruded over a table leg, black and
shiny like the floor.

"Sit."

The chair maker looked up.

"Sit."

The chair maker craned his neck over the
edge of the table to see who had spoken.

A man sat at the other side. He looked down
a sharp nose, over the table at the chair maker still kneeling on
the floor. A neat, closely clipped white beard, contrasted with a
few too-long strands of white hair that framed a faintly lined
face. A blank face. Aside from the fine lines on the forehead,
around the mouth, around the eyes, the face showed nothing. It was
perfectly still. His long-fingered hands were folded in front of
him, still as stone.

"Sit," the man said again.

The chair maker pushed himself up from the
ground. His legs shook. Whatever they had used to knock him out was
still pumping heavily in his veins and he leaned on the table. His
eyes moved slowly, lids reluctant to stay open. He stared down at
the table under his hands. There was an empty chair along the side
right next to him, opposite the white-haired man.

"Sit."

The chair maker didn't want to do what the
man said. Even his half-asleep mind didn't trust the stern,
statue-like figure sitting across the table from him. But his knees
were shaking under him and his arms were shaking from the strain of
supporting him and his head was nodding with the strain of holding
itself up.

So he sat.

Or he tried to anyway. Eyes barely open, he
felt his way to the chair, and pulled it clumsily out; it tilted
under his weight and he almost fell to the ground. The bearded man
across the table stayed put and didn't make a move to help him. The
chair maker righted the chair, and felt for the seat. Finally, the
chair was under him, his feet planted on the floor, his elbows on
the table keeping him upright. His head dropped into his hands. He
rubbed again at his sore ear and his bruised nose. The pain shook
his near-sleeping mind awake.

He shivered.

He lifted his head. The man across the table
waited. The chair maker looked around the room. Only for a second.
There wasn't anything to see. Black walls, black table, black
floor. His reflection looked back at him from around the room in
the sheen of the dark walls. He sighed sleepily, and mist rose from
his breath. His hands abandoned his still hurting ear and nose as
he wrapped his arms around himself, rubbing them, still
shivering.

"Mr. Carpenter."

The chair maker looked up at the sound of
his name. He looked back at the man across the table, but his teeth
had started to chatter and his throat was clenched tight against
the cold and he couldn't speak. The man waited only half a
second.

"Mr. Carpenter, we need your help."

The chair maker stared at the bearded man,
who remained completely still except for his lips as he spoke. He
was like a statue, and the chair maker didn't want to talk to a
statue. But the man was silent for longer this time, still eyes
fixed across the table, waiting.

"I-I... " the chair maker forced his throat
open, forced words to stumble out, "there's nothing I can... I
can't help... anything, I need to get back t-to... to my wife ...
she is back–back at the shop–at my shop. She didn't... she
didn't... make... " He shut his eyes. The image of white hair
nearly gone, burned off wisps floating up in a smoky workshop, the
smell of burning fuel, burning wood, burning varnish, burning... He
didn't want to talk about his wife. "Where are we?"

"Unimportant."

We need your help.
"I don't
understand why–why I'm–"

"We need your help. So if you'll just answer
a few simple–"

"Why is it so cold?"

"Think of the temperature as a...
timer."

"What?"

"A timer. It's simple. You answer a few of
our questions and the temperature stops falling."

"A... a timer?"

"As you're body temperature falls, you'll
start experiencing the stages of hypothermia–"

"What?"

"Death."

The word did not match the serenity of the
statue-still face across the table, the eyes blinking softly.

"You're... killing me?"

"Not at all."

But death...
"Then what–"

"We just need you to answer a few questions.
Preferably before the... time expires."

Before I die.
"What–" His throat
seized up against the cold again. "What can I tell you?" He forced
the words out.

"We need to know about the explosives used
to destroy the ships. Specifically, what they are made of and where
they come from."

"And you're... you're asking
me?
"

"Very few people deal with the materials you
do, isn't that right?"

"But I don't know anything..."

"Nothing? Tell me, carpenter, where do you
get the wood for your work?"

"Just from the wood hunters. I don't know
anything about–"

"We do. We know about the wood hunters. The
scavengers from the country. We know about them. And you?"

"Yes."

"They deal in all things that grow in the
ground. They mine the brown fields. They scour the planet. Anything
that survives the drought is a target."

"Yes..."

"Wood is not their only product. Fibers for
textiles. Food. And precious compounds – fertilizers used for...
farming, among other things."

"Yes, but–"

"They are vagabonds, not in the city or
village records. Oh yes, carpenter. We know
about
them. But
we do not
know
them."

"No... n-no." The chair maker shook his
head. "No."

"You do."

"N-no..."

"You have met them. Who are they,
carpenter?"

"I-I don't know..."

"These are your business associates."

""N-no... no..."

"What can you tell us about them?"

"Nothing... nothing at all. They hunt for
pieces of wood, roots, the beams in old ruins... I buy these
things. I know nothing else."

"Perhaps some of these people were your
friends?

"No!"

The bearded man waited a moment, blinking
serenely. The corners of his mouth may have lifted minutely. "Of
course not." His voice was soft. "You're a peaceful man. Just a
simple tradesman. You wouldn't be friends with criminals."

The chair maker nodded mutely.

"You aren't friends with killers."

"No..."

"So tell us about them."

"W-wait. Killers?"

"The explosions. On the ship. We know this
was caused by the, ah, enhanced soils the farmers use. And we know
that if the scavengers know nothing else, they know soil and they
know what sells."

The chair maker sat up, staring wide-eyed at
the bearded man.
But I didn't...
"I know nothing about
that!"

"But you know about
them.
Tell us.
Tell us about the scavengers who sell you your materials. They are
killers. You are not. So help us."

"No. No, I only buy wood from them. For my
job. I live in the city. I am from the city. I have no idea what
goes on in the country. They are not my friends or anything. I–I
don't know anything."

"But you have a... relationship with them."
His voice was still soft, almost a coo in the quiet room. "Maybe
you sympathize with them–"

"No, I–"

"We would understand. Your business and your
security depend on them. But they are killers. You are not," he
repeated. "And now your business and your security depend on what
you can tell us
of
them."

"My business is burned to the ground! And my
wife–my wife..." He choked, but this time not on the frigid air. "I
do not care about these people!"

"Then you will help us."

"I can't." He hunched back, hugging his arms
over his chest again, shivering.

"You do not care about these people. You are
not protecting them." The voice was even softer under the serene
eyes, the unmoving face. Almost whispering, the bearded man
continued, "You are protecting yourself."

"Protecting my–" The chair maker couldn't
even get the words out. He stared at the man across the table who
looked back, still with the same calm eyes that had looked at him
over the word
Death
. "You can't... can't think I had some...
something to do with... My wife is dead! Why would I kill–" The
chair maker choked. He squeezed his eyes shut. Then he opened them
and looked the bearded man straight in the eye. "How can you think
I did this?"

The man sniffed, wiped one finger under his
nose. Then he was still another moment before his lips moved
again.

"We do not," he said. "Whoever did this did
not survive. But you know the people who had a part in it."

"No, but I don't–I don't
know
them. I
don't–"

"Mr. Carpenter, have you ever been to Union
Proper?"

"No."

"Blue, Mr. Carpenter."

"What?"

"You're jacket. It's blue."

"It was a c-celebration. For the ships."

"Many in Proper think those who wear blue
walk around with their heads tilted upward and have no respect for
life below the clouds. Poor Skyland has nothing to live for except
the Sky. And the poorest take extreme steps–."

"That's not true."

"It is. There is a chain – the scavengers,
the farmers, the Sky Reverends, the desperate to the pious who will
go to any length–"

"No, I mean, we
have
respect–"

"So you say."

"It's true!" He sat up again, his hands fell
to his sides and he shivered harder. H stared, shaking his head.
"It's true."

For the first time, the bearded man moved
more than his lips.

His eyes softened. They flicked down to the
table then back up to the chair maker with – what?
Compassion?

"I know," he said. His head tilted to one
side and he blinked silently at the chair maker for a moment. His
chest rose minutely and fell. A sigh? He shook his head, a tiny
movement. "I know."

"It
is
true," the chair maker
repeated.

"But many don't believe it. Help me prove
them wrong. Show them
you
are not a killer.
You
care."

"I... I–"

"Where are the scavengers?"

"They are out in the country with the
farmers–"

"Where?"

"I don't know."

"But you can find out."

"No, I–"

"You buy from them."

The chair maker's head was still shaking
absently. He looked at the once again statue-still face across the
table. "No–"

"You do."

"Yes. I mean yes, but I can't help you.
"

"You can."

"I can't."

"You can."

"No... But, b-but what do you mean? I don't
know any–any–"

"You can find out." The man sighed, openly
this time. He stood up. The movement was smooth, almost graceful.
He waited for a minute, standing as still as he had been sitting.
Take some time."

"What do you w–"

"You can decide tomorrow."

"But I don't–I don't..."

"We have a day until reinforcements arrive,"
he said, looking calmly at the chair maker. "And that is about how
much time you have, too."

He turned away. He walked to one side of the
room. The chair maker watched, head bent, hands cupping one side of
his face, eyes barely open. The beaded man pushed a panel – a piece
of the black wall so well blended as to be nearly invisible – and
with a gentle buzzing a part of the wall opened, swung downward,
then stopped, resting two feet over the floor like another table
held up at one end by the wall.

"Sleep well," said the man. Then he walked
to another wall, pushed on another almost-invisible panel and a
door opened.

A second later he was gone. The door shut
behind him.

The chair maker shivered.

He rubbed his ear and it hurt. The pain woke
him up a tiny bit more. He pushed himself off the chair and over to
the newest piece of furniture in the room – the only thing in the
room that was not an obsidian mirror. It was a white box, dull and
roughly man-sized, set on a horizontal frame. The chair maker
pushed against the white part with his fingers. It gave, just a
little.

It was a bed.

At least,
bed
was the closest
description. There was no pillow and no sheet. But it was too low
for a table and the wrong shape for a chair.

The chair maker bowed his head and pressed
the heels of his hands into his eyes. His fingernails dug into
scalp at the hairline. In the darkness he swayed on his feet. He
put one hand out to steady himself, leaning on the bed, but he did
not lay down. He couldn't bring himself to lay down. Not on that
plastic thing. Not in this cold Skyless place. He was tired. But
not that tired. Not yet. He straightened, opened his eyes, looked
around the room.

There wasn't much to see.

There were no windows. No furniture besides
the bed and the table in the center of the room and the two chairs
on either side of it. No food. No toilet. He could see the vague
outline of the door now. It was so faint it could have been one
solid wall in an unopenable cube.

The chair maker turned back to the wall
closest to him that the bed had folded out of. He walked along the
wall, face close to the surface, eyes squinting at it, hands
brushing across it's smooth surface, looking for any other panels
he may have missed, anything else to break up its solidness.

There was nothing.

He turned the corner after only a few steps.
He walked along that wall, inspecting it.

Nothing.

The wall with the door had nothing else. He
pressed against the door the way the bearded man had done, but it
did not give or open or do anything at all except remain like a
solid part of the wall. No light came from the cracks around it. He
turned to the fourth wall.