Bruglia.

3201. Verdant.

It occurred to Clarke that they hadn’t been afforded much time to experience the real Bruglia, having been shuttled from palace to museum to prison. He wondered if that was deliberate on Daryla’s part, or merely a result of their compressed schedule. She had proved an especially eccentric tourist guide. The march to the portal station would at least provide a last proper view of the city, in-between babysitting their subject.

Goldspeth was something of a mystery. Clearly pleased with the sound of his own voice and accustomed to being surrounded by those who would gladly listen to it, the man seemed delusional half the time and entirely focused the rest. If I wasn’t for him mentioning a Barrindon shipping container, Clarke would have dismissed Goldspeth’s account as a fiction. But there was something there, even if they’d have to dig through all of the archaeologist’s hyperbole to find it.

The prison was on the outskirts, surrounded on most sides by the endless rocky wastes that defined the area. The entire region was a medley of raised mesas and interlinked canyon networks, the unusual topography crafted by rivers that went dry long ago. Clarke didn’t care much for portal science - unless it interfered with his job - but he couldn’t help but wonder what had happened in this dimension to make it so different to the other two. Mid-Earth and Max-Earth were largely proxies for each other, albeit separated by time and experience. Palinor was entirely separate, its own beast, despite presumably having some sort of distant link to Earth in order for the portal connection to exist in the first place.

Moving back into the city, the prison gave way to dusty streets and low buildings, the neighbourhoods quiet with windows shuttered. After a few minutes they moved into a busier part of town, the walls built higher and the inhabitants busier. Everything about the place was different, from the building materials to the food smells drifting out of doorways to the texture of the ground. Clarke had never felt more foreign, or less like he belonged. He glanced over at Styles, her eyes wide as if she was trying to soak in every part of the experience. She was a capable adult, he knew, already an excellent detective and a great partner, but he couldn’t help but think of her as being a kid. A consequence of him being so ancient. Had he ever had that wide-eyed wonder, that insatiable enthusiasm for everything the world had to offer? He couldn’t remember. He did know that Callihan would have liked her, that’s for sure.

Goldspeth walked in the centre of Daryla’s four guard escorts, Daryla herself out the front and Clarke and Styles orbiting around the edge, scanning for any signs of trouble. Not that he expected any - even if Goldspeth’s story was all true, Clarke couldn’t imagine the man’s pursuers attacking in broad daylight in the middle of the city. Clarke’s first thought had been to ask about some form of vehicular transport, assuming it would be faster and safer. Daryla gently noted that most of the streets in Bruglia were built tall and narrow to maximise shade and keep the city cool, and therefore were generally unsuitable for horse and cart, let alone anything more ‘exotic’ - as she put it. As he felt the afternoon sweat beginning to form under his shirt, Clarke started to visualise his kitchen back home, reaching into the fridge, pulling out a beer. If all went according to plan, he could be there by the end of the day.

They walked mostly in silence, the guards scanning doorways and windows and observing any movement above on the rooftops. Civilians went about their business, usually carrying baskets on their heads or pushing wheelbarrows full of produce and goods. The entire city seemed to Clarke to always have something to sell or to buy.

Their route took them down winding streets and far too many steps until they emerged into a more open area, in the centre of which was a bustling market. Row after row of stalls filled the square from edge to edge and Daryla and the guards led them around the periphery, drawing curious looks from the shoppers and merchants. They all would know who she was, Clarke realised, unsure of the Earth equivalent. Who was she to the people who lived in Bruglia? The mayor? The equivalent of a prime minister? A tyrant? Simply a rich aristocrat? His knowledge of Palinese politics was woefully inadequate, he recognised. It had never seemed important in the process of investigating London-based portal crimes; once a suspect was arrested, it didn’t much matter where they were from.

That’s what he’d always thought. Callihan had evidently thought differently, which is what had uncovered all of this - whatever ‘this’ was. It had also got him killed.

A commotion, from the centre of the market. Shouts, a scream. Then an explosion of dust and debris, the roof and supports of a stall spiralling into the air. Another detonation from a different corner of the market. More screams.

Daryla’s guard pressed in tight around Goldpseth. “I told you!” he wailed. “I told you they would be coming for me!”

“What do we do?” Styles asked, keeping close to Clarke.

“Keep moving,” Daryla said, “we need to get away from the market.”

There was movement as half a dozen people emerged from the dust cloud at the centre of the market, taking up positions and clearly ready for a fight. There was a koth, an aen’fa, the rest humans. The aen’fa leaped up onto the roof of a market stall and spread his arms wide.

“Citizens of Bruglia! Hear my words, for we are not here to fight you, but to bring you freedom. Not today, alas, for our oppressors are yet too numerous and too strong, but someday we will all be free.”

Clarke frowned. This didn’t sound like assassins. “Who is this joker?”

“Good question,” Styles said quietly, “but I don’t think they’re here for us.”

The aen’fa man was still proclaiming. “We are all subjugated! Ground down beneath the boot an spit of the so-called rulers of Palinor. The city state aristocracy, in their ivory towers and their universities. The gatekeepers of knowledge, who want magic to be available only to the select few. To maintain their status quo they keep all of us down, all of us siloed into our classes. And make no mistake, this is a class war. We, the underclasses, demand recognition, demand freedom. We wish for a peaceful transition but are prepared to use force to make it happen. A new world, a better world, a world in which magic is unregulated, anyone can learn it, anyone can teach it, in which city states are not ruled by elites but are governed democratically by us, the people. We have seen that it is possible! We have gazed through portals to other worlds. They have shown us the way.”

Daryla sighed. “Radicals,” she said. “Rogue mages. They usually keep to the canyons, or hide in forests beyond our borders. Troublemakers.”

The speaker, clearly the leader of the insurgent group, turned towards them and his eyes narrowed. “Good people, we have one of our oppressors among us at this very moment!” He pointed. “Princess Daryla has graced us with her presence. Take note, behold how the oppressor can bear a beautiful face yet still hold the leash.”

She took several steps towards him. “Guards will be here momentarily. If you value your lives, be some place else.” She gestured at the damaged stalls. “There is no need to punish these merchants over your disagreements.”

“Oh, but there is, your highness,” the aen’fa said, jumping down from his parapet. He beat his chest with his fists. “We must shake people from their slumber, from their court-induced malaise. There unintentional collaboration maintains you. Taxes from sales in this very market fill your coffers, power your empires. We pay for our own imprisonment!”

“Leave, now. Last warning.”

He smiled. “Ah, yes. The famed Princess Daryla of Bruglia. Pre-eminent micrologist. You could pinch an artery in my neck with an idle thought. You could do that to anyone here.”

“I could.”

One of the other rebels pushed through the crowd and stood defensively next to the leader. “I’d like to see you try,” she said.

The aen’fa put a hand of her shoulder. “Not today, Yana.” Then to the crowd, he spoke more loudly. “There is no need for violence. Not today. We take our leave. But heed our words, citizens of Bruglia. You are more powerful than you know, and nobler than those who rule you.”

There was a ripple in the air, then the ground appeared to erupt, a solid wall of rock forming between them and Daryla. She was clearly surprised, but composed herself quickly and returned to where Clarke was waiting with Styles and the guards. “We should keep moving,” Daryla said, clearly troubled. “City guards will be here momentarily to clean up this mess.”

“Are you OK?” Styles put a hand on Daryla’s arm.

The princess frowned, her mouth curled into a grimace. “I’ve heard of these rebels. They’ve shown up in other cities, protesting, causing trouble. This is the first time they’ve been to Bruglia.”

Trouble in paradise, thought Clarke.

Goldspeth groaned. “Can we please get me to the portal now? I’m feeling very exposed.”

*

Addis Ababa.

1965. Sene. (Gregorian: 1973. June.)

Kaminski dove for cover, grabbing at Nisha as he went, pulling her down and behind a sculpture that sat on the pavement opposite the portal station. It wasn’t much, but it was better than being out in the open.

“Moustache guy,” Chakraborty said, breathing heavily.

“You go right, I’ll go left?” Kaminski didn’t know if it would work but staying put wasn’t an option, not when the other guy had a weapon and would be coming round the side of the statue any moment.

Nodding silently, Chakraborty jumped to her feet and began circling anti-clockwise around the statue’s base. Kaminski took a breath, then moved back the way they had come.

Their assailant was pursuing, as he’d expected, and Kaminski jerked back just in time for part of the statue to be obliterated by another shot. If he could just keep him focused for a few seconds, it’d give Chakraborty time to get round behind—

There was another shot, a shout, then the gun skittered across the ground and came to rest at Kaminski’s feet. Uncomprehending, he picked it up regardless and moved back around the statue, thinking that perhaps Chakraborty had made her move even more quickly than he’d expected.

Justin stood with their right arm outstretched, holding the moustached man by the neck while his feet dangled off the ground. “Apologies for the delay,” Justin said, their voice oddly modulated and artificial-sounding, “I needed to re-route some of the circuitry due to the damage.” Turning towards Kaminski, the missing side of Justin’s face was revealed, as well as the disintegrated shoulder. White and yellow fluids leaked down their chest, the inside of the host body an unnerving mix of machinery and seemingly organic material.

Chakraborty and Kaminski approached cautiously, while the moustached man continued to struggle in Justin’s grip. “The police will be here momentarily,” Justin said. “This host body is failing. I have approximately forty-five seconds remaining. Would you like this man conscious or unconscious?”

Keeping the gun trained on the attacked, Kaminski nodded to Chakraborty. “Search him for other weapons.” Then, to Justin, “keep him awake. We have questions to ask.”