CHAPTER 18
DAVINA
Three weeks ago
WITH THE ONE CLUE WE’D MANAGED TO UNCOVER BURIED UNDER TONS UPON TONS OF STONE, and the threat of having damaged Kan’s pyramid looming above our heads, we agreed not to lose any time before returning to the government base in Kantria.
Luckily, Armand and Kwabena had managed to escape the crumbling pyramid the same way we’d gone in.
In the capital, we barely stopped for long enough to shower and rest. Well, and to get a curt but thorough reprimand from Tetteh for damaging a national monument, which was probably well deserved.
The choice to investigate Keftara next had been unanimous, if only because it was the sole place we all agreed to have seen highlighted on that carved map.
The clothes we’d worn in Kipiramida were taken out of our bags, then replaced with more suitable attire and equipment for the hike we’d have to make up the nefarious sounding Broken Mountain.
Despite the tight schedule, I did not make the same mistake twice.
In case we ended up with time to kill again, I requested books to take on the trip.
Most of my requests were not approved, but I was allowed to take three—all on general Kobrant geography and history—which was good enough.
I wanted to compare their maps to what I remembered of the marks inside Kan’s pyramid.
I’d attempted to scribble the lines as soon as I was steady enough to hold a pen, and although it was far from complete, it was better than nothing, I hoped. And if it wasn’t . . .
Well, we’d not risk it with another excursion into Kan’s pyramid anyway.
Come morning, a fresh transport pod was ready to take us to the next leg of the mission.
The ride was mostly silent, the pilot a stern woman in the higher end of middle age that didn’t utter a single word throughout the trip.
Kwabena’s head was resting against the back of his seat, his trusty hat held in precarious equilibrium over his eyes and nose.
Zephyr was engrossed in some files, making the odd note—taken tidily in the margin—or underlining sentences here and there.
Armand was reading one of the books I’d borrowed, A Brief History of Kobra, while I focused on the map in front of me.
Only upon boarding the pod had I learned that access to the mountain named Keftara wasn’t free.
The main Kobrant reservoir of Evergreen Mahogany trees was nestled around one side of its base, which meant passage into that land was heavily controlled.
So much so, that rather than being led directly to the mountain, we’d been instructed to head to the base camp built at the Southern edge of the protected area.
We made it to the camp in question within two hours. Any hope I’d harbored over milder temperatures and cloudy skies evaporated as soon as I stepped outside. Suffocating, unyielding heat stole my next breath.
Three weeks in the icy Powder sound like a holiday right about now.
We were still too far South to have cleared the vast desert taking the majority of the Kobrant central mainland.
It was different from Kipiramida, up here.
More rocky canyons and amber grit than sandy dunes.
Stone channels veined through the wind-cut ravines in the distance, their walls stained in rust and gold.
Old extraction towers loomed like petrified skeletons on distant ridgelines, their coal rigs half-swallowed by the earth after a century of disuse.
The rest was familiar enough: the morning sun blinding, and the sky a hard, endless blue.
The air was full of coarse dust with a mineral scent.
It made my tongue tingle if I breathed too deeply, leaving a sharpness in my throat that reminded me of that of powdered copper in metallokinetic power plants.
Despite it all, somehow, there was also life. Cactus-thorned flora glowed in healthy greens here and there, and a chunky lizard slithered past Kwabena’s cane within minutes of us landing, disappearing through a crack in the earth.
“Welcome.”
A large woman stood on the edge of the rudimental pod station, her boots dust-caked, and her coverall patched with sigils that had long yielded to the dry grit the wind carried here. Despite her bulky size, she radiated the air of someone who didn’t use strength unless it was absolutely necessary.
A metallic fence stretched taut between the four tall rods delimiting three sides of the pod dock like a cage.
The fourth side stood open, leading directly into a simple concrete structure that hunkered low to the earth.
The building spanned a single level throughout, save for a narrow, square tower that rose from the South-Eastern end.
It quickly became clear that the technological advances and infrastructure we’d witnessed in Kipiramida hadn’t made it this deep into the Kobrant desert.
An array of other buildings stood on the sunbaked grit. From where I stood, I could identify old machine sheds, bunkhouses, tents, and simpler, newer cabins.
My attention was drawn once more to the woman when she tapped a fist over her heart twice. “Sergeant Yaa, long years have gone by since you last stepped foot in these far lands.” A cheeky grin ticked the corners of her mouth up.
Kwabena chuckled, straightening his hat. “Can you blame me? There is only heat and smelly men for miles and miles.”
A hearty laugh escaped the other woman’s chest, breaking through her stern composure.
“Tell me about it,” she said before engulfing the former in a hug.
I swallowed my surprise. In Widesight, at least in work environments, physical contact was rare at best and frowned upon at worst. At least in public. Only the Evergreen Mahogany knew how often Armand Bleuombre broke this stipulation in private.
Kwabena and the woman pulled apart, and who I suspected was the head of the camp extended her hand. “Captain. It’s good to see you again.”
Zephyr shook it firmly. “Likewise, Rolla.” He stepped to the side. “Let me introduce you to Centurion Davina Lachlan and Centurion Armand Bleuombre. They’re helping us with a case.”
Rolla nodded, clever grey eyes meeting Armand’s, then mine. “It is my honor to welcome you to my humble camp. It’s not every day that we get Falcons over here, as you can imagine.”
Falcons was the way the Kobrants often referred to Widesightians, generally at our backs. I’d yet to discern if it was intended to be offensive, but Rolla’s smile seemed genuine enough that I didn’t think it was on this occasion.
“Thank you,” I said.
Armand offered one of his smiles. “I don’t think many of us are built to survive these conditions, I’m afraid.”
Rolla chuckled again, placing a hand to her stomach as she turned towards the building.
Her left arm was bared to the shoulder, toughened by years of exposure to the relentless sun and displaying the end of a lattice of sapwork that shimmered faintly against her umber skin.
The swirling lines must have stretched over her collarbone before they peeked beyond the loose fabric covering her front.
Hydrokinesis. A useful skill, I supposed. Especially out here.
“Can’t imagine that you will, no,” Rolla said, voice warm with amusement. “Let’s get you off this heat and settled into your tents, shall we?”
We followed her into the large concrete building lining the rudimentary podport.
The air was only slightly cooler, but at least we were shielded from the full glare of the sun.
An officer directed us to a registry book, its pages thick with sand and sweat stains, where they instructed us to inscribe our names.
While we did, Rolla offered a brief explanation of the camp’s beginnings, back when it was barely more than a cluster of tents set down fifty years ago by a handful of sap-extractors and surveyors.
When we exited the office, I stopped in my tracks. Looked around, then looked again.
Words evaded me as I absorbed the sight.
Despite the primitive aspect of the podport and my first impression, I had to admit that whoever had organized the main area of the base had made the most of what little had been available, and the result was .
. . warm. Functional, yes, but also strangely inviting, like something from a children’s book.
Cactuses of all shapes and sizes lined sandy paths, their vibrant stems bright against the burnt orange dust. Cabins, tents, and huts made of old machinery, rock and wood surrounded the clearing in a mismatched semicircle.
There weren’t two similar constructions all around, but they fit together the way a hand-stitched quilt fits across cold shoulders.
Poles of bent wood and old, rusty metal pierced the air.
Between them, gauzy curtains fluttered, the light fabric dyed in earthy tones, casting patterned shade across the walkways.
From the same strings hung glass spheres, colored and irregular, which shimmered like jewels in the sunlight.
Lanterns of some sort, I guessed. A few people dressed in light, flowy clothes milled around, carrying large wicker baskets on shoulders or hat-covered heads, working on some of the constructions, or simply sitting under the shadow offered by the flittering canvas.
Every building looked like it had been born out of necessity, and kept standing through sheer stubbornness of the camp’s inhabitants. Earthen and wooden walls were patched with polished materials, roofs were held down with thick ropes, clay tiles, or even rusted sheets of metal.
Somehow, it made it look alive in a way that large cities didn’t.
“Does the camp have a name?”
“Not officially, no,” Rolla replied. “You won’t see it on any map. Internally, we call it Kamea.”
Kamea. Even the word, pronounced in her soft, rolling accent, sounded warm and welcoming.
“I like it.”
Zephyr cast a sidelong glance my way. I’d have sworn the corner of his mouth ticked. “It means ‘like home’.”
Fitting, I supposed.
When I turned to look over my shoulder, I found Armand grinning at two women eating lunch in front of a small cabin, and them returning the smile.
Incorrigible.
Some of the buildings were marked with the same kind of geometric glyphs as the ones etched onto Rolla’s clothes, painted above doorways or carved into wood.
She led us to a large tent set halfway between the dock and what I guessed was the center of the camp.
The structure was built from layers of heavy fabric in warm tones, stretched taut over a frame of reinforced steel poles.
Inside, it opened into a wide central hall, dimly lit by the filtered sunlight passing through slits in the fabric above.
Two slow-turning fans sat still on either corner, awaiting the presence of a psychokinetic to power them.
The main space had been divided using fabric partitions that sectioned off small sleeping quarters, each no more than a cot and a hook for clothing.
Like everything else here, it was simple and practical.
Rolla turned toward me, hands in the pockets of her well-worn jumpsuit. “It’s not much, but it’s clean, and the cots are as comfortable as they get around here.”
“It’s perfect, thank you.”
“Great, then I’ll leave you to settle. We can reconvene once the sun is lower.”
“Wait,” I called.
Rolla paused mid-step, turning back to face me with one brow raised.
“Would you be available to discuss the course of action now?”
She brought one hand to the back of her neck, rubbing it. “I suppose,” she said after a moment. “What did you wish to discuss, Centurion Lachlan?”
“Primarily, I’d like to know when we can access Keftara.”
Rolla let out a low sigh, sinking her hands into her pockets as if bracing for a long discussion.
“As you probably know already, access to the reservoir is heavily monitored. We sent the request for an authorized guide to be brought here so that they can get you to Keftara. Until they arrive, I’m afraid we can’t grant access. No exceptions.”
Not more waiting.
I pressed my lips together. “Is there no one here who could take us?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
I turned toward Zephyr, half expecting him to join in on my push given his insistence on closing the case as fast as possible, but he didn’t say a word. He stood perfectly still, brow furrowed, and lips drawn tight in a thoughtful line.
Rolla continued. “Here in Kamea we manage access to the reservoir, as well as transport to and from the main cities in the continent, but no one has free access to the protected area. It was deemed a potential risk for conflict of interest, so those who do are based closer to the mountain.”
I sighed. It wasn’t ideal, but if even the King’s Army had to follow protocol, I suspected there was little that could be done about it.
“Alright,” I conceded. “Apologies for my insistence but this is a critical matter, as you can imagine.”
Rolla nodded. “I’m sorry there’s nothing else I can do.”
“How long do you think it would take the guide to get here?”
“No more than a few days, usually. They’ll have to walk or ride here. Pods are useless closer to the reservoir, as the high density of Evergreen Mahogany trees interferes with abilities in the area, even those of trained manners.”
A few days. Days I’d have to think of useful things to fill with.
If I was alone, I could probably sneak out and get to Keftara on my own, but with my ever-present babysitter sleeping in the same tent . . .
Definitely not ideal.