Free Legion by Dan Abnett Page B

into Mon Lo from the hinterland, hoping to do business at the city markets. Migrant workers were walking to the port in search of employment. Refugees and displaced citizens were coming to the gates, fleeing the Imperial advance. Grammaticus fell in with them.
    As he walked, Grammaticus began the psychic litany in his head, the final progression towards immersion in another dialect and culture base.
    I am John Grammaticus. I am John Grammaticus. I am John Grammaticus pretending to be Konig Heniker. I am Konig Heniker. I am Konig Heniker pretending to be D’sal Huulta. I am D’sal Huulta. I chey D’sal Huulta lem pretending. El-chey D’sal samman Huulta lem tanay ek. El’chey D’sal samman Huulta lem tanay ek…
    ‘Who are you, fellow?’ one of the echvehnurth warriors at the city gate asked as he approached. The echvehnurth had been resting his falx against his silver breastplate, but now he raised it. Some of his companions did likewise. Others were stopping and searching some water merchants heading in out of the desert through the ancient arch.
    ‘I am D’sal Huulta,’ Grammaticus replied in Demotic Nurthene, making the obeisance of all-the-sunlight to the echvehnurth. ‘I am a merchant.’
    Falx held ready across the left shoulder to strike, the echvehnurth stared at Grammaticus. ‘Show me your palms, your face, and your brands.’
    Grammaticus made as if to do so.
    +I’m safe and you’ve seen all you need to reassure you,+ he sent at the same moment.
    The echvehnurth nodded, and waved him into the city, already sweeping the incomers for his next subject.
    Grammaticus had shown him nothing.
    M ON L O WAS waking up. As a city girded to the expectation of assault, it never truly slept, but its habits followed a circadian ebb and flow.
    The outer walls were well defended by squadrons of echvehnurth, by iron mortars and bombasts, and by platoons of the regular nurthadtre ground troops. They loitered in unruly, spitting gatherings around the heavy steps of the city’s thick walls, or stood on the wall’s fighting platforms, watching the distant, unmoving enemy through spyglasses.
    Deeper in the city, the rhythmic pulse of life was easier to discern. Markets woke up. Merchants announced their wares. Morning devotions were declaimed by strong-lunged priests. Water-carriers called their services as they wandered the plazas and the winding, cobbled streets and lanes.
    Grammaticus retraced his steps, trying to recall the specific layout of the place as he had experienced it the first time. Passing merchants and elders nodded and made the all-the-sunlight gesture to him as they acknowledged his status.
    He made the gesture back.
    Grammaticus wanted to get into the northern suburb, an area called Kurnaul, so he could get a good look at the city’s north wall. Tuvi would appreciate his efforts. lie stood aside to let a grox-cart trundle past. Street washers cleaned the cobbles with bristle brooms and pails of water, using spades for the animal dung. They sang as they worked.
    The faience tiled walls of the port city glimmered around him in the morning sun, showing reeds and reptiles in mosaic. The Nurthene had no street names, just pictorial emblems. He looked at a particular symbol, a great monitor lizard delineated in cherry red tiles, and knew, with a trained certainty, that he had never seen it before. He’d made a wrong turn. Mon Lo was so complex, so interwoven, it was hard to recall the specific plan. It was like Arachne’s web; mousy, big-bosomed Arachne.
    He was the needle, he fancied, her needle, moving through the net of fate.
    He halted and took a moment to consider. His internal compass was out. He checked with the rising sun and established where east was. He slowed his breathing, and allowed himself to perspire for a minute, just to stabilise his body. He had his bearings again. He’d just gone a street too far west, that was all. Kurnaul district was over to his left.
    Except it wasn’t. He halted