Free Heaven's Gate by Toby Bennett Page B

and the wealth of its overlords. Like so many things in the Bowl, its fate had been decided by the trains. Once, they had run regularly through the green lands and made the city a flourishing metropolis, since the war ended, however, the old tracks were never used, except by hand carts and the occasional steam engine; the fact that the Carters could even field these engines was a sign of their wealth. Most enterprises found the necessary use of combustible fuels prohibitively expensive but the Carters had long harvested these lands for food and lumber and they were loathe to lose them, thus they had used the old track and constructed their own engines to ferry as much as possible up to the main line. Some of the rest went on the barges struggling their way up river but in spite of all their efforts there was simply no way to keep up the prosperity the city had once known and Olstop had the look of an old timer, doing his best to keep a shine on a worn out pair of shoes.
     
    The Hitching Post stood on the outskirts of this slow sprawl, serving those who still travelled the trade routes between the Blue Snake and the Line. Even though a lot of the migrant workers were gone these days and the merchants had little love for Inquisitors, the Post still saw a fair amount of custom. Like it or not the land around Olstop and beyond was simply too valuable to abandon, as people might abandon so many other settlements when the trains stopped coming. Merchants overcame their distaste for greedy Churchmen and the extra effort and expense of transporting their goods, and still came seeking the renewal of their contracts and the masters of more distant baronies still sent representatives to ensure that the all important fruits of this verdant land kept flowing. Despite its regular custom, The Hitching Post was by no means the best inn to be found on the outskirts of Olstop but it was clean and out of the way and that’s how many of its clients liked it.
     
    The latest arrival at the Post was well shrouded in the folds of an over-sized poncho and the shadow cast by an equally over-sized hat. A more perceptive observer might have guessed that something about the newcomer’s carriage was feminine but to the average onlooker her sex was indiscernible and this could be any one of a thousand waifs and rogues that plied their varied trades along the river. The fact that the traveller does not remove her hat when she enters the common room is cause for some concern on the part of the other patrons. Custom dictates that eyes should never be hidden when in company. The eyes of the dead are often the only warning the living get, too often the failure to spot the blank, irisless eyes of the possessed had caused death in the Bowl. Being so far from the true fringes of the desert, this breach in etiquette causes only a low hum of speculation, which ends when the innkeeper confronts the shadowed figure. After a quick murmured interchange he takes a long hard look at the face under the hat, then gives nod.
     
    With that reassurance, the tension in the room dissipates as quickly as it had built and the room swallows the stranger up, making her part of the crowd. Only one set of eyes still follow her and they belong to a fly clinging to the rafters above with brittle grey claws. The fly has been dead for some days now and it is becoming hard for the little spy to hang onto things without the naturally sticky secretions of its small body. Behind the multifaceted eyes, two minds connected by their mutual position of this tiny vessel are debating.
     
    “ It seems you were right,” one of the voices buzzes, the sound covered by the rattle of the fly’s brittle wings, “ the foolish girl is running straight back to her father.”
    “Where else could the spoilt child go? She cannot think of life away from the privilege she has known and she cannot face the thought of marrying Angus, far too pious far too controlling.   She didn’t couch it in those