The Hanging City (14)

I take the stairs. One troll, then another, comes down from above. I press myself to the wall to let them pass. Neither takes interest in me, though the second does inspect my clothing. I wonder if the tradesman package Unach instructed me to collect includes Cagmar regalia. Will I have to pay for it, or is the name and birth year adequate? Is there some sort of tab?

I follow a corridor, staying close to the rough wall, trying not to meet the glances of passing trolls. This corridor opens into a decent-sized atrium. I search for signs to point me in the right direction, but there are none. Unach and I had descended far enough for my ears to pop on the way to the south dock, so surely I need to go up.

I continue walking, subtly looking around like I know where I’m going. I find a pathway that looks familiar and follow it, but it gets so narrow toward the end that I think I must be mistaken, so I turn around and take another left, succeeding in locating another set of stairs. I pass a great crisscrossing of metalwork that looks similar in build to the Empyrean Bridge. That must be the Mid-divide. Troff had said something about following it . . . Did he say which direction?

After debating the choice to keep climbing or follow the girders, I choose the latter. In the distance I see a flash of tan and think it must be a human, but it’s gone just as quickly. I search as I walk; surely another human would be understanding and tell me . . . where to go . . .

I stop walking when I realize I’ve entered a maze. Someone nearly runs into the back of me and mutters as they go around. I should keep moving . . . but I’m floundering. Multiple lifts, stairs, corridors, doors . . . they’re everywhere.

“Move!” growls a bald troll, bent with age. He hobbles around me, whacking my calf with his walking staff as he passes. Gritting my teeth, I follow him, then duck into the first passageway I reach, grateful the throng here is somewhat less dense. I press my back into the wall and take a deep breath.

Just ask someone. Someone who doesn’t look busy. They can’t all hate humans, if we’re allowed to live here. I did have to give up my greatest secret to stay here, which doesn’t bolster my courage.

What did Troff say? Follow the divider, and . . . something about storage?

“Lark.”

A voice sounds over my head, and I jump, whirling around to face another troll. It takes me a heartbeat to recognize him, and relief floods my limbs. “Azmar.”

He regards me with what I can best describe as restrained curiosity. “What are you doing here?”

“I . . .” I look around. “I don’t know where ‘here’ is, precisely. Could you tell me how to get to the market?”

He frowns. “Unach is foolish to assume you wouldn’t get lost.” No animosity colors his voice; he says it merely as a fact. He reaches down to a hefty belt around his hips and pulls from it a pencil and a piece of paper—I’m impressed—and begins to walk away from me. I follow, but he stops after a few paces, where the rocky wall gives way to smooth steel plates. He presses the paper there so he can write.

The council hadn’t been impressed by my literacy. The citizens of Cagmar must have a good schooling system. Before coming here I’d expected only training fields, weight rooms, anything denoting strength and war and prowess. Though admittedly, my knowledge of trolls was limited to rumors and tall tales.

Azmar draws swift, straight lines, forming arches and triangles, rooms and what I suppose are roads. He labels them, though his handwriting is not nearly as neat as the sketch. I notice the absence of any of the turquoise beading I’ve seen on many of the other trolls. Indeed, Azmar lacks any sort of décor, unless one counts the pencil sticking out of the knot at the back of his head.

“You’re here.” He draws a sort of star near the center of the map. “The market is here.” His low voice bears that peculiar troll lilt, but it isn’t unfriendly. He adds two small triangles. “This is the food handlers, this is the Rooms Office, here’s the supply center where you’ll ask for your tradesman package.”

I nod, though my attention slips from the map to him. His bicep is thicker than my thigh. He could kill me with a single strike, surely. And humans are not permitted to carry weapons! He tucks the pencil into his dark hair and hands the paper to me.

I study the map and relax. “Thank you. Truly.” I don’t understand parts of it, but I hope the drops and passageways will become clearer as I walk them. “How . . . will I pay for it? The supplies, I mean.”

“On credit.” He steps away from the wall. “They will know Unach, and you’re obviously human.”

I tilt my head. “Yes . . .”

He hooks his thumb into his outer belt. “Humans aren’t trusted with currency.”

Oh. I suppose that makes sense, if we’re such low-class denizens.

Since he’s being frank, I ask, “And Unach’s name is enough?”

“Unach is Montra.”

There is that word again. “She’s . . . an official?”

Azmar frowns. “Montra is sixth caste. The food handlers and Rooms Office workers will be Deccor at best. That’s third caste.”

I blink, mulling over the information. Thinking of Grodd at the farm walls, the way other trolls steered clear of him and Unach both.

“There are eight castes,” Azmar continues patiently. “Supra, Alpine, Montra, Centra, Intra, Deccor, Nethens, and Pleb. Humans have no caste. If you want to survive, you need to remember that. Stay out of the way.”