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“How old is Cagmar?” I ask as we near the surface.
“Old,” he replies, waiting at a ladder as another engineer climbs up. “But not as old as Eterellis. The deeper into the canyon you go, the younger it is.”
He lets me climb up next. The air warms with every rung, until it grows hot. The crispness of the morning has already been burned away by the relentless sun. I squint as I climb onto the deck, the air above the bridge’s stone rippling with the heat. Shielding my face, I look into the distance, to the near nothingness that surrounds the canyon. A fewskeletal trees and bushes break up the expanse. To the west, beyond my sight, rests the fallen city of Eterellis. The townships holding what’s left of my people lie far to the east.
Azmar’s shadow falls across me. I ask, “Where are the other trollis cities?”
“There is one north, in the canyon.” He pulls a grease pencil from his belt. “Many days away.”
“Does it have a bridge?”
He shakes his head. “It stems from a cavity in the canyon wall. I’ve never been there, but it’s about an eighth the size of Cagmar. The others, I’m not sure.”
I gaze up at him. “Not sure?”
He offers a sad tilt of his lips. “Our people were lost before the drought ever scattered yours, Lark. It would be a waste of soldiers to send scouts to find them in this landscape. When it rains again, the council might see it fit to explore.”
I consider this, wondering what it would have been like to live back then, in wealth and luxury, banishing trollis left and right until they were never heard of again. I do not know much of the earth’s other peoples—the merdan and gullop of the sea and the fette and aerolass of the sky—but I do not think they hate each other as much as humans and trollis do. At least, I hope that’s not the case, for when the drought hit, we were unable to help one another through it.
And now both our people are scattered and lost.
Azmar starts down the bridge, toward the east lip of the canyon. I follow behind and accept a sheaf of papers that he hands to me. A few other engineers dot the bridge. One takes notes and sketches something as we pass. I recognize one of the trollis standing near the bridge’s end, his thick gray arms crossed over his chest. He was the first trollis I’d ever met, the one who, I think, threw me over his shoulder upon my arrival and dropped me before the council.
Azmar doesn’t look up as we pass, but he greets, “Homper.”
Homper studies me, equally suspicious and curious. At the last moment, I decide to smile at him, and he looks shocked, as though a wasp has stung him. I note the single bead on his sleeve, like Perg.
I try not to laugh. It’s easy to see how the trollis would be feared, but beneath their size, their bony protrusions, their gray and green skin, they are not so unlike us.
Azmar takes a few measurements, leaving me to my thoughts. After stepping off the bridge, I walk the length of the canyon a ways, then return. Azmar hands me a measuring tape and a sketch and asks me to double-check his numbers. I’m happy to do so, enjoying the sun on my shoulders and in my hair. Other trollis in harnesses slide down the sides of the bridge, inspecting its underside. Azmar closely examines the deck, writes numbers, examines it again. Then he reviews parts that were already reviewed by other engineers. There’s no room for error. He explains some of the math to me, but it gets complicated, and I struggle to keep up. I don’t think he notices.
Soon the sun burns high and hot, and Azmar hands me a rope and swings down beneath one of the girders, shaded from the sun. He helps me down, and I settle next to him. We open our lunches and let our feet hang.
“We’ll have to use cables,” he says halfway through his meal. “The canyon wall is strong, and the existing connection to it was overdesigned, but we have added so much that we really need additional connections. If the council wants continued expansion with the same protections Cagmar has now, we’ll have to use cables.”
“You don’t sound happy about that.” I pick at a piece of flatbread.
“I would prefer a straight steel connection to the canyon wall.” He shrugs. “Cables are better than nothing, but they’re also easy to besiege.”
I consider this. “Is Cagmar at risk of besiegement?”
He glances at me, his eyes warm. “Humans are not the only threat.”
I think of the aerolass raiders, of the monsters below.
Azmar finishes his food first. Before he rises, I ask, “Azmar, why are you kind to me?”
I can tell the question takes him off guard, for genuine curiosity limns his usually carefully guarded features. “I don’t think I am, particularly. Unach and Perg are also kind to you.”
I shake my head, looking down toward the city. “Not in the same way. Unach is ... reasonable. She sees use where there is use. And Perg ... Perg is so desperate for belonging, for understanding, that he would be kind to anyone who was first kind to him. But you, Azmar, you’ve always been kind. A little blunt at times ...” I remember our first meeting. “But always kind. You’ve never scowled at me or ignored me the way the others do, even from the beginning. Why is that?”
I peek through loose strands of hair at him. He regards me in a way that makes him look younger. He looks out across the length of the canyon. Enough time passes that I think he won’t answer me, and my question will be left hanging. But then he speaks.
“All trollis must enroll in military training for seven years, from ages twelve to nineteen.”
I don’t see what that has to do with my question, but I remain quiet and listen to the cadence of his voice.
“When I was sixteen, I was in a raiding party that attacked a human township,” he continues, his voice low, like he doesn’t want to be overheard. I lean closer to hear him. “We were a small band, overconfident, and most of our numbers were youth. I suspect a scout from the township saw us coming, because the humans were prepared for us when we arrived. The battle was brief but intense. One of the men picked up my fallen comrade’s sword and ran me through with it.”
