Blightcross: A Novel by C.A. Lang

hand was covered in a black smear of grit.
    In the distance, there it was—the monolith. A clock tower, surrounded by bulbous buildings that reminded her of fungal growths on trees. Smokestacks rose from many of these bulbs, and in the waning light jets of flame spewing from them became visible.
    Was it a foundry? Just what was it that was attracting people from all over the main continent?
    It couldn’t be a foundry. Yahrein possessed the best foundries in the world, and a project this massive would have caused upset back on the continent. All she had heard during her forced holiday was that Naartland was a nation of upstarts who took great credit and pride for the resources that had been lying under their feet for billions of years.
    She had just assumed that they were talking about ore, but perhaps this was some new product...
    When the chemical odour returned on a hot breeze, she wrinkled her nose and went back inside.
    The two of them passed the rest of the night in silence. She assumed Dannac was performing a kind of Ehzeri meditation, and she busied herself with the newspaper. Since they could be stuck in Blightcross for months, even a year or more, she thought she had better improve her language skills.
    Although both Capra and Dannac were disciplined enough to go days without food and maintain their concentration, neither were in the mood for a fasting contest, and the next morning they ventured into the streets. There was an eatery just down the road from their building, but Capra insisted they find something else after stepping into the place’s sawdust floor.
    â€œAs you wish, your majesty,” Dannac had told her when she refused to eat at the place.
    By now, Capra noticed that the city seemed to cycle through three or four strange odours, and that her throat felt as though she had swallowed a washboard. Beyond the low buildings, there was another industrial-looking monolith, but these she knew were foundries and smelters. There were parcels of unused land surrounding them, and there was a peculiar red tinge to the sand.
    â€œI have a method, you know,” she said, as they cleared the barren area and came upon a collection of tents and shacks and tables, all barely visible amid the crowd buzzing around them. Most of them were women in dun-coloured cloth that covered their faces. The few uncovered faces showed nasty red sores.
    There was some produce for sale, but most of the things for sale were things unfamiliar to Capra. She began to feel backward and stupid. She may have received a sophisticated, state-sponsored education, but did that matter out here? Was Blightcross also a centre for innovation?
    Or was it all just distraction?
    She saw trinkets stamped with the rose emblem that must have been the crest of Blightcross. Slogans—“strong and free”—on random items, like chamber pots and grain sifters. Symbols of the Tamarck deity called The Teacher, which was rapidly displacing its companions in the old pantheon and was responsible for much of the current disdain for vihs .
    â€œThe Teacher helps those who help themselves,” Dannac said, and loud enough for anyone to hear. “Choice is the ultimate divinity.”
    Capra gave him a perplexed look. “You don’t agree?”
    â€œChoice for its own sake is vain. This is why my cousins and brothers kill your people.”
    â€œWe are not a theocracy. We do what we do because of the war, not because of any spiritual high-ground.”
    â€œWell, I really don’t care about it either way. It is kind of strange how these people seem to be constantly reminding themselves of what they already think, though.”
    They moved faster through the market. Now she noticed the market’s neat rows of palms. For a single breath, the heat and palm trees whisked her back to the southern state of Heuvot. She had washed dishes there for three weeks, and again it was one of the best experiences she’d ever