back and forth along the upper edge of the farms. They've been watching since I started my rambling run along the brick-lined edges of the basins. When I reach the last few rows, the watchers scatter. It is one thing to spot a monster; it is another thing entirely to meet it face-to-face. The only thing moving along the rim when I arrive is a tiny wind, blowing dust along the walls of the huts. A zephyr.
I've been thinking while I clambered up the hill, letting my brain get lost in my history as a distraction from the waves of pain coursing through my body. My skin is still raw and the weight of my clothing is a fierce torment, but my strength has not been sapped by the sun as I had expected. I have been burned by the sun numerous times during the twentieth century—a growing concern brought about by the vicissitudes of the modern world—but this time, I can live with the pain. I do not entirely know the source of my willpower; perhaps it is a reaction to seeing Phoebe survive sunlight or a facet of my conversations with Escobar or even strength drawn from my memory of the last augury I did for Aeneas.
I have lost my fear of the sun.
And with it, so too has my fear of abandonment vanished. I have turned my back on Arcadia, even as Arcadia has exiled me. I have nowhere to go. No home that I can return to. But my exile is not a yoke about my shoulders. The salt and the sun have stripped away all that dead weight.
The huts are tiny little domiciles, transitory living quarters for the farmers as they tend to their basins. I find little in the few that I break into. Most have tiny refrigerators that aren't very well stocked. What fruit I find I eat without reservation, replenishing my depleted cells. I can feel my body relax, no longer crippled by the desiccating salt of the basins. I'm a long way from being whole, but I'm strong enough to keep fighting.
Tucked between two of the huts, I find a worn bicycle. It is covered in dust and might have been green once upon a time. Wire baskets have been welded between the handlebars and on either side of the back wheel. The nut holding the seat in place is stiff, but I manage to get it started so that I can raise the seat. It has a metal bell, and I flick the ringer with my thumb as I ride toward the dirt road that runs past the edge of the farms and heads further uphill.
Ding! Ding!
Moray, the farming site where the Incans experimented with seeds, is only a few kilometers away. That's where the helicopter was going. Hyacinth Worldwide is building something there, and I suspect it is Escobar's great secret. The place where he is building the chimerae.
Ding! Ding!
The ringing of the bell is both a tribute to the dead and a warning to Escobar.
I'm not done yet.
FORTY-THREE
Along a flat stretch of road that runs along a ridge, I stop and look back toward Cusco. There's a haze of dirt stretching back toward the city, and sunlight glints off the metal bodies of a line of cars. There's too much dust to be sure, but it looks like a couple of Mercedes G-class wagons.
Secutores won the fight at the plaza. That doesn't bode well for Arcadia. When was the last time we lost a fight with humans?
Ahead of the caravan, weaving wildly around the sharp turns of the switchback up the side of the ridge, is a dark blue sedan. I watch it approach. I can't outrun it on my bike, and I'm more than a little curious as to who is leading this charge. The sedan roars over the top of the ridge, catching a little air, and slews dangerously close to me before it comes to a stop. The passenger side window comes down and I look in.
“We really don't have time for you to stand there and gawk at me,” Mere says.
“It's just good to see you,” I say, and I mean it. Her face and neck are streaked with dirt and blood, and there's a gleam in her eye that speaks of too much adrenaline in the last hour, but it's definitely Mere, vibrant and alive. On the passenger seat is a handgun, a model I've seen Secutores carry. I leave the bike by