Description: ONE For the first time in ten years the minotaurs came to the city of Caeli-Amur from the winding road that led through the foothills to the north. There were three hundred or more of them. From the city they appeared as tiny figures-refugees perhaps. But as they approached, the size of their massive bodies, the magnificence of their horned bull heads, the shape of their serrated short-swords, became apparent. The minotaurs had come for the Festival of the Bull. When the week was over, they would descend from the white cliffs on which the city perched and board the ships that would carry them out over the Sunken City and home to their island of Aya. The citizens watched the minotaurs silently, from their balconies or the city's white walls. Some of the elderly leaned toward each other and whispered: "So few? There are so few of them." Many of the children, especially from the factory districts, ran out to meet the magnificent creatures, laughing and calling to them until they drew close and the power and size of the minotaurs quieted them. Gliders swung out over the creatures and watched them from above, safe on the cool currents of air that swept in from the sea. Finally, when the minotaurs arrived at the city, some, who still held to the old ways, fell onto their knees in supplication. The minotaurs were still worshipped as gods by a few, though to harm them was considered a crime by all. The orderly line broke apart when the minotaurs entered the city and spread out like tributaries into a delta: some climbed their way down to the water palaces and steam baths that ran along the peninsula at the northeast side of Caeli-Amur. Others caught the sooty street-trams through the windy streets along the cliffs, or took the cable car that ran from the massive machine tower near the piers to the top of the cliffs. Those minotaurs seeking knowledge ventured to Caeli-Amur's famous cafs, where philosopher-assassins debated in the afternoon, drinking coffee and eating fruit. By nightfall, the minotaurs could be found in the liquor palaces and beer halls. In one such drinking tavern called the Ruins, long after the sun had descended over the mountains to the west, Kata eyed a group of minotaurs. They dominated the place, which, perched on the edge of the factory district close to the city's northern gate, was typical of workers' establishments of the area. The proprietor of the Ruins had decorated the hot and dirty hall with a bar along one wall with fragments of ancient technology scavenged from the old places. In one corner, a lamp was cleverly constructed from a ragged half of a broken metallic sphere; the remnants of its insides-an intricate latticework of fine metals-were blackened and twisted. Strange angular implements hung on the walls: here what seemed to be a bulging glove ending in protuberances of unknown function, there a shield-sized fragment of a larger curved structure, geometric shapes cut into it. Had these pieces functioned in any way, the Houses would long ago have confiscated them. But as they were ruined, they remained weirdly beautiful decorations reminding the patrons of the long-lost glories of the world. Usually filled with gray-eyed factory workers-the older ones keen to deaden their aching bodies with cheap beer, the young ones filled with rage and likely to end up fists flying in the surrounding alleys-the wooden stools and tables were as rough and worn as its clients. This evening, the men sat frightened and quiet in the corners, or slunk past the minotaurs, hoping not to brush against them. Minotaurs were quick to anger, especially when they were filled with beer or hot-liquor. Kata knew she would have to approach; she needed two of them. But first things first, she thought as she took a drink of the bitter liquid from the flask at her waist. She kept her face still, though she wanted to grimace. The medicine tasted earthy and pungent, like dirt and ul-tree roots mixed together. She watched and scratched distractedly at the metal sheaths that rubbed against her skin beneath her shirt. Realizing what she was doing, she stopped. The shirt was dark and loose, and she wore a skirt that reached her knees. Together they showed off her shoulder-length hair, which was black as the minotaurs' eyes. Beneath her clothes Kata was lithe and unusually muscular; she was an athlete, of sorts. A group of four minotaurs sat laughing at the front of the room, telling one another jokes about labyrinths and reminiscing about the Numerian Wars. She remembered the Festival of the Bull a decade earlier, when she was living on the streets after her mother's death, but had forgotten the sheer physical presence of the minotaurs. Their shoulders and chests were like the statues of Caeli-Amur's heroes that stood in the water-parks to the south of the city, where waterfalls and canals flowed gently through manicured gardens. The statues were seven, eight feet of white marble, muscles sculpted beneath their stone cloaks. But it was the minotaurs' heads, those most valuable of trophies, that emanated majesty: the flaring nostrils, the wiry and perfumed hide, and most especially, the deep and dark eyes, mesmerizing and inhuman. Kata was afraid to look into the eyes, but she would have to. To one side along the bar sat a slightly smaller minotaur with a dark hide. He did not speak but seemed to be brooding. That one, she thought. She slid down the bar and stood next to him. "Why are you watching us?" he asked. She could not look him in the eye; she felt guilty. "How far is it to Aya, across the sea?" "Five days, if the wind is good." "Why don't you use steamers? You could be sure to arrive in time." "Tradition. Anyway, I do not trust steamers. What if they break on the open sea? What if those wheels along their sides fall off? Give me the wind any day. It cannot be conquered but offers its gifts freely. It is a trusty partner, at times." She looked up into his left eye and then away from its glistening darkness. Its inky magnificence horrified her. "What have you here, Aemilius?" The booming voice came from another minotaur. She forced herself to look up at the massive head towering over her. She held his eye for a moment before looking away. "You know," he said, stepping toward her so his chest came close to her face, "there was a time when a minotaur could stay wherever he liked during the Festival of the Bull." The smaller one sat impassively. "Those days are gone, Cyriacus." Kata stood up and placed her hand against Cyriacus's chest, which was like a solid wall close to her face. He must have been almost seven feet tall. His presence was magnetic, his strength palpable. She pushed against him. He didn't move. She pushed harder, and he took a step backwards. "It's rude to stand so close to someone you do not know," she said. Cyriacus laughed and turned. "Hey, Dexion. We have a spirited one here." Aemilius leaned into her and said, "It is not wise to play with minotaurs. They are unpredictable and dangerous." "I can hold my own," she replied. He nodded, turned, and walked away, leaving her with Cyriacus. "Have a drink," the minotaur said, handing her his own tankard. She took a swig of the liquor, which burned her throat. She held back the cough. "Anlusian hot-wine," she said, feeling her lips and mouth burn with the spices, the vapor rushing into her nose, making her eyes water. "Yes. These new liquors fire the belly and the mind." "I live close to here," she said. "I have more wine there, and it is free." He stood close to her again, and she felt the heat of his breath on her face. She forced herself to look up into his deep black eyes and put her hand against his chest again. This time she did not push him away. *** The edge of the factory district was filled with families and older workers who had managed to escape living in the center of that industrial quarter. Here the apartment blocks rose to four and five stories and were built from bricks and concrete. Not crammed together like those in the center or the district or the slums close to the Arena, yet without the vastness of the Arantine where the elite of House Arbor built their mansions, Kata's neighborhood was reflected its citizens' status. Here they could breathe the fresh air that drifted from the sea, only occasionally punctuated by billows of smoke. As Kata and Cyriacus walked along the narrow street where her apartment was located, the little street-child Henri ran next to them, "Kata, Kata! Yensa fudge, Yensa fudge?" Offering them a pouch of the toxic hallucinogen, he was unmoved by the minotaur. Kata liked that about the boy, whose face looked pure, despite the streaks of grime across it. She'd known a hundred like him: their innocent faces shrouded violent and animalistic instincts, the kind you needed to survive on the streets. Even now his eyes were wide as saucers, a sure sign he had eaten his own fudge. She pushed the boy away. "Not now." The boy scurried around them to Cyriacus's side. "Yensa fudge? Yensa fudge?" The minotaur swung his arm out and the boy flew into the gutter, his eyes blinking rapidly. Kata looked back at him and shook her head quickly, as if to say, stop it. Leaving the boy coughing behind them, Kata and Cyriacus climbed up the stairs that ran along the

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