by Danie Ware
Taking his tea with him, Caph got up and went to speak to the guard captain. His shock was clearing, and he needed to know what had happened and to thank him for his courage.
Illuar had his arm in a sling and a sick, grey sheen to his face. He said, ‘I’m sorry about your father, sir.’
Caph felt himself tense. ‘What happened to him?’
Illuar shook his head. ‘He was upset – by your confrontation. He was still in his study when the attack started. He took down his blade and went out after the intruder.’
Caph found himself almost laughing – he could picture the stubborn old sod, suitably outraged, waving his longsword and bellowing, ‘Get out!’ as Raife blew the house to pieces. But the laugh caught in his throat. ‘I take it he—’
‘Bravely, and righteously,’ Illuar said. ‘Proud to the last. We just didn’t get there fast enough.’ The guard captain dropped his gaze to his sling. ‘I’m sorry, Caphen.’
The captain’s use of the title was oddly chilling, a level of responsibility that he wasn’t ready for – not even close. He said, ‘There’s nothing you could have done, captain.’ Illuar gripped his shoulder with his good hand, but Caph pulled away. ‘What about Bec? Where’s she?’
‘She wasn’t in the house, sir. They’re trying to find her now.’
A wash of relief. ‘Have they found everyone else?’
‘I think so, sir. Fortunately, the party was over and the staff on site were few. And Jularn fought hard enough…’ he faltered ‘…she bought them the time to flee. The casualties have been minimal. We’ve been… ‘ he faltered again, ‘…lucky.’
Lucky.
Caph nodded, numb, turned away. One wall was still standing, the edges of its floors visible through the smoke – he could see the shelving and decoration still there, surreal as it faced the devastation. Darrah’s rooms, by the patterned artwork on the wall.
As he turned that way, his foot caught on something and he leaned down to see what it was.
Picked up the picture of his parents on their wedding day, the glass cracked, the metal frame charred, but undamaged.
He sat down with a thump, his face twisting round a sudden shock of grief.
His parents were dead.
His home was gone.
Raife…
The anger swelled like lava, sudden and hot and sick, bringing him back to his feet in a rush. He wanted to tear Raife to pieces with his bare hands, to punch Ganthar until he bled. And he wanted to rail at his father’s pride and stubbornness, ‘Do you see, now do you see?’ He wanted the old bastard to admit that he’d been wrong. And he wanted his forgiveness, wanted him to understand…
And he never would.
Kolmarch had died still hating his son.
Children of Artifice.
He gripped the frame until his fingers bled. Glass tinkled and fell, sparkling amid scarlet drops.
A shout made him look up.
Broken arm and all, Illuar was helping the greycoats to clear the stone, directing them to places where people may still be trapped. Shamed by his activity, Caph got up. But before he could move, then there were steps and a tumble of stone and a cry – and arms around him that sent his tea flying and nearly took him off his feet.
Bec hugged him tight enough to nearly crush his ribs. He hugged her back, then stood to grip her shoulders and look into her face. ‘You’re okay,’ he said. ‘Thank the hells you’re okay.’
She looked haunted; she too, was filthy with smoke and fear.
‘Tal!’ Her voice shook. ‘What happened? Were you here? Where are--?’
He shook his head and her expression turned disbelieving, then congealed into tears as she turned away. Beside her, a tall young man put his arms around her, his face drawn with concern. He had wild black hair and a nose too large for his face – he was faintly familiar, from the big Theatre in the upper city, Caph thought. In midst of the horror, he understood Bec’s absence and he almost smiled.
‘I wasn’t here,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t here, Bec. Maybe I could have done something--’
‘Against this?’ She turned to gesture at the mess. ‘What the hells even did this? Who would… who could…?’
‘Never mind that now,’ Caph told her. ‘I’m just glad you’re okay.’
Shaking, she wrapped her arms around him.
He put his arms around her, held her, let her cry. But he stood there like a statue, looking out across the destruction of his home.
*
At last, Proteus could leave it no longer. Austen was in Kier and waiting for him – and this, all of this, needed to be finished.
Paid for.
He went to find Caph, and discovered him standing with a woman, her face and bearing so like his own that she could only be his sister.
It made what he had to do easier.
‘Caph,’ he said. ‘I have to go.’
Caph turned, his face a mask of stone-dust and loss. The woman raised an eyebrow, said, ‘You the reason he was away?’
Proteus snorted. ‘That’s the short version.’
She smiled at him, the expression so like her brother’s that he found himself grinning back. ‘Then you saved his life,’ she said. ‘And as I seem to find myself Caphen, know this family welcomes you.’
Touched by the absurdity of it, he said, ‘Thanks.’
Caph said, ‘Let’s go.’
Across in the rubble, one of the greycoats stumbled and cursed. The heat still shimmered, somewhere through the smoke, there was a shout of warning. The ground shook as a wall came rumbling down.
‘You’re staying here.’ Proteus’s voice was sure. ‘Caph, I’m sorry. I don’t think there’s anything more you can do.’
‘That’s not even funny.’ His grey eyes flared storm-light like a vow. ‘I’m going to tear that bastard’s heart out.’
‘No,’ Proteus said, ‘You’re not.’
‘Yes,’ Caph said. ‘I am.’
They faced each other, not backing down.
‘You can’t come with me, Caph,’ Proteus said. It was blunt, brutal. ‘You can’t face this kind of power. You’ll die.’
‘I’m the only person who can work this out and you know it—’
‘Don’t be stupid. I’ve lost my sister, I’m not losing you too.’ He glanced at the woman. ‘Make sure he stays here, will you?’ He was glancing at the sky, very conscious of the swelling light at the edge of the crater. ‘You two need to deal with City Hall, and with the Selection. When dawn breaks, you need to call the Assembly, and tell them what’s happened here. Tell them their control is compromised. Tell them the merchants’ districts are awash with dissent. Tell them that I may fail, and that if I do, Raife will come for them next.’ He looked from face to face, said, ‘Get them on-side, Caphen. Make them stand with you. If I don’t do this… then you’ll have to.’ He was well aware that the Selection may not even happen, now – that whatever he and Austen would encounter at Cloudglass could decide the future of the city and everyone in it. ‘This, up here, it’s your world. Let me deal with mine.’ He held Caph’s gaze, remembering something. ‘And I need you to do me a favour. I have a friend, Jay, who was apprehended by the greycoats at the harbour – you need to go and get him. He’s a physician, and a good one. And he has a lady that misses him.’ When Caph still said nothing, he said, ‘Please Caph. Stay here. Don’t do anything reckless.’
Caph flared, and then sagged. ‘Just come back in one piece.’ A smile flickered. ‘One face.’
Again, the echoes of Ebi’s little spirit…
But he said, as promise to himself as much as to Caph, ‘I will.’
Then there were arms around him. He held Caph tight for just a moment, returning his kiss and striving not to tremble – held him just long enough to whisper it from the core of his soul, ‘I promise.’
Then he let go, stepped back.
And, just as he had done once before, Proteus walked away.
*
Though the smoke, Caph watched him leave, his retreating figure wavering in the heat that still rose from the stone.
When he was clear, Caph glanced round at his sister.
Bec said, eyebrow raised, ‘You know who did this?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re going to tear them a new one?’
She knew – she always knew.
He chuckled, but the expression was short-lived. ‘Do you have any doubt?’
She nodded, then said, ‘They got their wish, Tal. Their lifelong ambition finally realised.’ There were clean streaks through the dirt on her face and, from somewhere, he could hear Illuar shouting at the greycoats. She said, ‘I wonder if it was worth it.’
Caph clenched his hands, felt his nails bite into his palms. He wished he could believe her, but the rage in him was still rising and he needed to leave, to give it voice and freedom. He said, ‘They took Darrah to the Hospital – make sure he’s okay. I think we’re going to need him, if we’re going to get out of this. And can you see if you can find this ‘Jay’? And, Bec…’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ll explain everything when I come back. All of it.’
‘Then I guess you’d better come back,’ she told him. ‘Or I’ll come after you just to kick your ass.’
He laughed. In the middle of it all, he actually laughed. He gave his sister a final hug.
And then he too, was gone.
PART THREE: BUILDER
CHAPTER 18: FREAK
Dawn, and the district gates were just open.
The last of his smokereeds lit and in his mouth, Proteus didn’t bother to change his form – he was Aden, and Aden he would stay. Silent and watchful, he walked the blood-lit streets of Kier, the stonework stained red with the sunrise.
Cutting into the sky, the spiral tower of the upper city was in silhouette; he could still see the scar that had been house Caphen, smoke rising. He could feel Caph’s last embrace, hear his own promise to return.
He turned away. Now, more than ever before, he needed to be free of distractions, needed his clarity of thought.
He wondered where Austen was – watching him from somewhere, maybe from the rooftops, or from the shadowed archways of Kier’s occasional gardens. But Proteus needed to dismiss his doubts about Austen, too; the lingering phantoms of mistrust that teased at all the lessons of his childhood.
The old man was here, somewhere, waiting for him. And if he wasn’t, then Proteus was going to finish this anyway.
For Lyss.
For Caph.
For himself, for his real face and the scars it bore.
He crossed under the bridge, found the spiral stairway. It turned deserted and cold, unseen by the sun; it housed only wind-blown dirt and a scuffle of hungry tarras.
And there it was: the route he’d taken once before. The stone throat that led down to the Torquar Theatre, and to Cloudglass.
Perhaps fancifully, he imagined a metallic echo – veins and arteries, a vast web-work of steel roots woven deeply into the stone…
The Cloudglass serpent extending its coils all though the lower city.
Dismissing whimsy, he moved on.
Carefully, watchfully, he reached the end of the alley, reached the entranceway where he’d waited once before. If Austen was here, then he should be--
In the dust, a shadow-figure shifted.
Someone was there, waiting for him, but it wasn’t Austen, the movement was too small, too light.
And there was only one other person who could have known he was coming.
He wasn’t even surprised,
She’d always been able to find him, always known his face, whoever he was. Always known when he was on his way, and come out to meet him.
That shadow-figure that moved like life, like laughter, like wits all sparkling-sharp… she was as familiar as childhood, one of the precious few people he’d ever let himself love.
He said, his voice cold, ‘Lyss.’
Her laughter rang hollow, the jingle of a carnival ride.
‘So here you are.’ She was soft-footed in the dimness; her voice was an echo of games long-lost. ‘You took you time, Ro. I thought you were smarter than that.’
‘But you still came to meet me.’ He raised the statement like a shield, pushing her back, making her keep her distance.
‘I’m your sister,’ she said. In the half-light, Lyss’s hair was long and black and straight like a midnight waterfall; her pale face was in shadow. ‘I always come to meet you.’ She laughed again, bowing with a flourish. ‘Do you doubt who I am? If I’m still me? That’s ironic, don’t you think?’ Her words shivered though the stone. ‘Ask me! Ask me anything!’
‘I’m not playing games, Lyss. I’m here to stop Raife.’
Again, that laughter. The sound was cold, a blade through ice, a cracking of glass. It sounded exactly like her, and yet it was so utterly, grievously wrong.
‘He knows you’re coming,’ she said.
‘I don’t doubt it. Did he send you to meet me?’
‘He didn’t ‘send’ me anywhere.’ The word was pointed. ‘I came to talk to you.’ Outside, feet ran along the bridge – the morning crier, by the hour. Lyss was still in shadow, her soft black clothing like a hole in the wall. ‘I wanted to tell you something, Proteus, my foolish brother, faceless and nameless and lost. That you’ve been deceived, lied to, misled at every step. Austen’s played us – both! – for years. And finally, I know the truth. Silly Ro, all that skill and you’ve never seen what’s right under your nose. Whichever nose that may be.’ There was a smile in her tone. ‘I came to bring you home.’
‘This isn’t our home, Lyss.’ Information slid like the sides of a puzzle, but he didn’t have all, not yet. He said, ‘This is a trick, and it stops, all of it, right now. You need to come away.’
‘But this is our family, our real family.’ She shone like a firecracker, small and slight, delicate in face and feature, hands as graceful and swift as an artist’s. Her skin was pale, flawless; still in shadow, she looked like a ghost under her sheen of black hair.
Austen’s played us – both! – for years.
Somehow, he could almost believe it. Yet the sensation of wrong that radiated from her was overwhelming.
‘What did they do to you?’
‘They made me understand!’ Again, that laugh. ‘Austen never looked after us, cared for us – don’t you remember? We used to dream, when we were little – we’d lay in the sunlight, making up their names: our real parents, our brothers and sisters and cousins. Our pets, and our friends, and where we went to school. We just wanted to belong, both of us – to not be freaks anymore.’ The words rang harsh, like broken crystal, but she didn’t stop. ‘We’ve spent our lives hiding, Ro. Don’t you want it to end? One name, one face? Don’t you want to know who you really are?’
In the soft, dusty light, Proteus found he was looking at the backs of his hands. Throughout his life, the hundreds of times he’d watched them change – the hours of staring at them, at himself in the mirror, training, mastering, controlling…
Freaks.
But Caph had loved him anyway. Known the truth, and it hadn’t mattered. He said, ‘I know who I am. And I still have a real face.’
The slants of light made the dust dance like glitter and caught the sheen of her ebony hair. ‘A face you can’t even see! They showed me, Ro – they showed me what I’ve been all along--!’
‘They tortured you, Lyss. Your mind’s snapped.’
Lyss laughed again. ‘Austen sent you to die, Proteus. He’s waited for this for twenty-five years and he can’t win this without sacrificing us first. Raife saved my life, my mind, my future – he made me see cle
arly for the first time. You tell me who’s worse?’
‘You’re lying.’
‘Am I?’ Lyss stepped into the light.
And Proteus stopped, horrified.
She had no eyes, no eyelids, no eyelashes. Where they should have been, there were faceted crystal orbs, pure and clear, a thousand reflections of his own false face, his own layers of lies, staring back out at him.
He recoiled, but it was far too late.
She was the eyes of the stone, and she overwhelmed him completely.
Childhood – laughter and running and hiding and games and tears and scraped knees and back-streets and stolen moments of mischief… the onslaught spun him like toy. It writhed under his skin like a child’s emotions, like a lack of control. He could see the things in her eyes, all fragmented – Lyss in a playground, surrounded by bigger kids who’d pressed her back into the wall. Himself as a small boy, in tears of confusion, pleading with Austen to tell him who he was.
One name, one face.
But that was only the beginning. As the light reflected from the stone’s memory, it hit him with full force.
It was a jumble; times and places layered one on another – their lives intertwined. Lyss’s first crush, first heartbreak; his own teenage years, as raw and rough as Ivar’s backstreets. His first lover, the ripans pressed into his hand. The first life he’d taken. Lyss’s laughter as they’d sat with Austen, sharing a family meal while the rain beat on the window.
Then, like the strike of a rock, he saw a single thing clearly: the metal water clock against the storm-ripped sky. With it, the angular dervish figure that had scattered the chanting teens and leapt for the thing in the heart of the fire…
…the thing that had laughed and then broken into pieces, spiralling out in the wind.
Austen!
But Austen was gone. Another image, sharp and clear: a woman, elderly, angular, oddly inhuman. She had wild, white hair and nimble, callused fingers. There was metal embedded in her skin – in her cheekbones, around her eyesockets, in the sides of her mouth. And she had a look to her blood-rust eyes that was pure and utter fanaticism.