Smoke and Stone

by Michael R. Fletcher

  Was it my fault?

  First Talimba, and now Khadija. The Hummingbirds were being picked apart. Each time someone died, they were doing Akachi’s bidding. Did Yejide blame him for their deaths?

  Akachi swept an area he already went over twice.

  The assassin, that flawless beautiful skin. Those bright eyes, shining as if lit from within.

  She used Loa sorcery.

  The whole encounter seemed unreal. Khadija crumpling, bones shattering, skull caving in. The wet pop as her eye burst.

  He remembered the cold stone against the side of his skull. She touched me with the amethyst.

  After returning to the church, Akachi smoked a blend of erlaxatu and a dash of zoriontasuna. He probably had more than he should have, but he needed to escape, to put the horror behind him.

  I ate a woman!

  Remembering the taste of her flesh and blood twisted his stomach.

  When he woke, mind numbed to dull stupidity, he dug out his copy of the Book of Bastion and read what he found on crystals and Loa sorcery. There wasn’t much beyond the fact that stone magic was the province of Mother Death, and forbidden. He wished he had a copy of the Loa Book of the Invisibles, but no one was allowed to remove them from the library in the Northern Cathedral. The Loa text went into much greater detail on the stones, their alleged powers and uses in dark sorcery. He’d read the book once, but that was years ago. Not being dosed with foku at the time, too many details now escaped his memory.

  He hated himself for lying to Yejide about the Loa assassin touching him, but didn’t want her to worry.

  The Loa called Amethyst the Stone of Destruction. In the hands of a sorcerer, it could twist a man’s soul with the need for self-harm. It was never as simple as suicide. The stone provoked a slow descent into ruin.

  I’m a failure.

  And in so many ways. Everything was falling apart.

  He’d confronted the scarred girl and her street sorcerer in the dream-world and somehow been bested. All he managed to do was alert his prey that he was after them. They were gone, having fled their tenement, and could be anywhere. Had they left the Wheat District? Though Growers were forbidden from leaving the district they were assigned, it was impossible to actually keep track of them.

  If they’ve left, I have truly failed.

  Assigned his parish, Akachi couldn’t leave. In a way, the Growers had more freedom than he. If they left the district, likely no one would pursue them. If he abandoned his parish he could be stripped of what little rank he had. He might spend the rest of his life rotting out here among the Growers, serving some pastor. He might even be cut from the church, forced to return to the Priests’ Ring a failure, a pariah.

  He’d have to face his father.

  They couldn’t have left. They had to still be here, still within his reach. Cloud Serpent would…

  Cloud Serpent would what, make sure the hunt wasn’t too challenging?, he thought, mocking himself.

  I will hunt them wherever they flee. Damn Bishop Zalika. He was a nahual of Cloud Serpent. His god showed him his prey. Nothing else mattered.

  He wished he believed it, wished he still felt the stone-cold certainty he’d known when Cloud Serpent first showed him the vision.

  Doubt ate at him, gnawed at his faith. This was too much, too big for one man. He should admit he wasn’t up to the task and report what he knew to the Bishop and his father, let them deal with this.

  Except what did he really know?

  All he had were guesses and assumptions. Would they even believe Cloud Serpent spoke to him? Would they laugh? He imagined his father’s look of disappointment.

  Cloud Serpent sent me here. That had to mean something.

  Think, he berated himself. Think this through.

  The Book of Bastion said Loa sorcery—the use of stones and crystals—was the sole domain of Mother Death. The Book also stated that, with Mother Death trapped beyond the Sand Wall, Loa sorcerers were crippled, near powerless. The stones were a conduit for her power, and the Sand Wall severed that connection.

  Yet that Loa assassin used the garnet to heal herself over and over and killed Khadija. That stone definitely had power. The amethyst…

  Akachi shook the thought off.

  I’m fine.

  Really? The garnet had power but the amethyst didn’t?

  He pushed his doubts away, though they still lurked in the dark shadows of his mind. He craved jainkoei, to once again feel the will of the gods in his blood. Maybe he should return to his chambers. He darted a glance at Yejide. He’d only smoke a little.

  Focus!

  If the Book of Bastion was correct—and it must be—then Mother Death had some way of channelling power through the wall.

  Or she’s already inside Bastion.

  If she had somehow entered the city, Loa sorcery, their filthy crystal magic, was operating at full strength. No nahualli had faced a real Loa sorcerer since Mother Death’s banishment. He had only the vaguest idea of their capabilities. How much of what he’d read was true? Could they really turn into dragons and demons and elephants? Were there crystals that turned rock to dust?

  Mother Death is inside Bastion.

  That was a terrifying thought but made more sense than the ancient death god somehow finding a crack in the perfection of the Last City. She had to be inside.

  The assassin attacked during Akachi’s door-to-door search for the scarred girl. That couldn’t be a coincidence. Were the Loa trying to stop him from finding the girl? Was she Loa?

  No, that felt wrong. When he found her in the dream world there’d been no Loa there to protect her, just that street sorcerer, and she’d been helpless. He’d seen no sign of stones or crystals, not a hint of Loa sorcery. They’d just been five filthy Dirts hiding in a basement. The Loa, the ancient enemies of the true nahual of Bastion, would be better organized, better prepared.

  He remembered the tattoo, a black rectangle inked into the flesh of her wrist. That was Smoking Mirror’s truest and oldest name. No way she could have known that unless Father Discord shared it with her. The scarred girl wielded it like a weapon, held it before her like a talisman, and walked through Akachi’s sorcery.

  Smoking Mirror backs the girl.

  If that was true, and the Loa assassin’s attack had been as much about protecting her as it was about killing Akachi, then Smoking Mirror must also be backing the Loa.

  Father Discord works to bring Mother Death back into Bastion.

  And there could only be one reason for that: Smoking Mirror sought to topple The Lord from the head of the pantheon, and replace him with his banished wife, The Lady of the House.

  But why?

  Smoking Mirror, like all of the gods, had many names. Father Discord. Lord of the Night Sky. The Obsidian Lord.

  Obsidian. Stone. Obsidian was the only crystal magic not forbidden in Bastion. The tecuhtli, practitioners of death magic, and nahualli of Father Death, made use of it, as did the Hummingbird Guard. But Smoking Mirror was its master.

  Mother Death, she speaks in stone. That line was oft repeated in the Loa Book of the Invisibles.

  Was there some connection between the two gods? The Last War was history beyond ancient. Twenty-five thousand years in the past, the Book of Bastion was thin on details. At least in more recent copies. Perhaps older versions held more. There was, Akachi remembered, one of the very first copies in the Northern Cathedral, in Bishop Zalika’s personal library. As an acolyte he’d had no access to the book. As a nominal pastor… He doubted his questionable rank would change anything. But if he brought proof to Zalika that her god was under attack, that Smoking Mirror worked to return Mother Death to Bastion, she would have to help him.

  The scarred girl—the tattoo on her wrist—is my proof.

  The god had marked her with his truest name.

  Once Akachi had her, he’d bring her to the Northern Cathedral, show Bishop Zalika. He’d try and bring her alive, but if she died, Zalika, a powerful te
cuhtli and the ring’s highest ranked Priest of Father Death, would have no difficulty questioning her corpse. Then he could plead his case, beg access to the ancient book.

  Akachi stopped sweeping.

  Smoking Mirror must have opened a path for Mother Death. She’s in Bastion. Otherwise Loa stone sorcery wouldn’t work. He plans to bring down The Lord, replace him with Mother Death.

  He knew he was right. Cloud Serpent sent him here to stop this.

  This wasn’t at all about finding some Dirt girl. The gods warred, plotted against each other. Such a power struggle could see the end of the Last City, the final extinction of all mankind.

  Find the girl, and I’ll find Mother Death.

  The visions: The fields burning. The wells filling with ash. The Turquoise Serpents marching against an army of Growers. It was all real. Or would be real.

  Unless I stop it.

  More than ever he desperately wanted to drown himself in the will of the gods, to ingest so much jainkoei they spoke directly into his blood.

  Ibrahim, the huge Hummingbird, strode into the cathedral hall and stood waiting. His face showed equal measures of disdain, disappointment, and disapproval.

  Captain Yejide stood, donning her leather helm. “Report.”

  “We found a Dirt who said he knew the scarred girl. He led us to the leader of some local gang. We were attacked by a mob of Growers and he escaped. Lutalo and I were forced to split up during the pursuit. Did he return with the Dirt?” He delivered his report in a flat, emotionless monotone.

  Akachi’s heart kicked. They’re still here! They hadn’t left the district! He could still catch them. “Where—”

  “Why did you split up?” asked Captain Yejide.

  “We lost sight of him. Lutalo stayed to search the tenements while I continued on. When I returned, Lutalo was gone. I assumed he found the Dirt and brought him back to the church.”

  “He hasn’t returned,” said Yejide. “How long ago did you split up?”

  “An hour. Maybe two.”

  “We should go look for him,” Akachi said.

  “No,” said Yejide, looking unhappy about the decision. “Too dangerous. If he hasn’t returned, it’s because he found trouble.”

  “Then we should definitely go!”

  “Our assignment is to guard you,” she said as if that settled the matter.

  “He could be hurt.”

  “He knew the risks,” she said. “Gyasi is wounded. Njau is with Jumoke. Taking you into the street with just Ibrahim and myself is too dangerous.”

  “I will go alone,” said Ibrahim, glancing at his Captain, waiting for her decision.

  She studied him, mouth set in a hard line, and nodded once.

  Ibrahim spun and left.

  Returning to his chambers Akachi ground and smoked erlaxatu. He didn’t do it for sorcerous reasons. He didn’t do it to centre his soul. He did it for the one reason his nahualli teachers warned him about: He did it to escape.

  One more failure.

  He didn’t care.

  Akachi smoked until he was smoke.

  Then he slept.

  Akachi woke when Captain Yejide sat on his bed. His thoughts ran thick and gritty like blood in sand. Yejide looked tired, angry.

  He felt like he needed a thousand years more sleep. Through the window he saw it was still night, though he had no idea of the time

  Yejide glanced at the pipe he left on the table and looked away. Black burnt ash spilled from the bowl.

  That was sloppy. It was supposed to stay with him at all times. He should have cleaned it right away and returned it to its place in his belt.

  Akachi said nothing.

  Captain Yejide shifted. “When I was standing guard outside, the local nahual of Precious Feather approached me with news. Some of the Hummingbird Guard attached to her parish were attacked while on patrol. Three were killed, beaten to death. She also said there was open rioting in the Oak District. That’s bad. They harvest lumber and have access to flint-bladed axes. She told me Bishop Zalika has called for the Turquoise Serpents.”

  Southern Hummingbird’s elite soldiers hadn’t set foot in the Growers’ Ring in ten thousand years.

  Blood in the streets, running thick in gutters, flowing to the heart of the city. The vision was coming true.

  “You should take your squad and leave,” Akachi blurted.

  She gave him a funny look, part annoyance and a little of what might have been weary fondness. “The Hummingbird Guard never abandon a post. Unless so ordered.”

  “So I could order you away? I could order you to safety?” Where was the distance he found in the erlaxatu? He wanted that, wanted it so bad. I want to be numb.

  “Bishop Zalika gave us this assignment. Only she can command us to leave.”

  Shit. Another failure.

  “Has Lutalo returned?” he asked.

  “No. Ibrahim found no trace of him.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I think the Dirts got him.” She gave him a long, hard look. “We’re being picked apart and are massively outnumbered.”

  “We’re going to find the scarred girl and we’re going bring down the Loa,” he said as much to convince himself as her. “It may cost me everything, but I will not fail Cloud Serpent.” He met Yejide’s eyes, tried to pour certainty into his words. “I can’t fail my father. If I have to risk brain-burn to win, I will.” I won’t fail again.

  “I know.” She didn’t seem happy or proud of his bravery.

  Yejide left then, and he wondered if he’d failed at something else, something he didn’t understand.

  Akachi sat alone, eyeing his pipe and selection of narcotics.

  NURU – COLLAPSING NIGHT

  Where there is inequality, there can be no justice.

  — Loa Book of the Invisibles

  Out in the street, still clutching Nuru’s hand, Efra led her through filth-strewn back alleys. Each time they approached an intersection, Efra pulled her to the wall before scanning the streets ahead for Birds.

  “I don’t remember it being this dirty when I was a kid,” said Nuru, frowning at heaped refuse. Most of it was torn greys and food scraps. The alley stunk of rotting fruit.

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Why are we going to see the Artist?”

  “The bones in your hair are too scary. We have to cut them out. You need to look like a Dirt whore.”

  Nuru stopped, dragging Efra to a halt. “My hair? No.”

  “Yes.”

  Nuru scooped her hair over her shoulder. Knotted with bones and small animal skulls, it was a symbol of what she was, of who she was. “No.”

  Efra glared at her. “Which do you want more, carving tools and paints, or hair?”

  Nuru glared at her. Finally, she sagged. “The tools.”

  “Then it goes.” Efra pulled her into motion. Setting a fast pace, she hauled her toward the next street. “Anyway, we need your hair.”

  “For what?”

  “You’ll see.” Efra winked. “Always have a backup plan.”

  The Artist, with his gorgeous eyes and hair always falling forward to curtain his face, was sitting at the front entrance to his tenement when they arrived. Every woman in the Wheat District fantasized about those fingers and smoky eyes.

  “Efra” he said, eyes lighting in a way that made Nuru’s heart do a little stutter and gave her just the smallest stab of jealousy.

  Efra nodded like she hadn’t seen the look and pushed by him, pulling Nuru into his home.

  “Come on in,” he said as they passed.

  Where every Grower tenement was identical inside, the Artist’s was different. Strange symbols covered the inner walls. A mural depicting a woman being thrown from the Sand Wall covered the ceiling. Painted in black ink, it was old and faded, the paint flaking away in places.

  The Artist followed them in.

  “Did you paint that?” Nuru asked.

  Eyes following Efra, he said, �
��When I first came here.”

  The detail was stunning. She had no idea that many shades of black and grey were possible. “It’s beautiful.”

  Efra glanced at the ceiling with an utter lack of interest.

  Art doesn’t touch her.

  “I’m guessing you aren’t here because you have the ink,” the Artist said to Efra. He seemed only nominally aware of Nuru.

  Poor man is smitten. He had no idea what he was up against.

  “No,” said Efra. “We need your help. I want you to cut her hair.”

  Now the Artist did turn to examine Nuru. “You’re a street sorcerer.”

  She nodded.

  “The only reason you’d cut your hair is if you’re hiding.”

  “Don’t ask,” said Efra, “and I won’t have to lie.”

  The artist gave her a long look that would have melted any other woman and she said, “Save the hair. You’re going to make something out of it.”

  Shrugging, the artist circled Nuru, examining her hair. Stopping in front of her, he asked, “You ready?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  Efra interrupted the Artist with a raised hand. “Yes she does. The whores at the gate don’t have bones in their hair.”

  That earned a raised eyebrow from the Artist.

  “Don’t ask,” repeated Efra. Turning on Nuru she said, “You want the tools? This is how we get them.”

  The spider. The dream. Nuru closed her eyes and nodded.

  Collecting a shard of sharpened flint, the Artist moved to stand behind her. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes,” said Efra, “she’s sure.”

  Nuru nodded again, not trusting herself to speak.

  She felt his fingers in her hair as he untangled bone after bone, carefully setting them on the table. It would have been nice, erotic almost, is she hadn’t known what would follow. She felt naked, stripped of identity.

  Why couldn’t Efra understand that hair was more than just something that grew on your head? Why couldn’t she understand it might have meaning to Nuru?

  Or does she know and not care?

  The nahual of Her Skirt is Stars who ran the crèche Nuru grew up in had cut the children’s hair short, given them all exactly the same blunt look. Even then she’d known it was a subtle hint, control. You’re all the same. The day she left the crèche, Nuru swore that from that day on, she alone would decide her appearance.